Retribution by Elizabeth Knox

Author:Elizabeth Knox [Knox, Elizabeth]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Knox Publishing
Published: 2019-06-05T04:00:00+00:00

23

The moral of the story that is no matter how much we try, no matter how much we want it . . . some stories just don’t have a happy ending.

-Unknown

Enzo

Ksenia went into a room to speak with her sister and brother, coming out a few minutes later looking a hell of a lot better than when she went in. That was about three hours ago, and now my ass is sitting pretty in the clubhouse. It doesn’t look the same at all. It’s packed, air mattresses and cots put up in every nook and cranny. Even those who have houses built like Seamus, Reed and Kyle have been letting some of the girls stay in their houses. They put cots wherever they can find room.

I didn’t see the full extent of what all of this has done until now. While my life might not have been thrown in the air and tossed around, these girls have. They lost some of their closest friends, and tomorrow is their funeral. We will grieve the ones we have lost, and then we will find the man who did this and make him burn. I still have a hard time believing their dead. Malvina, Nonna, Olga, Svetlana, Tamara and Polina . . . They were all one of a kind. They will deeply be missed, but their memories will be cherished until the end of time.

“We need to be careful.” I hear Nadia speaking to one of the other Russian dolls.

“It’s good to air on the side of caution, but why do you need to be careful?” Something in the way she said it gives me an eerie feeling. It hits deep in my gut, and my gut has never been wrong.

She looks around to the other girls who all nod, almost like they’re giving her approval. “They died an unnatural death, and in our culture, it means that bad things are coming.”

“What do you mean, bad things?”

Alena speaks next, “Violent deaths always mean bad luck. We might think that their deaths were bad . . . but whatever is coming will be worse.”

“Much worse.” Nadia adds.

Gianni sits beside me and looks at the two women like they’ve lost their damn mind. “Why would you two think that?” He asks.

A brunette haired girl named Zoya speaks up. She’s usually quiet, so it surprises me. “It’s our culture. Russian superstition, but is hardly ever wrong.”

Church is supposed to start in about twenty minutes, so we stay out in the main area of the clubhouse for a bit. Girls come in and out, moving cots, re-adjusting the room, trying to make it look more like a home and less like a living room. Zoya passes me a few times and when she walks past me another time, I reach out and ask her a question I’ve been wondering since I’ve been here. “How are they doing?”

“Well . . . how does it look like they are doing? It isn’t good, and we’re managing. Losing them is like .

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