Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 92254 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92254 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
I let the story sink into my bones. An old trauma, older than me. A stolen baby, an abused child. Arsen never knew the truth about himself. Still doesn’t know. And what will happen when he hears it?
But he needs to know.
“You have to tell him,” I say to the wall. Sona’s breathing fast on the other side.
“What will that achieve?”
“He needs the truth. Family is everything to him.”
“Let him have that family.”
“Tell him, Sona.”
“That boy is not my fucking son,” she hisses, inches away from my face. “Do you understand me, you idiot girl? You stupid Russian bitch!”
“Tell him,” I say sadly. This woman is Arsen’s mother, and she’s so awful. Would it have been better if she had raised him? I don’t even know. I can’t even imagine. “Or I’ll show him the diary.”
“I never should’ve written that fucking thing. And it was a moment of weakness to tell you about it. Burn the damn book and move on. Arsen doesn’t need to know.”
I push away from the wall and get to my feet. My back aches and my knees are sore. Everything hurts like hell and I’m tired. So freaking tired. There are too many secrets in these walls.
Even for a girl like me, it’s too much.
“Tell him,” I say and walk away. If Sona answers, I can’t hear her.
Arsen is not his father’s son. All that pain, all that fear and anger he holds on to so tightly, he can let it all go.
If he hears the truth, he can start to heal.
Chapter 39
Arsen
Wind whips through my hair. Baltimore crawls down below. Lights flash in buildings around us, and the harbor glitters with starlight.
I’m at the top of the world. Or at least on top of a skyscraper owned by the Brotherhood’s shell corporation.
Members of the family stand around in a loose circle. They’re dressed in black from head to toe. Most are openly carrying weapons.
Uncle Garen stands across from me in the center of the circle, his face grim. He holds out the ceremonial diamond-encrusted knife, handle-first.
“It’s a shame it came to this,” he says as I take it from him.
I’m aware of the gaps in the ring around us. It’s too loose, too wide. There are too many dead cousins and uncles, too many missing pieces.
But what’s left is strong and united now.
“Why’s that?” I grip the handle with my right hand and wrap my left hand around the blade of the knife. It’s nice and sharp. Tigran made sure of that. He’s a good brother.
“You’re going to fuck it up,” Garen promises very softly. He leans in close. “You think we fought a war for nothing? Sona’s right about you. I’m sorry, but it’s true.”
My jaw sets. I stare at my uncle and yank the knife down. Pain flares, visceral and intense. Blood wells down the wound as I hand the weapon back to him.
The left hand. The symbolism is clear: the left-hand path. The winding path of danger. It’s the path that takes us outside society. We exist beyond the norms of regular people. And the left hand symbolizes all that.
For a brief moment, I think he’s going to come at me. If he tries, there are two snipers waiting to put him down like a dog. But instead, he cuts his hand like I did.
“Blood is everything,” I say loudly for everyone to hear. The wind whips up again, blowing across the skyscraper’s roof. We’re on a massive helicopter landing pad at the peak of a building. The crown jewel of our portfolio. “Blood binds this family. It keeps our Brotherhood strong. Blood of our enemies, blood of our friends. Blood of our brothers.” I hold out my bleeding hand. “With this blood, we swear an oath before God and our peers. This war is over.”
“I swear an oath before God and our peers,” Garen says, looking resigned. “I bend the knee to Arsen Sarkissian and call him patron.”
“For blood and glory,” I say.
“Blood and glory,” the assembled men chorus.
I shake Garen’s hand. Our left hands clasp and our wounds mix together. Fucker better not have hepatitis or some shit. He grimaces at me as I squeeze tight, lancing pain up to my elbow. Let the fucker suffer too. He deserves worse.
Then I raise our hands above our heads like we’re victorious prize fighters and the assembled men cheer.
“Smile, Garen,” I say through my teeth, leaning in close to him. “The war’s over and you get your piece-of-shit wife back.”
The rest of the Brotherhood is waiting in the banquet hall down on the fourteenth floor. Everyone’s there: mothers, brothers, wives, and sisters. The whole extended Brotherhood and all our relatives. Garen disappears to his little group of friends, looking sour and annoyed, while I make the rounds, smiling and shaking hands.
Congratulations all around.