Ava.
The devil is real.
And he is not a little red man with horns and a fork for a tongue. No, he can be beautiful. A fact I think most people forget.
Nikolai was the devil in this scenario, and much like the actual devil, he was the ruler of my personal version of hell.
He consumes my thoughts as l lay in bed, tangled in the sheets, our conversation from hours ago – if you could consider it that- replay in my mind. My thoughts drift back to his request in his office and I feel a knot tighten in my stomach at the memory.
It was already dark outside, the cool glow of the moon slipped in through my window, casting a dim light across my bedroom floor. I had spent the last couple of hours locked up in here, trying to rid myself of the anger that had now turned to confusion that still burned brightly within me.
Nikolai was accusing my father of murdering his brother who just so happened to be Kira’s biological father. He wanted revenge for the blood my father spilled and he wanted to use me to get it.
I learned pretty early about the kind of work my father did. He was a gun dealer, Il Mercante di Morte, so the Italians called him.
My father wasn’t a good man at least not by the definition of the word. He had cheated and lied to get to where he was in this world, but that doesn’t mean he was capable of the things Nikolai was accusing him of, did it?
Even though I had seen the pictures and read the text messages myself, a part of me still found it difficult to believe that my father had done any of the things Nikolai was accusing him of.
I know that after everything my father has put me through, I shouldn’t feel pity for him but I can’t help myself. He was still my father after all. His blood still flowed through my veins. And while he is majorly the reason that I am trapped now, at the end of the day, the Moretti’s didn’t give him a choice and neither did Nikolai’s father.
Maybe in his own twisted way, he was protecting me?
A soft tapping sound broke through the silence and I dragged my gaze towards the door where the sound had come from.
“Who is it?” I ask. I wait for a response for what seems like forever, and then, ever so softly, a voice emerges from the other side of the door.
“It’s me” comes the soft reply.
My brows twitched. I knew that voice but why was she here?
I quickly push myself off the bed, the fabric of my nightgown slipping slightly as I stand and make my way over to the door with only the only source of light illuminating from the window as my guide.
I opened the door, and sure enough, a pair of sleepy green eyes blinked up at me.
Kira stands in the doorway, her curls wild from sleep and a stuffed giraffe nestled in her little arms. She rubs a small fist over her eyelids as she fights to keep her eyes open.
I hadn’t seen her since breakfast, and since I ate my dinner in my room, I didn’t get to see her during dinner either.
What was she doing here?
She looks exhausted. It’s just a little after two and I doubted she’s gotten even a wink of sleep based on how tired she looks.
“What happened?” I ask, crouching down on one knee and placing my hands on her shoulders.
“I had a nightmare,” she says, her voice quiet. “Papa isn’t in his room.”
My heart twisted at her words. She looked scared and worried and the fact that her father wasn’t around was probably doing less to ease her worries.
“Maybe your father is still at the office,” I say, “I can go and check if he is still there if you want.”
She shakes her head, then reaches out her tiny hand, before curling her fingers around the sleeve of my nightdress.
“Can I sleep with you?” she asks, and my God am I powerless against the hopeful look she gives me as she speaks. I nod once then let her inside, closing the door behind her and locking it.
I lead her towards the bed and lift her effortlessly before settling her against the plush comforter. Kira wiggles against the sheets, allowing me to tuck the blanket around her.
“Is this okay?” I ask, wanting to know if she felt warm enough or if the blanket was too tight. The last thing I needed was for her to suffocate in her sleep while in my bed. She nods, her eyes drifting close as she snuggles against the blanket and I exhale.
Good then.
I climb onto the bed, careful not to bump into her as I did. Once my head hits the pillow I feel her warmth beside me almost instantly. She crosses the little distance I had managed to put between our bodies until her tiny frame is pressed against me in what mimics a cuddle.
She clings to my night dress with her tiny hands, fisting the fabric once more as if anchoring herself to me.
My body goes still, unsure how to respond. I wasn’t used to sharing my space, more so with a child. I didn’t have much experience when it came to children but something about her reaction told me that whatever it was that she had dreamt about made her too scared to close her eyes again.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask.
She tightens her hold around my nightgown for a second then she releases it slowly, nodding.
“I was in a fire,” she says softly. So soft I barely catch it. “Everything was black and hot and I couldn’t breathe. I thought I was going to die,” she says tightly.
Most children her age don’t fully understand the concept of reality and what is real and what isn’t. But Kira wasn’t like most children. She was the daughter of a brutal mafia leader and had no doubt experienced the sight of death during her short time on earth more times than the average adult.
But even so, just because she knew about what death entailed didn’t mean that she was immune to the shadow that shrouded the word.
“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,”, I tell her. She seemed scared, frightened by the memory of her nightmare, and I didn’t want her to feel pressured to tell me about it, especially if she was shaking this much by the mere memory alone. She shakes her head, lifting her gaze to meet mine. Her hold tightens around my nightgown once more and I can tell she’s contemplating my words.
“Papa says that talking about my nightmares makes it seem less scary.”
“But you don’t have to.” I tell her honestly “Not if you don’t want to. You can stop anytime, okay?”
She nods once. “Okay”, she says, and then “I don’t die in my dreams if that’s what you’re worried about.”
My shoulders sag at her words, relief flooding through my chest “Is that so? Then why are you so scared?” I wrap an arm around her, stroking her head absentmindedly with my other hand. Her curls are soft against my fingers and I make a mental note to ask what type of conditioner Nikolai buys for her later.
“Because my father does.” She responded, and I could feel her body grow taut as the words left her lips.
“Nikolai?” I ask and she shakes her head.
“No, the other one.”
Oh. She was dreaming about her biological father. No, that’s not right. She was dreaming about the death of her biological father in a fire my father allegedly caused. And I, the daughter of the possible perpetrator, lay beside her, comforting her.
Could life be any more ironic?
When Nikolai told me earlier about What happened to his brother and his sister-in-law, I assumed that Kira wasn’t anywhere within the vicinity of the fire. Which is stupid on my part because Nikolai never mentioned that she wasn’t there.
I glance down at the tiny figure currently snuggling against me. She could not have been older than two when the fire broke out, and the fact that she still had nightmares about that day only further deepened my worries.
She must’ve been no older than two when her biological parents died. Nikolai must be all she sees whenever she tries to picture her parents. The thought saddens me and I swallow the lump already forming in my throat.
“I can never see his face in my dreams but I know it’s him,” she says, her voice trembling. “He is always wearing the same clothes.”
Her fingers tremble against my sleeve and I expect her to stop but she doesn’t
“I tried to save him,” she says quietly into the fabric. “But it’s too late, he’s already gone back inside to save her.”
I don’t need to ask to know who her father went back to save. I secured my arm around her, smoothing back her hair and squeezing her gently as I rocked her softly. “That sounds scary,” I whisper.
She nods “it is.” She agrees “but it’s better when I wake up.”
I don’t say much after that and neither does she. Soon, I feel her hold around the fabric of my nightgown loosen as she drifts off to the abyss that is sleep, and I’m left wondering in the darkness if my father is responsible for the grief that this little girl feels.
If my father did, in fact, cause the fire that murdered this little girl’s parents, then I would have no choice but to agree with Nikolai that he did, in fact, deserve death.
Because what kind of monster murders people in exchange for monetary compensation as if their lives weren’t worth more than a couple of dollars?
And if my father is indeed a fixer like Nikolai said he was then that would mean that he was every bit as guilty of Kira’s parent’s death as the person that ordered the hit on Nikolai.
Which would make him guilty of murder and Nikolai’s right.
The only question now remains, do I hate my father enough to help Nikolai murder him?
I’m left trying to come up with an answer until my eyelids feel too heavy to keep them open and I am dragged into the darkness