In the Charlestown neighborhood of Boston, my Audi R8 idles just down the cramped street from the address written in my file. Standard and unassuming, the apartment building on Essex is about what I would expect.
My fingers drum a solo over the steering wheel as I contemplate turning around. There are other ways. I could send Tanaka and her emotional baggage back home to her father. Torturing him for answers would be just as effective and less of a headache than dealing with her obvious mental issues. It would save me from the constant frustration I have felt since she entered my life.
But it would not be justice served. Manuel can’t comprehend suffering until he experiences it for himself. This is the whole point of vengeance. Since I was a boy, I have vowed the day would come when I would discover the truth about my mother. If she was a liar and a whore who abandoned us, then so be it. But if she wasn’t, then I would avenge her and know for certain the true nature of my father.
If Sergei knew my intentions, he would laugh in my face. He would say that I have never forgiven her for leaving and I am only clinging to the hope that she loved me when she never truly did. Like my father, he raised me to believe that he would always be honest with me, even if it hurt.
His words didn’t inspire warm feelings, but as a boy, I accepted the only reasonable explanation for my mother’s abrupt departure from my life. I admired my father for his strength. For his ability to carry on without her when inside I felt as though something had shattered and it would never be put back together again. But with age came perception. Over time, I came to understand that Sergei was not exactly the hero I had always painted him to be.
Carrying on without answers is no longer an option for me. The torturous dreams that visit me in my sleep demand to be solved. Her ghost has long haunted me, tainting every aspect of my life. Triggering fears that no grown man should have inside.
You are filthy and disgusting, and it’s no wonder you fill your life with meaningless encounters. Who could want you?
Perhaps, the beautiful little dancer was right. Perhaps, there was truth in her words, and that was why I was so desperate to silence them.
I shut off the engine and look up the street.
The maid’s apartment is not far removed from Nonna’s living quarters at mine. Sparse, with only the essentials for a comfortable living and little else. The space is absent of the usual racket in modern homes, and it smells like tea and freshly baked bread.
I find her rocking in a chair at the end of the hall, her hands making quick work of two knitting needles and some yarn. The woman who I’d estimate to be in her seventies barely blinks when she notices me looming on the threshold of her room. The bedside lamp illuminates her pajamas and the pistol she keeps beside her.
“What do you want?” she asks.
She doesn’t care to know who I am, and I don’t imagine this is the first time she’s had an unexpected guest. Nor will it probably be the last. If Manuel Valentini had any consideration for his former employee, he would have sent her off to a warmer climate where nobody knows her name and she could enjoy her retirement properly. But as it stands, it doesn’t look like this woman received much of a severance package.
“My name is Nikolai,” I tell her. “You have no reason to fear me.”
Her hands pause long enough for her to look up and study my features. And more notably, my visible tattoos.
“You are Vory,” she observes. “Thief in law.”
I nod, unfazed by her sharpness. Her many years of service to Manuel undoubtedly gave her an intimate education of the many different criminal factions on the East Coast. The answer to be determined is where her opinion falls on my brotherhood.
“So, thief?” She squints at me in the dim light. “I will ask you again. What do you want?”
“Answers.”
Her attention once again diverts to her knitting, effectively dismissing me. “Then you may as well leave. Or kill me if you intend to try, but I will warn you not to judge me by my size or age. I am a quick draw, and I will not succumb to torture, try as you might.”
Her response warrants respect, and I intend to show it. While there is a time and place for violence, it isn’t with elderly women. Or women, in general … if I can help it.
The pretty broken doll haunts my memories, her body limp in my arms. She is so strong of mind that I did not anticipate her body to be so frail. The incident further proved the need to rectify her behaviors before she dimmed her own light forever. It also proved that I am incapable of defending myself against the toxic words she flings my way so carelessly.
Filthy. Disgusting.
Who could want you?
My fingers itch for a cigarette, but it isn’t the time. I need to focus. I need to remember why I’m here.
“Your name is Aida, yes?”
The maid doesn’t answer. Her hands are absorbed in her knitting, but I have no doubt her mind is conscious of every movement I make.
“I believe you worked for Manuel Valentini for a number of years, and I have some questions about his mistresses.”
She snorts. “Then you are better to ask him yourself.”
The creaking of her chair is the only sound left between us, but it does not deter me. I understand her reluctance to talk. If she even entertained the idea of snitching on Manuel, she could easily be dead come tomorrow.
It is not often that I change my approach. If a Vor wants answers, he simply commands them by any means necessary. But women are softer, and I know I must find a way to appeal to this side of her. If I had to venture a guess, this woman would have been in Tanaka’s life at the time she needed a mother figure most. It’s not the thing I want to discuss, but for now I will entertain the notion.
“Perhaps you can assist me with something else. What about Tanaka Valentini?”
Aida stops knitting. “What about her?”
“She is a temporary guest at my home,” I answer. “But it has come to my attention that she doesn’t like to eat.”
It’s minor, but I don’t miss the drooping of her features. Tanaka was special to her. There was a connection there. And I need her to tell me everything about it.
She sets her knitting aside to rest her hands in her lap. “How do I know you are telling me the truth?”
I fish the phone from my pocket and access the live feed of Tanaka’s room. The doctor is gone, and she is resting, the trauma of earlier events forgotten in her sleep. She looks like a goddess on her white satin sheets, but it pains me to see the tube taped to her nose.
I show the image to Aida, and she studies it for a few moments to be sure. When she has drawn her own conclusion, her attention returns to my face.
“What is she doing with you?”
“It’s only until her father pays his debts. But I can’t in good conscience allow her to desecrate her body.”
Aida shakes her head. “Then you will try until you are blue in the face. If you want her to eat, I am not the person to ask. To be frank, I’m amazed she has survived for this long.”
“Then perhaps you can tell me why she does it.”
“What difference would it make?” She shrugs. “The girl is sick. She needs help. But her father never allowed it.”
Her indifference is forced. It would be a weakness to admit she cares, but her will is close to bending. I need her to keep talking.
“Why wouldn’t he allow it? I was under the impression that she was special to him.”
Aida purses her lips. “She is a mafia princess. You should know these things, thief. Her life has been sheltered. No outside influences. That is the only way, I suppose, to keep her safe.”
“I am open to suggestions.”
The old woman sighs, shoving her bottle thick glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Try minestrone. Her mother used to make it for her as a child. She would always eat it when I made it too.”
My lungs expand, and I feel lighter. Perhaps it’s relief, but every scrap of information I gather about Nakya only fuels the fire inside me demanding to know more.
“You can’t force her,” Aida adds. “It’s not the way with her. She is obedient but stubborn. If you tell her she must do something, it will only encourage resistance.”
There is no question I forced the feeding tube on her. But after the doctor’s examination and report, we both agreed it was necessary. I don’t like forcing nourishment on Nakya, but if I must do it to keep her alive, I will.
“Can you tell me more about her mother?”
Aida’s brows knit together. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“I have heard rumors, and I am curious what happened to her.”
“The same thing that will inevitably happen to Tanaka,” she says. “It’s the mafia way.”
“Her mother killed herself,” I argue. “Tanaka is not of such weak disposition.”
“If you know already, then you have no need to ask these things of me.”
“I only want to know more about her so I can help.”
“Sure, you do.” Aida snorts. “You want to help as long as it benefits you.”
She is right, and to deny it would be an insult to her intelligence. Aida is done with this line of questions, and I’m out of angles. There are other avenues. It will take more time, but she is not the only possible lead.
I turn away, and her voice fills the silence.
“I’m an old woman. I just want to live out the rest of my days in peace.”
“Nobody will know I’ve been here,” I assure her. “You have my word.”
“What good is a thief’s word?”
I pivot to meet her cloudy gaze. “You tell me.”
She points down the hallway. “Go to the kitchen and I’ll make us a cup of tea.”
I do as she instructs, and Aida is not far behind, shuffling along in her robe and slippers. She busies herself with the preparations while I take a seat in an uncomfortably small vinyl chair at the kitchen table.
While the kettle warms, Aida sets the table for tea. Cups, saucers, sugar cubes, and creamer. She adds a plate of freshly baked banana bread from the microwave, and I eat two slices while I wait. Throughout the process, her eyes move to me often. She is still uncertain of my motives, and when she comes to sit across from me, I think she is undecided how much of the truth to indulge.
“Tanaka was a bright little girl,” she tells me. “Smart and inquisitive. Her studies taught her everything that a girl of her stature should know, but it was never enough. Her mind was always full of questions, and that curiosity would sometimes get her into trouble.”
My lip curls at the corner, though it should make no difference to me what the little dancer was like as a child.
The kettle whistles, and Aida brings it to the table, pouring it over the tea bags before resting it on a hot pad. She resumes her seat, the steam fogging her glasses as she stares into the cup.
“I have never in all my years witnessed such a determined child. When she went to her first ballet, that was it for her. It was the thing she wanted to do, and nothing else could captivate her attention from that day forward. Not even her studies. She wanted to set her own course. She wanted to perfect every move before she even learned the basics.”
I remove the tea bag from my cup and add a cube of sugar. “It sounds like very little has changed. She never seems to think of anything else.”
Aida prepares her own tea with sugar and cream. “It was an escape for her. At first, I thought it was good for her to have a childhood dream. It allowed her a space away from her life. I could see it on her face when she danced that she was in another world. But when her mother died, it became her only world, and she retreated there far too often. I tried to find other outlets for her, but it did not work. Nothing ever worked. The only time she was happy was when she danced.”
I venture another try at the question that continues to plague me. “What happened to her mother?”
This time, Aida doesn’t hold back. “Manuel happened.”
“I have heard that she often wore a veil.”
“She never took it off.” She shakes her head. “Not after—she was horribly disfigured.”
“By Manuel?” I press.
She hesitates but nods. “He carved her face up with a knife so that no man in his employ would ever be tempted by her beauty.”
My blood burns, and it only serves to bolster my case against him.
“And what about Tanaka? Did his violence touch her as well?”
Aida’s brows come together, and she pauses to take a sip of her tea. “I never witnessed it.”
“She flinches at the slightest movement. There must be a reason.”
“I never witnessed it,” Aida reiterates, “but it doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. There were times she would be locked in her room for days, and I was not permitted to see her. But I saw the bruises, and that was enough. She blamed it on the dancing.”
Her response satisfies my suspicions, but there is no satisfaction in discovering the true nature of Tanaka’s father. Manuel Valentini destroys beautiful things. Manuel Valentini doesn’t deserve to breathe. And one day, when I am certain I have wrung every ounce of suffering from his soul, I will destroy him too.
“You inquired about his mistresses,” Aida observes. “There must be a reason you have kept Tanaka alive. So, who is this woman you seek?”
I finish my tea and move the plate away. There is no point skirting around the topic. This is what I came here for.
“Her name was Irina. I believe she came into Manuel’s life around fifteen years ago.”
Aida folds her wrinkled hands across the table and studies me. “And who is Irina to you?”
I could lie, and I probably should. But like me, Aida is not a woman to be trifled with. She values honesty, and I respect her enough to admit the truth.
“She was my mother.”
Her face wrinkles, and she hunches forward with a sigh that I suspect she’s withheld for years. “I don’t know of an Irina, but that doesn’t mean anything. Manuel had many mistresses who he kept outside the home. I only hope for your sake that you are mistaken in assuming she was one of them.”
My pulse throbs as I look at her for the answer. “Why?”
“Because they are all dead now.”