The Taste of Revenge: Chapter 6

‘You still think this is a good idea?’ Carlos asks as he paces around the room, checking for hidden cameras and mics.

We spent the entire afternoon in negotiations with Cisco, talking about strategies and what our goals are in the long term.

The interesting thing about DeVille is that he already knew I was going to reach out, just like he already knew he was going to accept my offer to join forces.

For once, I have to wonder what Cisco’s goal is, too. There is certainly more to him than meets the eye, and he’d been entirely too ready to agree to all of my terms.

Of course, what I’m offering is invaluable, and he knows it. Still, I’m not going to trust him just yet—if ever.

In a sign of good faith, he invited us to stay in his home, where I would be protected from any direct attempts on my life—at least until word gets around the city that I am under DeVille protection.

Carlos, however, ever the skeptic, refused the offer to stay here in favor for an old, dilapidated warehouse in Brooklyn, where Anita, Panchito and Thomas had already relocated.

‘It’s the only viable idea. You know too well that we can’t do anything on our own. We’re outcasts,’ I sigh, unbuttoning my shirt. ‘We need someone’s backing to move around the city and have a chance against Michele and Ortega.’

‘I don’t trust him.’ Carlos says quietly.

‘I don’t trust him either. But if staying here will strengthen our partnership, then I’ll do it. There’s no way he’s going to try something in the house where he lives with his wife and family.’

‘I still don’t trust him,’ he mutters. ‘What you’re offering him might be appealing, but he also knows he’s the only one who can help.’

That he does. He asked me why I hadn’t gone to any of the other families for help, bringing up my former engagement to Sisi as a reason to seek out Lastra.

The reason, however, is very simple.

Lastra doesn’t have a stake in this. No one besides DeVille has a stake in this. And to get to Michele, I need someone equally as invested as me—which makes Cisco the only logical option.

‘Then we’ll have to make it so that I’m the only one who can help him too,’ I add thoughtfully.

Carlos grunts, but he doesn’t seem convinced. Because of his own past, he’s always suspicious of everyone’s motives.

‘I’ll deal with DeVille,’ I continue, settling on the bed while Carlos takes out his kit. ‘You and the guys look into Ortega. As soon as either of us has something, we’ll regroup and plan our next steps.’

‘Cisco was right in one respect. You’ve grown, Raf,’ he says quietly, lifting his eyes to meet mine.

‘One has to when there’s no other choice,’ I reply grimly.

‘Not everyone goes through what you did and remains sane,’ he notes, his lips flattened into a thin line.

He’s probably remembering the first time we met, when I unknowingly ran into his territory and all but died on his land.

I was skin and bone, on the brink of starvation and in the throes of drug withdrawal.

‘Back then I had a purpose,’ I say, my gaze distant.

He knows how hard I pushed myself even when I was teetering on the edge, with one foot in the grave. And I only managed to pull myself together because I had something to look forward to.

‘You still have one,’ he mentions, opening the small case and getting the syringe and the vial ready.

‘No. It’s different,’ I correct, turning my gaze towards him. ‘Before I had a purpose. Now I just have a goal.’

He frowns at me, looking confused.

‘Aren’t they the same?’

A dry chuckle escapes me.

‘No. They are fundamentally different,’ my mouth curls up slightly at the irony of the situation. ‘A purpose is a direction,’ I pause, the memories suffocating. ‘It’s what defines you as a human being and keeps you going when things get tough. A purpose is never ending. A goal, on the other hand, is ephemeral. After you reach it… There’s nothing else.’

He narrows his eyes at me, and a cynical smile forms on my lips.

‘

,’ I repeat, laughter bubbling inside of me.

‘You’re young, Raf. I get that you had feelings for Lucero. I get that,’ he starts in that fatherly tone he uses to give me advice. ‘But you have all the time in the world to meet someone else. To fall in love again. Don’t limit yourself.’

‘Would you be able to say the same if Izzy was dead?’ I ask, raising a brow.

He doesn’t answer, merely pursing his lips, his jaw twitching.

Izzy has always been a sore subject for Carlos. I don’t have too many details on what happened between them, but there are those rare times when he gets shitfaced and stares at her picture for hours on end, though he’d never admit it while sober. Still, he’s dedicated his life to her even when there are no chances of them ever getting back together.

not after he caused her to go blind.

‘You know just as well as I do that this isn’t about loving someone. It’s about finding that one person who completes you,’ I sigh. ‘Sometimes I wonder if I should be thankful that I at least found her,’ I look up, focusing on the play of shadows on the wall and remembering the small flicker of light in my cold cell, how every little beam of light would imbue me with optimism for the next day. But back then, I’d had her. The idea of her had helped me get through everything, and I’d like to believe that it had been the same for her.

‘Is it better to feel the presence in order to know the meaning of absence? Or is the state of knowing either the greatest blessing of all?’ I muse out loud, my fingers absentmindedly reaching for my necklace. Remembering how bad my fits can get, I take it off, placing it safely under my pillow—far but near at the same time.

‘I don’t like this,’ he mutters.

It’s not the first time he’s expressed his disagreement with my outlook. After I’d escaped my captivity, Carlos had helped me strengthen my mind and body in order to get my Lucero back. Instead, all I’d found had been her incinerated body, the necklace clutched tightly in her hand.

Maybe it’s a small satisfaction that even in death she’d prized it more than anything.

But after I’d been faced with the evidence of her death, I simply lost it.

I trained. I got better. I did everything to fortify my body and my mind—and I succeeded. But my purpose has shifted to goal. Finish my brother off for all the suffering he’d caused me—and for that one promise I made her.

That was it.

‘It’s not for you to like,’ I look him in the eye, patting him on the shoulder. ‘Be thankful you’re not in my position. Because there’s only one thing that awaits me at the end—only one thing.’

We stare at each other for a moment, and I know he grasps my meaning. But he’s not arguing or even trying to dissuade me. Saying it out loud would manifest it into existence. And he still wants to pretend I can be saved.

He goes about his business of setting up my dose, strapping my arm and prepping my vein.

‘You’re sure you want to do this here? You know it can get bad sometimes,’ he changes the subject.

‘You’ll be down the hall,’ I joke, since he’d reluctantly agreed to stay night to supervise me. ‘You know very well that if I miss the timing it’ll be even worse.’

Especially now that my body had gotten used to the more interspaced dosage. Until my next appointment when I’ll lower the dosage again, I have to be pretty anal about the amounts and timings of the drug. Otherwise, all the work we’d done up to this point will have been for nothing.

‘Just this time,’ he sighs, and I know it’s costing him a lot to make that one allowance, since he hates sleeping in foreign places—I doubt he’ll sleep much anyway.

He’s right that I could have gone to Brooklyn to get through my drug session, but that would have meant opening myself up to Cisco’s scrutiny, which would have undoubtedly led him to finding out about my drug issue. And the last thing I want is to start a partnership with my glaring weakness out in the open.

No, in order for this to work, I need to put on my strongest front. And if that means bearing this session in silence, then so be it.

Once the syringe is prepped, Carlos quickly administers it before handcuffing my wrist to the bedpost.

‘How is it?’ He raises an eyebrow as he takes a step back, assessing my state.

‘Go,’ I nod for him to leave.

‘If you need anything, I’m down the hall,’ he repeats before leaving the room.

I lean back on the bed, my vision already swimming.

You’d think I would have already gotten used to being high out of my mind with the amounts of drugs I’ve consumed over the years. But every single time it’s different. Every time I have to prepare myself for the worst, knowing that these drugs can awaken parts of my subconscious I want to stay buried.

Closing my eyes, I pull against the restraint, happy to see it’s holding nicely.

My body becomes boneless in the face of the many sensations prickling just under my skin. I take a deep breath, surrendering to the feelings. Because I’ve learned that the more I fight them, the worse it gets for me.

The blackness under my lids slowly shifts to a kaleidoscope—colors and shapes bursting through the surface and making certain parts of my body twitch in rebellion.

A spectator in my own body, I slowly feel myself slipping.

The worst thing, though, is that the memories never stray far from my mind. Almost like being seated in front of a gigantic screen, the flashes start appearing.

One second I’m in front of a black screen, the next I’m staring at a closed door, the light dimmed, the heat blistering as I force myself to breathe in and out.

A hand on my nape holds me down—it always holds me down. Bent over the desk as I am, I can only focus on the door, picturing my escape—that never forthcoming escape that always remains a forever out of reach dream. I take in the lines that go for miles, the slight bent shape of the wood, and the decaying color of the wallpaper.

It’s a dump that I feel in my very being—in the smells, the sights, the feels.

The pressure of the hand increases, and my cheek makes contact with a cold surface.

I wish I could fight it. I wish I could move enough to get out of his grasp. But I can’t.

Collard, drugged, enslaved.

I am but I am not.

The pain is transient too, and even as my focus switches to the shelves of books on the wall to the right, I find that I can’t block everything out.

I certainly can’t block the grunts, the hot breath on my neck or the sweat that seeps from his body into mine, staining me—staining my fucking soul.

And I can’t block the pain either, no matter how brief, or everlasting. I can’t stop feeling, because I’m meant to not feel.

Because this man can get off on my pain.

I know that just like I know that the drug he’s given me makes me a stranger in my own body. Like someone switched on the autopilot and kicked me to the curb. Yet I’m still here, watching, feeling. I just don’t own the remote control.

I blink.

Fingers tighten over my neck, wet strands of hair plastered on my cheek as I part my lips on a gasp, the feeling of being torn in two almost too intense.

‘Good little slut,’ the voice grunts out.

And everything turns black.

One step in front of the other, and I find myself in the middle of a dark tunnel, my palms on the cold walls as I try to find my way out.

I stumble.

I fall.

Pain radiates from my knees, and everything spins with me, the black becoming white before changing once more to each color of the rainbow.

Suddenly, my hand is propped on a wall as my feet take me forward, my wrists sore and bruised.

But I can barely feel the pain. Not when an angelic sound reaches deep within me and beckons me closer. That succession of piano keys creates such a powerful tune that I feel my entire being tremble in the face of magnificence.

The sound becomes louder and louder, and I can only follow it, needing to get as close as possible.

There’s a side of me that recognizes the melody, that recognizes the pain hidden behind each note. There’s a side of me—deep inside of me—that emerges to the surface as seemingly all my suffering is transposed into note after note.

My body feels light, my feet gliding on the floor as if the sound is holding me prisoner, calling me to it, capturing me in a trance-like-lasso.

But then it stops.

A soft gasp permeates the air, and in my cloudy mind, I can barely make the shape behind the piano. There is someone, of that I am aware. Yet I’m unable to identify any human traits.

My ears prickle at the sound of someone’s voice, but the words are foreign—barely intelligible.

The only thing I am aware of is that the pain flourishes again in my chest, and it’s only because of the absence of music.

Desperation claws at me as I put one foot in front of the other until I’m standing next to the instrument, the little human seated on the bench peering at me with confusion.

I can make out as much, yet I can’t tell if it’s a he or she. I can only tell that they have the necessary means to put me out of my misery.

Somewhere deep within the recesses of my mind, I know I have the information to make sense of what is in front of me. And like pieces of puzzle, they are scrambled before me, giving me clues, yet not the whole picture.

Still, I don’t care about the little human. I don’t care who it is or what it’s doing here. I only care about the power of its hands—those small hands that even now rest on the keys of the piano, their skin a deep tan opposite to pristine white.

Pure instinct alone drives me at this point, and as the little human tries to get up and bypass me, I immediately maneuver it back on the bench, sitting next to it. My palm makes contact with the back of its hands as I force them back on the keys.

But just like its language fails to register to me, language fails me, too. I know what I want to say, a strong desire blooming inside my chest as I wish for nothing more than to hear that divine sound again. Yet I can’t verbalize it. I can’t speak. I can only glare, imbuing my stare with all the meaning I can muster.

Through the haze that blinds me, I start seeing small flickers of light, and a little clarity returns to me as I focus on one spot, and one spot only—its eyes.

A deep, chocolate brown swirled with specks of green, its eyes are looking back at me, trying to understand the abstruse.

And so I move again, trying to steer its hands with my own as I push against one key, the sound taking me by surprise but filling me with unimaginable warmth.

It’s maybe on the third or fourth attempt that the little human understands what I want, its fingers gliding over the smooth surface of the keyboard as notes start dancing before my eyes.

It’s the same melody from before—that deeply saddening tune that seems to speak to my very soul.

There’s something inside of me that recognizes this piece; something that recognizes that it means something to me—that at one time it might have meant the world.

My mind rebels as I keep probing for information, the sound awakening a piece of me that I’d long thought forgotten.

My eyes squeezed shut, I can’t help but feel that something is missing, and my hand tightens over the little human’s.

But as I open my eyes, it’s to find those motley colored eyes looking at me with something akin to understanding. And as I keep squeezing its hand, it seems to get a clue into what plagues me.

Pushing my hand aside, its fingers nimbly glide over the surface of the keyboard, the melody resuming its glorious momentum. This time though, it’s not alone. An almost quiet voice joins the piano before going into a full mezzo voice, the combination of the voice and words making me reel.

There’s something achingly familiar as my mind hones in on the words, the delivery touching me deep in my soul.

Eyes closed, lips parted, I can only give myself to the melody as I search for its hidden meaning—for that part inside me that seems to awaken as the crescendo reaches its peak.

Without even realizing, I lean in, my nose buried in the crook of the little human’s neck, deeply inhaling its fragrance.

In the absence of my vision, the other senses are leading me, steering me towards a place that I’d long gotten rid of—or so I thought.

Its scent only complements the way its fingers touch the keyboard—elegantly yet with tenacity. There’s something rather addictive to be found in both. And in my drug-addled mind, it’s like manna for a starved man.

How many times over the last years have I felt deprived of the power of my senses—of hearing and of touch, of scent and of sight. Because in my limbo, I’d only allowed the bare minimum.

It’s so much more, and the richness of the sensations threatens to overwhelm me. Behind my lids, the other senses are turned into colors—warm yet striking colors. It’s softness wrapped in a core of steel. It’s sweetness, but with an edge.

My senses mingled together, I finally start to make better sense of the piece that’s playing, its color becoming richer and richer, just as the scent of the little human is invading my nostrils and making my entire body quake with want. Of what, I don’t know.

As I reach further, my fingers wrapping around silky strands of hair, the song ends on a harsh note, the little human out of my reach and stomping away out of the room.

It’s instinct. Pure instinct. Because I don’t think I can control my body, the rational side of me still relegated to the deep confines of my subconscious.

No, there’s nothing logical about the way I move with uncharacteristic swiftness, rising to my feet and following the scent of the little human.

And as my need for it completes the crescendo the little human was just playing for me, I wrap my fingers around small arms, bringing an even smaller frame into me and burrowing my nose into its hair.

Sweet yet smokey.

There’s something infinitely familiar yet achingly painful about the way it smells.

Its hands are pushing at my chest, trying to escape my hold. But the disparity in our sizes is too evident, the little thing barely reaching my chest as I push it against the wall, caging it further and bringing my nose down its neck.

Holding both arms over its head, I let my face nuzzle against the warm skin, the scent even stronger.

The idea comes unbidden, but the result is immediate.

My lips open over the tawny skin, my tongue making contact with warm flesh and…

Sweetness coats my tongue as I continue to lap over the bit of exposed skin, bringing my teeth into contact with it and nibbling gently. A sweetness just as potent as the cadence of that melody.

My ears are full of the sound of harsh breathing, the little human’s pulse pounding like a drum.

And it’s the culmination of everything.

Scent. Smell. Hearing. Touch.

And in the absence of sight, pure colors dance before my eyes. But this time, there’s no warmth.

A bloody red swirls in circles, white spots forming intermittently but being drowned by the scarlet sea.

Everything is red.

Until everything turns black.

And I fall.