Twisted (Never After Series)

The first time I thought about murdering somebody, I was five years old.

There had been an antsy energy swirling in my stomach all day, even though my papà had disappeared over a week ago, which meant the house was calm for the first time in my life.

When he wasn’t around to beat Mamma, then she didn’t have any reason to beat me.

It was peaceful.

But I wasn’t used to the feeling of not being on edge, and the peace was a foreign sensation filling up my body, one that caused my fight-or-flight mode to go on the fritz, just waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Mamma was in the kitchen making my nonna’s famous marinara, her shiny hair pulled tight in a low bun like it always was and a white apron wrapped around her with red trim and strawberries decorated along the front.

She didn’t normally wear such light colors, and the contrast of the apron against her tan skin and dark hair made her look almost ethereal to me. I remember being confused that she wore the white apron so easily, when I had heard her complain so many times before about how difficult it was to scrub out bloodstains from light fabric.

But that day, she put it on without a care, resting it over her cream top, and she handed me my favorite teddy bear, Abe— the one Papà always yelled at me for having—thrusting it into my  hands and humming under her breath as she danced along to the radio and stirred seasonings into a pot.

I stared down at Abe, the seams unraveling on his ear from me pulling him out of his hidden spot beneath my bed and sleeping with him curled in my arms every night, and pure happiness filled my chest. Maybe Papà was right, and boys shouldn’t have teddy bears, but I didn’t care.

If Mamma was wearing white and I had my favorite stuffie out in the open, maybe he really was gone for good.

But as soon as the good feeling showed up, it was overshadowed by the thick and jagged feeling of anxiety that coated my insides, imagining how quickly things could change.

Still, the days continued to pass without a beating in sight, and little by little, I let my guard down. The fight- or- flight feeling receded, and I realized that maybe good things really do stick around if you wish for them hard enough.

But I was a silly child.

One night, after about two weeks of bliss, it ended.

I was lying in bed, listening to random cars honk on the busy city streets outside our small apartment, holding Abe close to my chest. I was so close to falling asleep until the sound of a car got closer.

Too close.

My heart jolted, dread pouring through my stomach like thick sludge.

A car door slammed.

I shot out of bed, heading immediately toward Mamma’s room, but right before I hit the hallway, I glanced down at Abe, who was gripped tightly in my fist. Sadness filled up my throat and bloomed behind my eyes. Taking him would only cause more problems. I spun around quickly, racing back to my bed and shoving him in the small space between the slats of my mattress frame, hiding him from view, and then sprinted to Mamma’s room.

It wasn’t new, me going to her room to try to protect her from him. For some reason, he never took his anger out on me, so I’d stay next to Mamma whenever I could, hoping that my presence would be enough to keep her from turning black and blue.

Sometimes it worked.

Other times, I’d have to lie still with my eyes closed, pretending I didn’t hear him drag her away from me while his fists met her flesh and her whimpers hit my ears.

That night, I threw open her door, closing it behind me just as the front screen slammed open and shut. My breaths quickened as I ran to her bed, stopping at the side.

She was awake. Her body was still as stone and her head was flat on the pillow, but her dark gaze was locked on me.

“Mamma,” I whispered, my eyes wide.

Silently, she stretched out her arms toward me.

And like every other time before and all the times after, I went, curling into her embrace and allowing her to hold me close.

I was her shield the same way I was often her burden, holding the weight of her pain that she couldn’t bear alone.

Heavy footsteps rumbled through the tiny apartment, making the seconds feel like hours, until they stopped right outside the closed bedroom door.

Mamma’s grip tightened around my small frame, her breaths ghosting across the back of my neck.

The door opened and Papà walked in.

“Anita…” His voice trailed off, and silence draped across the room like a weighted blanket.

I slammed my eyes shut, pretending to be asleep and praying that he wouldn’t hear my heart thudding heavily against my chest. But I could feel his eyes on me even when I couldn’t see.

He sighed deeply, and then he turned around and left, the muted sound of local television bleeding through the thin walls.

Slowly, my sweaty palms opened from where they were curled into fists, and my breathing evened out.

Mamma was safe from him, which meant I was safe from her.

At least for that one night.

I spent days after praying he would leave again. But he never did, and that small bit of happiness that had taken root inside me curdled and began to rot until it was nothing more than a pipe dream. After a while, it became something I couldn’t even grasp the memory of.

So I held on to a vision instead. One where I was bigger and stronger than Papà and could make sure he never hurt Mamma again. I started sneaking off down the street to watch the hapkido classes until one day the instructor opened the door and let me come inside. I was never technically enrolled in the courses, so I never got a belt. Never had someone there to cheer me on. But I didn’t care about the accolades. I just wanted to feel strong. Powerful. Like I could protect myself and Mamma from the people who wanted to hurt us most.

I didn’t understand fully back then that it was my mother who was actually causing the deepest wounds. I only knew that she was mine and that meant I had to take care of her, because that’s what you’re supposed to do for people you love.

You choose them. You put them first.

And then one day, I did become bigger than my father. Stronger than him. And he made the mistake of gifting me my most prized possession to celebrate the fact.

A python for my sixteenth birthday. The only gift he’s ever given me, in honor of me becoming a man.

“You know the thing about snakes?” he’d said. “They’re feared. And that makes them powerful.”

I named her Isabella.

And then I stole one of the wooden staffs from the hapkido dojo and used it to beat him until he couldn’t stand.

One strike for every bruise he put on Mamma.

Another for every bruise she put on me.

I dragged him out to the back alley in the middle of the night, put rats on his broken body, and let Isabella out to play. She sniffed out her prey with her tongue, mistaking him for food, courtesy of the rodents, and started to curl her scaly body around him. I stood back and watched, twirling the staff around in my hand, enjoying the way his blood vessels burst and his eyes bulged as she coiled around his neck, squeezing until he died.

“Don’t worry, Papà. It will only hurt for a little.”

And you know what? In the end, he was right. I did feel powerful.

I got my first tattoo in honor of the moment so I’d never forget the feeling. A replica of Isabella, starting at my hand and curling up my arm.

The biggest lesson my father taught me was that in all things, you must have patience.

Something that’s becoming increasingly hard for me to remember with every day that goes by and we’re no closer to finding the lost lamp.

I stare at the email on my computer from Jeannie, our head archaeologist in Egypt, as Isabella curls around my shoulders, the disappointment feeling thick like sludge.

Mr. Faraci,

Nothing yet on the lost lamp, although I’m going to check out a new dig spot one of the locals told me about. It’s in the middle of the Western Desert and is off- limits to civilians, so I’d rather go alone and scope the area. If I take people with me, we’re going to draw attention and we definitely don’t want that.

But I didn’t want to do it without you knowing, and since Tinashe left yesterday to go back to his home, I didn’t know how else to reach you directly outside of email.

Hope you don’t mind. I’ll keep you updated.

— Jeannie Grants

I don’t mind, but this proves that I need to get Ian and the boy out there, if for no other reason than to have Ian overseeing things since Tinashe is needed elsewhere.

Sighing, I close the screen and reach up, running my hand along the top of Isabella’s head. She feels warm and dry, and her tongue flicks out as she nuzzles into my palm.

“You’re a good girl,” I coo.

Despite the fact that she was a gift from my father, Isabella has become the most important living being in my life. She’s loyal to a fault, and she cleans up my dirty work, aiding me in my kills and swallowing them for dinner whenever the opportunity should arise.

She doesn’t talk back, and she doesn’t ask for much, but she can give love in the way only an animal can. By providing a gentle, calm companionship that doesn’t expect anything outlandish in return.

I feel guilty that I haven’t been spending as much time with her as I should.

Standing up, the weight of her body heavy on my shoulders as I do, I walk out of my home office and up the staircase until I’m in the hallway where my bedroom sits, going to the room next door and placing Isabella back in her enclosure, which runs along the entirety of the far wall.

“I’ll be bringing home a new friend,” I tell her. “So play nice. She’s a friend, not food.”

Isabella ignores me, curling up in the bottom of her enormous glass cage.

I spin around but then pause before leaving, adding one last thing.

“She’s temporary, so don’t get attached.”

I rap my knuckles against the heavy oak door of Ali’s home office, then twist the handle to walk in, expecting to see him working hard behind his desk. We have a new line of Christmas jewelry that’s a few months out from dropping, and I sent him the mock- ups for approval. What he doesn’t know is they’re already approved and on their way to our advertising team, but that’s something he can live without finding out.

Since he’s been in hospice, I’ve been sending him details of things after having already taken care of them, just to make sure he still feels like he’s being useful.

If I were in his position, it’d be what I would want someone to do for me. It’s hard enough accepting death; feeling as though you’re useless while you’re still around would be a bitter pill to swallow.

Instead, I see him sprawled out on the sofa in the far corner of the room, his hospice nurse, Shaina, at his side.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, walking over quickly.

Shaina shakes her head, shushing me as she moves around the bed to check his vitals.

Ali’s eyes are closed, which causes a twinge of panic to pinch my gut. I sweep my gaze over him, locking on the even rise and fall of his chest, and then shake off the feeling, reminding myself once again that it’s a good thing for me if he’s closer to death.

“What’s wrong?” I repeat, more forceful this time.

“I’m okay,” he rasps. “I just…I’m feeling a little tired today.”

Nodding, I purse my lips and turn my attention back to Shaina. “Get out.”

She lets out a humorless laugh and shakes her head again before standing up straight. “You better check your tone with me, Mr. Faraci. I don’t work for you.”

Annoyance at her disrespect winds its way through me, and I have to blow out a steady breath to calm down the burning energy that’s filling me up, urging me to lash out. She’s doing her job.

“It’s fine, Shaina. Give us a few minutes,” Ali replies, his bloodshot eyes peeling open.

She purses her lips before sighing. “I’ll go make you some tea to settle your stomach. You,” she says, turning to me. “Don’t do anything to raise his blood pressure, you understand? He needs rest.”

I nod curtly.

She quirks a brow before finally spinning around and leaving us alone.

I walk across the room and grab one of the chairs sitting in front of his desk, dragging it until it’s placed by the couch, and then sit down, leaning forward with my elbows on my knees.

“Shaina’s overprotective,” he complains.

“She’s doing her job,” I reply, the same reassurance I just gave myself.

He scoffs. “I can work just fine.”

I shoot forward when he moves, placing a hand on his back and propping up the pillows behind him.

“It’s Sunday,” I say, urging him back down. “And nothing I have to tell you is more important than you getting the rest you need.”

He shakes his head, a cough surging through his throat, although he tries to smother it. “I don’t have time for this. There’s someone coming for dinner tonight to meet Yasmin.”

Leaning forward in my seat, I lower my voice. “I hate to be the one to tell you this, old man, but…you don’t have time left in general.”

Ali laughs. “You’re a prick.”

I chuckle as I lean back in my seat. “The point is, you should save your energy for things that matter.”

The amusement drops from his face, and he twists to meet my gaze. “This is important, Julian. I want to know Yasmin is taken care of, by a man who won’t tarnish our name and everything I’m leaving behind.”

I blow out a breath, running a hand over my hair, a little taken aback that he’s stating it so plainly. That he doesn’t even care how much it might burn that he isn’t leaving anything for me. “Okay… so I’ll go for you.”

Ali laughs, and my fingers flex to keep from balling into fists.

“What’s so funny about that?” I ask. “Who better to make sure someone won’t tarnish what you’ve built?” I lean in. “We both know I keep Sultans running smooth, Ali. You can trust me with your daughter the same way you trust me with your diamonds.”

Ali opens and closes his mouth a few times before finally nodding his agreement. “His name is Alexander Sokolov.”

“Russian?”

He nods.

“Are you sure that’s smart?”

I don’t need to elaborate, because we both know what I mean. Russia is our biggest competitor in the diamond trade and the one country where we haven’t gained a stronghold. I’m sure Ali is attempting to kill two birds with one stone here, aligning his daughter with a husband who can get Sultans in the door finally and be knowledgeable about the business enough to take over all the shares.

And that’s unacceptable to me.

“Make sure she gives him a fair chance,” Ali says. “I want them to hit it off, Julian. He’s a good match for her. And a good match for Sultans.”

Smiling, I rest a foot over the opposite knee. “I promise, Ali. I’ll make sure she knows exactly what kind of man he is.”