Chapter 10: Corrupted Heart: Chapter 10

Returning to reality is hard, once you’ve had that first tantalizing peek behind the curtain.

There’s an iconic scene in The Matrix where Morpheus tells Neo to choose between taking the red pill or the blue pill. The blue pill will erase all memory of the craziness he’s just witnessed and ease him back into his fake, comfortable life.

If he takes the red one, though, the veil will be lifted. He’ll, as Laurence Fishburne’s Morpheus puts it, “see how deep the rabbit hole goes”.

In my case, I’ve taken the red pill, but life keeps trying to convince me I’ve taken the blue one.

No one in my real world knows what I’ve seen. What I’ve experienced.

What I’ve done.

Not my family, because obviously. Not my friends, either.

It’s been a week since that night. Since the huge, masked man with the punishing touch and the voice like sin vanished into the ether after chasing me through that church. Since he brought me to heights I’ve only fantasized about, only to disappear like smoke.

“This was a mistake, princess. I fucking warned you that you were way out past your fucking depth.”

After the rush and the madness of that chase, and the knife, and him brutalizing the most insane orgasm of my life from my body, I actually waited for him to come back. Seconds ticked by. Then minutes.

Finally I was forced to admit that he really was gone, and that I was alone in a creepy old boarded-up church, fuck-knows-where, without a phone, because he’d taken that, too.

When I’d poked my head outside, though, there was a black car waiting for me, with a driver in sunglasses who never responded to a single thing I said, but freakishly drove me right to my front door before handing me my phone.

Milena and Naomi both checked in with me the next morning to see how my “hangover” was. Madame Kuzmina’s made a comment here and there over the last week about me being “distracted”.

But no one knows the truth. No one knows that I’ve swallowed that red pill. And now I can’t see anything the same way.

I’m early to the theater today, so after changing and stretching a little, I sit in one of the empty seats ten or so rows back from the stage. I frown at the web tab on my phone that’s open to my Club Venom account.

No new messages from RaisedByWolves. Not a single peep. I mean it’s not like I’d expect an encounter like ours to merit a “hey I had a great time the other night” follow-up. It’s not like we went to the movies or shared a milkshake, for crying out loud.

But still. The absence of…anything…makes me feel almost hollow inside. Not quite put back together right. It’s not like I feel ditched or discarded—well, maybe a little. No, the thing is that this is the one other person on Earth who knows what I did that night. The one person who could maybe at least sort of understand what I’m feeling right now, after diving headfirst into my darkest fantasy.

And he’s gone. No messages, I haven’t even seen him online at all since that night.

He’s disappeared like a half-remembered fever dream. What’s even weirder is that I don’t have any messages or other chat requests at all.

I mean, I know my profile is a little bare bones, but still. I’m on a kink website advertising that I’m into primal play, and I don’t have a single response aside from him? I even went back and added to my profile, trying to see if that made a difference. I added my age. I elaborated on my kink. The other day, I even uploaded a picture of my ass in yoga pants.

And not to toot my own horn, but I’ve been sculpting that butt through brutal ballet classes for like fifteen years.

Not a single response.

I exhale, making a face as I stare at my last few messages to him from the past few days.

A day after that:

A few days later, after three glasses of wine:

God. That one in particular makes me cringe when I read it. Hard. But then I glance at the last one, from two days ago:

“Ooo, what’s that?”

I almost have a seizure as I all but throw my phone up in the air. I manage to catch it, my breath, and my runaway heart before I turn to look up at Milena with a white, blank expression.

“Um, what?”

She arches a brow, smirking at me.

“Who were you messaging, and what app is that?”

“Tinder,” I blurt, shrugging casually.

Milena gives me a look. “Uh, no it’s not.”

“Sure it is. New interface.”

Her grin widens. “Yeah? Prove⁠—”

For once, I’m actually grateful for the cold, barking voice of Madame Kuzmina telling us to get off our lazy asses and to the barre.

Mercifully, Milena has either forgotten about what she saw or has decided to give me a pass on it by the time our day is over. I say goodbye to her and Naomi after they shower and change, then grab my stuff and head out the back door to go find a cab.

To my shame, when the hand clamps over my mouth, and another rough, powerful hand grabs my arm and shoves me against the brick wall, my first emotion isn’t fear.

It’s excitement.

A, because as I’ve mentioned, I’m a freak with issues. And B, because my first fucked-up thought is that it’s him. That he’s back. That he wants to play again…

“You fucking bitch.”

It’s the voice that takes me from deliciously, dangerously excited to freaked the fuck out.

It’s not my masked RaisedByWolves. It’s Grisha.

I gasp as he spins me around, his mean, slightly-too-skinny face suffused with anger and his cruel eyes boring right into mine. He’s flanked by three other youngish Russian guys I’ve seen him hanging around with. And behind them stands a terrified-looking Alicia.

“I’ve been fucking patient, you little bitch,” Grisha snarls at me. “I’ve been waiting for you to do the right thing. I know you fucking have it!”

My eyes bulge as he shoves me back into the wall again. My gaze rips past him and darts to Alicia, my mouth falling open.

She quickly shakes her head, her face paling. “Grisha, baby, I told you, those guys⁠—”

“Shut the fuck up,” he snarls at her, his eyes still leveled at me as he leers close. “My idiot girl keeps trying to tell me that you lost the duffle⁠—”

“I—!”

I choke on a scream as the back of his hand smacks hard across my cheek. Stars dot my vision as I hear Alicia shriek, and I taste my coppery blood on my tongue.

“Grisha!” I blurt. “I don’t⁠—”

“Nobody throws away that much cocaine,” he hisses. I shudder as he grabs the front of my hoodie, yanking me close. “Nobody loses that much cocaine, either.”

“They took it!” I scream. “The men who were going to buy it!” My pulse roars. “They⁠—”

“Do you think I’m fucking stupid?”

I blink. “What?!”

“DO YOU THINK I’M FUCKING STUPID!!” Grisha roars in my face, making me tremble.

“No!” I blurt, quivering.

“I fucking know you were working with those two, bitch.”

It feels like I’ve been slapped again.

“What?!”

“Make a big scene, send my girl and her friend running! Then, you come outta the alley totally fine, but mysteriously without my fucking drugs?!”

“Grisha,” I plead. “I swear to you, I don’t know those men! I…”

I want to tell them all about the masked man. About how he killed my two attackers and dumped the coke. But for some insane reason, I don’t.

Not just because I sincerely doubt they’d believe me.

You’re worried about betraying him.

Yeah, I’ve officially lost it. I’m actually standing here not disclosing this information because…it’s what, seriously, a betrayal?…of the masked man who may very well be an actual psychopath, who my only real relationship with—if you can even call it that—is that I let him chase me around an abandoned church with a knife until he caught me and fingered me to orgasm?

What the actual fuck is wrong with me?

I’m about to blurt the whole thing out when suddenly Grisha yanks something metallic and gleaming out of his belt and levels it at my face, and my entire world goes still.

It’s a fucking gun.

Alicia slams a hand over her mouth, looking terrified, her wide eyes staring at me past her insane boyfriend.

“Shut. Up.” Grisha growls quietly, his voice eerily calm. “Now, I’m going to ask you once more. Do you know the two assholes who took my coke? And I swear to fuck, you’d better not lie.”

Tears start to trickle down my cheeks as I shake my head. “I don’t!” I sob.

Grisha’s lips curl.

“No? Well, you’re about to prove it, bitch.”

Before I can say anything, he grabs me again and starts to yank me toward a black Mercedes. Alicia screams and rushes to him, but he roughly shoves her away before barking something in Russian to one of his buddies. The guy grabs Alicia, holding her back even as she screams my name and Grisha and his two other goons drag me to the car.

My pulse is pounding like a drum in my ears as we drive through the city. I’m in the back seat with Grisha, his gun still aimed right at me as naked fear burns through my veins. We cross the Washington Bridge into the Bronx and drive deeper into the borough until storefronts and apartment buildings give way to old truck depots and derelict buildings. Suddenly, we come to a stop outside an abandoned warehouse.

The car shuts off.

“Get out,” Grisha snarls.

He’s going to kill me.

We’re parked in what may as well be Murder Central: a dark, abandoned street, with nothing around but the boarded-up warehouse and an older-looking Land Rover parked across the street.

I turn to Grisha, pure panic in my eyes as I watch him smile darkly.

“You say you don’t know those two fucks?”

I shake my head violently side to side.

“You sure?” he hisses.

“Yes!”

Grisha smiles malevolently. “Good. Prove it.”

He says something in Russian. One of his buddies passes him a bottle of what I assume is vodka, and a lighter. I frown, peering closer. Then the scent hits my nose.

Oh my God.

He’s not holding a bottle of vodka. It’s got a rag sticking out the top of it, and it reeks of gasoline.

Holy shit.

He’s holding a Molotov cocktail—a glass bottle filled with gas with a rag for a fuse, like they use in urban warzones.

My eyes go wide as Grisha turns to nod at the Land Rover across the street.

“Some of my people saw this car driving away from the scene the other night when you lost my fucking coke.”

I swallow a lump in my throat, trembling as he shoves the bottle into my hand.

“You say you don’t know those assholes? Prove it.” He points to the Land Rover. “I’m gonna light this Molotov, and you’re gonna blow up that fuckin’ car.”

My stomach drops along with my jaw. I twist my head, my stricken face staring at Grisha.

‘W-what?!” I choke.

“You heard me,” he snarls as his buddies start to chuckle. “Blow it the fuck up.”

“I—” I shake my head, trembling. “I-I can’t⁠—”

His eyes narrow. “Yeah, bitch, you fuckin’ can. And you will.” I gasp, sobbing out a cry as he grabs my hoodie again and shakes me. “You remember how much cocaine you lost!?”

“I—I can pay you back!”

I have no idea how, but if it gets me out of whatever the hell this is, I’ll figure out a way⁠—

“You think I’m slinging 8-balls, you dumb bitch?” he snaps. “Those were bricks you decided to just run away from. You got four hundred grand on you? Because rest assured, I fucking will be collecting on that. But for now…”

I jolt, gasping, tears springing to my eyes as Grisha jams the gun against my neck.

“Light it.”

A hand reaches past me. The lighter flickers. Instantly, the rag stuffed into the bottle catches into a hungry blaze. Grisha and his buddies giggle and snort, springing away before Grisha points the gun at me again.

“Better throw that quick!” he snarls. “Else it’s gonna blow your fuckin’ head off.”

I turn to stare at the old Land Rover. My hand trembles as the heat of the flames ripples up my arm.

“And if you miss…” Grisha growls from behind me.

The cocking of the gun hammer tells me how that sentence ends.

“Do it,” he snaps. “Fucking throw it!”

My arm winds back. The flickering flames gleam and dance in the windshield of the car.

No one’s in it. It’s just a shitty old truck.

Also, I don’t want to die.

With a deep breath, I wind up and hurl the flaming bottle at the vehicle. The glass shatters on impact. Instantly, liquid flames engulf the hood, the windshield, and the passenger side door. The fire roars like an angry dragon, licking over the roof, down the side, and then dripping to the ground around the wheels. One of the tires pops with a bang, making me scream and sending Grisha and his friends into convulsions of laughter.

The windshield and one of the rear windows burst. Metal begins to whine and shriek. The heat of the pyre scorches my face as I stare in horror at what I’ve done. Slowly, I pull my eyes away, turning and walking back to Grisha.

“Okay, I did it,” I mumble, shaking as I hug myself. “Can I please go⁠—”

The explosion is deafening. The force of it knocks the wind right out of me and hurls me to the ground alongside the three Russians. The pavement bites into my palms and my chin, making me wince in pain. Grisha and his buddies hoot with glee as something roars like a hurricane behind me.

Sucking in air, I roll over. My eyes go wide, my mouth falling open as I stare at the mangled twist of metal billowing with flames where the car used to be.

What the fuck have I done?

An hour later I’m home, at my apartment.

I can’t. Stop. Shaking.

I have a million missed calls from Alicia and a hundred panicky, apologetic texts. I ignore them all as I crawl into the hottest bath I can stand and start to scrub the grime and gasoline-scented soot from my skin. I wince when I clean the cuts on my hands and my chin, then get out and quickly kneel next to the tub to try to wash the smoke from my hair.

Back in the kitchen, I reach over and mute my phone, since it just keeps blowing up with Alicia’s texts. I pour myself a huge glass of red wine, downing half of it in one go.

I still can’t stop shaking.

Suddenly, I frown, thinking. I lurch from the stool in my kitchen and bolt to the front door of the apartment.

No.

It’s not hanging by the door.

Oh fuck.

It’s not in my dance bag, either. Or on the couch, or anywhere in my room. As I turn my apartment upside down, I start to realize that my purse isn’t here at all.

And I know I had it when I left the theater.

The pounding of fists on my front door almost stops my heart. My throat strangles the scream as I whirl, white-faced, and stare at it with horror.

“BIANCA!”

The air leaves my lungs in a whoosh.

It’s Dante.

When I open the door, I gasp as he storms in, his face grim. He glances around, and it’s only then that I realize he’s holding a fucking gun.

“Dante—”

“Why the fuck weren’t you answering your phone!?” he barks, concern in his voice and all over his face.

I swallow. “I—I was in the bath? What the hell is⁠—”

“Shit’s going down, that’s what. A war might’ve just started, and I wanted to make sure you were home and safe.”

Something cold settles in the pit of my stomach.

“A…a war?” I croak.

He nods, marching over to my windows and checking that they’re all locked, even though we’re ten floors up.

“Someone raided one of Nero De Luca’s warehouses in Brooklyn.”

I exhale.

Thank God.

“And… You think that means war?”

“On it’s own, it could just be a regular gangland bullshit,” he growls, turning back to me and holstering the gun. “But barely an hour later, someone torched Kratos Drakos’ car in the Bronx.”

The cold knot rips through my stomach again with a vengeance. My throat tightens, a whining sound ringing in my ears.

Dante frowns and sniffs the air, his brow furrowing. “What the…”

Oh God.

He sniffs again, glancing around the apartment.

“Bianca, why does it smell like…”

He freezes as he suddenly turns toward me. I gasp as he storms over to me, grabbing a handful of my still-damp hair and yanking it to his nose.

“Holy fucking shit,” he whispers in a haggard voice. He backs away from me, slowly shaking his head. “Bianca⁠—”

“I… I can explain⁠—”

“What the fuck did you do? What THE FUCK did you do?!” he roars.

I cringe, shaking as my brother whirls away. He grabs his phone out of his pocket and hits a number. Seconds later, I can hear him yelling to someone I assume is Carmine things like “security measures” “lockdown” and “prepare for the worst”.

I want to cry. I want to break down and scream. I want to tell him everything.

Just then, out of the corner of my eye, I see my phone silently light up on the kitchen counter. I shudder as I walk over and pick it up.

It’s from the Venom site.

My hands shake as I unlock my phone and scroll to the page. Sure enough, my chat box is blinking with a new message from him.

Instantly, another message comes through: a picture. It takes a second to load, but when it does, my heart drops through the floor.

Someone torched Kratos Drakos’ car in the Bronx.

I only know the giant, stoic Drakos brother by reputation. Or at least, I thought so.

But as the image of the flaming wreckage of a Land Rover appears in my chat window, I realize I know Kratos much more than by reputation.

…Because the other day, he fingered me to oblivion on the dirty floor of an abandoned church, after chasing me down with a fucking knife, wearing a psycho mask.

That’s who my masked stranger is. That’s who I’ve been chatting with, who I begged to fuck me. Who I chose to act out disturbing, fucked-up fantasies with.

Not just some Club Venom rando.

I goaded a lethally dangerous mafia prince. I told him my darkest fantasies. He knows who I am.

…And tonight, I burned his car to the ground.

Holy shit…

My phone dings again.

Then the icon next to his name goes dark.

I think I’m going to be sick.

What the fuck have I done?