When he showed up late Saturday night after taking Madden back to wherever, it was obvious something was bothering him then, and then instead of answering my demands to tell me what had happened, he distracted me with a story about his late wife. He knew I’d take the bait, wanting to know more about her and forgetting about whatever had really gotten him riled up, yanking files out of the safe and punching the keyboard of his laptop. If something would’ve happened to remind him of her, it wouldn’t have warranted that kind of reaction. No papers or computers are going to bring her back, so he was obviously doing something else.
“Are you actually going to pour the coffee in your cup, or just drink straight from the pot?” Breaking through the onslaught of apprehensive thoughts flooding my mind, his deep voice startles me and I jump in response, sloshing the scalding hot liquid over the sides of the pot. My first reaction to the searing pain on my wrist and forearm is to release the handle, and as the glass shatters into a million tiny pieces on the floor, I fall to my knees and clutch my throat. I can’t breathe and the darkness is back.
“Father is coming for dinner tonight. I hope you made something he’ll like,” Ish announced as he walked in the door, home from a day of work. “He should be here in ten to fifteen minutes.”
I plastered a smile on my face as I swallowed back the acid that built in the back of my throat at every mention of my father-in-law then turned away from the sink to greet my husband. “Yes, of course. The pork loin will be ready in half an hour, and I’ve got garlic risotto and steamed zucchini to go with it. Do you want me to join you while you two eat, or do you prefer if I eat after he eats?”
Please say later. Please say later. “He’s asked that you join us tonight,” he said proudly as he walked over to me, kissing me with putrid cigarette breath. “I told you he’d come around and see what I see.” His hand slid inside my shirt and pinched my nipple so hard it brought tears to my eyes. “Now go fix your face and put on something decent. If he’s pleased with you tonight, I’ll be sure to reward you later.”
I scurried away from him to the sanctuary of the bathroom—the only place in our home that I felt some sort of solace. Though it wasn’t as if I was stupid enough to believe the flimsy wooden door would keep him out if he wanted to get to me in there, but usually he left me alone for at least a few minutes. Quickly, I brushed my teeth and hair then freshened up my makeup before venturing into my closet to find something appropriate.
Just as I secured the last button on my blouse, I heard the front door open and close, followed by the sound of my father-in-law’s voice. “It smells like something is burning. I thought you said the bitch could cook?”
Ish mumbled something in response that I couldn’t quite make out, but there was no misunderstanding his father’s next words. “I told you she was a worthless little American cunt, but you couldn’t see past that bloody virgin pussy. I should’ve had her snuffed out the first time you mentioned her to me, and insisted you marry someone I chose. Then maybe people would’ve forgotten you’re a bastard.”
And the fun began.
Pretending I didn’t hear him, I emerged from our bedroom and welcomed him as I was expected to. “Good evening, Vincent,” I forced out politely, kissing him on both cheeks. “I’m so happy you’re joining us for dinner.”
He didn’t bother acknowledging my greeting, other than staring at my breasts long enough to make me uncomfortable then barking out his drink request, which I hurried to fulfill.
The rest of dinner followed along the same lines. Vincent and Ish talked about ‘business’, while I waited on them hand and foot. I was basically ignored, which I honestly preferred to the alternative—being degraded and humiliated. And when they both cleaned their plates of all of the food I’d served them, I took it as a good sign that they enjoyed the meal, ‘cause Lord knew they sure wouldn’t give me a compliment.
Once I’d cleared the table of the dishes, I brought them dessert and coffee, but stupidly, I forgot that Vincent didn’t take his coffee the same way Ish did—no milk, two sugars. After taking the first sip of the sweetened drink, he spit it out all over the table and then threw the cup at me, burning my arms, chest, and neck with the scorching liquid.
“You stupid fucking whore! Are you trying to poison me with that shit?” he screamed, jumping up from his chair as he glared at me like I was the scum of the earth.
No, but I wished I would’ve thought of that.
Ish followed suit, leaping to his feet and throwing his napkin on the table. “Bryleigh, what the fuck did you do? Are you so stupid you can’t remember Father drinks his coffee black?” he scolded as he helped Vincent wipe up the dark brown spots speckled across his own shirt. “And look what else you caused! His shirt is now ruined.”
Neither cared to ask me if I was all right as red blisters appeared on my pale white skin, and after Ish ushered his dad to the front door, apologizing profusely the entire time, he returned to the kitchen to punish me properly. When I woke up the next morning, the small burns from the coffee looked like child’s play compared to the insides of my thighs and my backside.
It would later take multiple plastic surgeries to remove the skin where my husband branded me with his initials, using only a lighter and personalized cufflinks, over and over again across my most intimate areas.
Cold water beating down on my face jolts me from the memory, and as I turn my head to escape the icy spray, my eyes flutter open and frantically scan my surroundings. Raze’s worried gaze is the first thing I lock onto, and a huge wave of relief rolls through me.
“Are you okay kotyonok . . . what happened . . . where did you go . . . I thought I lost you there for a minute.” The words and questions come out so rushed, border-lining on hysteria, it all sounded like one long sentence.
“Yeah, I’m okay,” I reply through chattering teeth. “Cold.”
As he turns the water to warm, I smile to myself, thinking how glad I am I didn’t shoot the water heater this morning.
“Is that better?” he asks, looking over his shoulder at me. I give him a quick nod. “I apologize for doing that, but I couldn’t get you to wake up and I thought you were going to hurt yourself. You kept trying to rip your sweater off, clawing wildly at yourself and crying that you were sorry.”
I glance down at my fully clothed, soaking-wet body and chuckle to myself at the ridiculousness that is my life. “Just a flashback,” I say with a weak smile. “Give me a few minutes to reset and I’ll be fine.”
He tips his chin with approval, but reaches out to grab my hand, silently letting me know he’s not leaving my side. Slumping back until my head rests against the side of the tub, I close my eyes and remind myself of what’s important. I’m safe. It was just a flashback. Ish is dead. And in three days, Vincent will be too.
AS I SIT IN THE hard, uncomfortable pew of the chapel, dressed in my best suit, blending in with the sea of other dark fabrics and shaken faces, I tune out the funeral officiant’s droning voice and mentally run through the incredulous events that have taken place over the last few weeks, yet again. Blake’s abduction. Emerson’s confession. The secret trip set up by the Russian mobster. And now, Emerson’s death.