Thief (Boston Underworld #5)(44)
“Why are you showing me these?”
“You wanted to know Manuel’s character.”
“I knew from the moment I met him that Manuel Valentini wasn’t worth the breath it took to speak his name.” I scoff. “So don’t bullshit me.”
“I got curious about the girl.” He shrugs. “She seems fucked up.”
“She isn’t,” I snarl.
It’s a lie, and it doesn’t take a team of psychiatrists to determine that much. But I don’t want him speaking about her that way. I don’t want anyone speaking about her that way. It’s my secret to keep. She is my broken doll to repair, and mine alone.
“Just watch it,” Mischa urges.
I click play, and my stomach lurches at the grainy images on the screen. My suspicions were right, and this is the confirmation. Manuel wasn’t just violent with his wife. He was violent with Nakya too. She spills a glass of water on the carpet, and without a second thought, he backhands her so viciously she falls limply into the coffee table.
I know I should stop. This can’t matter to me because it won’t change her circumstances. But nothing is as intimate as experiencing her pain, and I can’t bring myself to look away from the horrors she endured. I need to understand them. I need to know her darkest shame.
The first video blends into the next until it is an endless stream of savagery that only gets worse. Manuel pulling her hair. Pushing her. Slapping her. Biting her. The abuse progresses over time as she grows, and eventually, she becomes the recipient of his fists and even his feet when he kicks her.
My fists are trembling with a gluttonous compulsion to bathe them in Manuel’s blood. I want to drain him of his life force. I want to beat his face until there is nothing left. Mischa sees it, and wisely chooses not to tell me that he was right. This video has only solidified what I already knew to be true.
Nakya is inside me. She has bested the thief by stealing something that doesn’t belong to her. And when I kill Manuel, it won’t be for my mother.
It will be for her.
I hesitate at the end of the bed, wary of the clothing laid out for me. The clothing I picked out. They are nice clothes. Beautiful clothes. The same that I have worn many times over.
Something my father taught me was that I should always dress modestly. Modesty translated into skirts and blouses and feminine dresses. The only pants I could get away with were the leggings I wore to class. But for as long as I can remember, I wondered what it would be like to wear whatever I wanted.
I used to collect magazines, admiring the glossy photos of women in their bold attire. Jeans and ripped shirts and trendy new fashion pieces that my father would never approve. I dreamed of a day I could wear something like that, even though I doubted it would come. My clothing has always been insistent on one unbending truth.
I’m a good girl who does as she’s told.
But right now, the neutral tones on the bed are suffocating me with their lies. Because I’m not a good girl anymore. I would be a fraud if I wore these now. And I’m surprised to find how little I care.
Something broke inside me when Nikolai took me. The pressure I felt to be perfect deflated like a balloon. I’ve been carrying it around for so long that I didn’t think I could ever be liberated. But I am. The only torment I feel is that I lost my virtue to someone who cares so little. A man like Nikolai thinks nothing of taking me in the middle of the night, only to steal away before the light of morning.
In some ways, I wish I could be like him. I wish I could just not care. He will come back for me, and he will take me again. Something I equally long for and dread. My armor must remain intact. And in the interim, I must learn how to navigate this world as the kind of woman I’ve always wanted to be.
Gathering the clothes from the bed, I return to the closet, tossing the worthless garments onto the floor. The ritual continues as I tear through the racks of mind-numbing colors, adding to the pile of what I no longer want in my life. In the end, all that remains are my ballet clothes and a few small shoe boxes at the end of the closet.
In one of those boxes, I find what I’m looking for. A pair of jeans. They still have the tag on them, purchased more for symbolism than for usefulness. I bought them online when I was feeling brave, and I’ve held onto them for two years. Often, I would take them out and try them on, walking around my bedroom the same way that fashion models do.
Today, I will wear them as a regular woman. A woman with the freedom to choose.
I pair the jeans with a white leotard and leave them rolled at the ankle. They are a loose fit. Boyfriend cut, the tag reads. And when I look in the mirror, I don’t recognize myself, but it feels good. And I decide that I might not be able to control my numbered days, but while I’m alive, I am going to live.
Down the hall, Nikolai’s office is still open. He rarely locks it, I’ve discovered, but probably because he doesn’t have anything to hide in there. It’s just a desk, computer, a phone, and his whiskey.
Inside the desk drawers are a few essential office tools, but unfortunately, I don’t find a pair of scissors. There is, however, a letter opener. It’s heavy and sharp, so I think it will do the job well enough.
To my satisfaction, when I return to my closet, I discover that it does. It shreds through the blouses and dresses quite easily, up until the point when it begins to dull. Regardless, I don’t stop until every last piece is ruined. And when I’m finished, I look up to find Nikolai in the doorway, watching me curiously.