Page 20 of Enemy of Ours #1

IRIS

“ I ’m telling you, Jamie. It’s the last time I’m ever seeing that man we call father again.” I hold my phone between my shoulder and ear as I talk to my brother, listening on the other end as he shuffles through paperwork.

I can picture him at Danny’s old desk, going over the ledgers and hating every second of it. He never wanted to take over the family business, but ever since the men saw my father as a weak man, he stepped down and handed everything over to Jamie.

“Listen, Iris. I get it, okay. I do. But you need to stop holding onto the past, or you’ll never get to experience what’s right in front of you. You’ll be stuck.” He sighs heavily over the phone as I go quiet, knowing he’s right, but I can’t help it.

I’ve been hurt and burned by people too many times.

“You’re one to talk. It’s been almost three years, brother, and you’re still hunting down every last person involved with what happened to me .

Even those who weren't present on that day are being pursued. You need to take your advice and move on.” My tone comes out harsh, giving him a dose of his own medicine, and I hate myself for it; he doesn’t need me getting on his case when he’s only trying to help.

I lean heavily against the kitchen counter, feeling around with my other hand on the smooth surface until I come across the brass tin can filled with tea leaves.

The kettle is already whistling on the stove as I pull out a tea bag for my nighttime cup.

It relaxes me, and my nerves are high today from Danny’s meeting.

Inga has disappeared since we got back, and that’s for the best; I have nothing to say to her. I’m too angry to forgive her right now.

“It will be over soon anyways. Iris, I'll be traveling to Scotland shortly to resolve a final matter. I promised you that day you’ll never have to deal with the church again, and I’m keeping my word.

” He always says this in the same tone, his voice rough from the need for revenge, but it can’t be healthy.

Then again, what the hell do I know? I still have nightmares, scared of people seeing my scars and that I’ll be alone forever.

“I know, dear brother. Just be careful, okay? Don’t do anything stupid for my sake.” I feel a lump form in my throat at the thought of him getting hurt or worse… I wouldn’t be able to handle it.

“I will. Listen, I have to go. Start living your life, sis, and I love you.” His tone comes across as meaningful, with a hint of something in his voice, like life is about to throw another curveball at me.

“I love you too.” I choke out and hang up the phone, pouring the water from the kettle into my favorite teacup as I go over his words in my mind over and over.

Live your life.

That thought is too scary to even think about.

I’m fine as I am. I feel comfortable and safe in my own little world, where no one can harm me.

I blow on my tea and sip it as I head towards my bedroom to change into my nighttime clothes, Sofia trailing behind me, excited for bedtime.

I pick up my silk nightgown that’s placed at the end of my bed, no doubt Inga putting it there for me even when I’m mad at her.

I sigh, sliding my fingers over the material that’s the same as my red ribbon.

I usually end up falling asleep in silk, but always wake up in soft cotton as if my body knows it wants the softest material against my skin, like a protective barrier.

I must wake up in the middle of the night to change clothes.

It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve done something like that.

I take a deep drink of my tea and climb under my covers, patting the spot next to me as my eyes get heavy with sleep.

“Come here, girl,” I whisper, feeling Sofia hop onto the bed, circling a million times until she flops onto her side right against my hip. “I don’t need anyone but you,” I mutter to my best furry little friend as my hand lands on her triangle head, right between her tall, pointed ears.

I slowly close my eyes, drifting off with thoughts about today and ones from the past. Sleep claims me quickly; I’m unconscious in seconds, and my last thought is a prayer that my nightmares don’t make an appearance.

I tilt my head, my gaze staring a long time at the streak of red as my paintbrush glides across the canvas, painting the setting sun. Something is not quite right with the blending of colors. I set my brush down and step back to look at it from a different angle.

“No! You can’t! Anything but that! Please!” My dad’s voice booms from inside the house, making me jump in place and spill my small can of red paint everywhere on the courtyard bricks.

I spin around, running towards the house and into the open door of the kitchen. I skid to a stop with a horrified gasp as I watch a man repeatedly punch Da in the ribs and watch him slump over in pain, grabbing the dining table before he collapses on the floor.

“It would seem the church has put up with enough from you, O’Connor, and they aren’t pleased with how you’ve been handling business.

It’s unacceptable to work with the Italians.

This is your penance. It must be done; you’ve been warned once.

So be it.” A man dressed in priest robes crouches down towards Dad and whispers something in his ear that has big, fat tears rolling down his face.

I’ve never seen my dad cry before.

“Da?” I ask, feeling scared but determined not to leave him alone with these strangers in our home.

He groans with a quiet sob and looks up at me with sadness in his brown eyes, his mouth pressed in a straight, displeased line.

“I’m sorry, my Rose. Forgive me.”

That’s the last thing I hear him say before all hell breaks loose.

One of the men dressed in all black steps forward and picks me up.

I scream while the priest stabs my dad in his side with a knife.

I struggle in the tight grip around me, clawing and kicking, but it’s useless as a cloth with the strong scent of chloroform is placed over my mouth and nose.

My vision blurs as tears run down my face and the fight leaves my body, slumping in the man's arms until everything fades to black.

My head hurts; that’s the first thing I notice as awareness starts to return, along with the intense smell of burning wick from candles.

I struggle to open my eyes, my head rolling onto my right shoulder as I groan and shiver from the cold encasing my body.

I slowly peel them open, seeing candles burning in red glass cinders, the gold cross on an altar, and the low hum of voices echoing loudly.

I turn my head, seeing the large, looming front doors of the church at the end of the aisle and the rows of pews leading up to the altar, where I’m apparently at.

I glance down, seeing my feet are not touching the ground, and I’m completely naked.

Panic sets in, my breathing coming in sharp, ragged pants as my head turns left and right to see my arms tied with ropes to a cross bigger than my body, right under a stained glass of the archangel Gabriel above my head.

“Good, you’re awake.” A voice comes from a shadowed corner near a door that leads to the back of the church, where bishops and reverends prepare before a church session.

“Let me down! Where are my clothes?” I scream, struggling against the tight ropes, but it’s no use; my body is suspended off the ground with my feet tied together at my ankles.

I’m completely stuck.

“Sh. You are in a church, child. Have some respect.” The voice is sinister, scaring the breath out of me; I can feel his stare on my naked body.

“Who are you! What do you want?” I cry, tears streaming down my face as it becomes clear I’m not escaping.

“You are collateral damage, a message to Danny O’Connor to never mess with the church,” he says, calmly and casually, like he’s talking about the weather or practicing a sermon.

He finally steps into the low glow of the thousands of candles placed around the church, making me shrink back into the cross at the sinister smile spread across his lips as he stares into my eyes without blinking.

Am I staring at the devil?

It would be iconic. I’d be staring down the devil in a beautiful church, but he’s just a man dressed in pontifical vestments of white and gold a bishop would wear. He’s even wearing the mitre; the headdress is just as gold, with a matching pectoral cross.

“You sick bastard.” I spit at his feet as he gets closer. “You are a disgrace. How dare you wear that and call yourself a follower of God?” My voice comes out choked and weak as he stands in front of me with the same evil grin.

“I am following God’s order, and he wants Danny O’Connor to follow the orders of the church.

It is the way of things.” He gestures to his right, and I notice the priest from earlier, and beside him stands a young man holding a candlestick.

An acolyte, he’s basically just a boy, probably around sixteen, and behind him stands a silent woman dressed in a nun’s gray habit with a bruised eye.

“Let’s begin, shall we?” the bishop asks with a pleased chuckle, and a flash of silver catches my eye as he takes it off the side of the altar.

It’s a knife.

He seizes my hand, the one with a scar running down the center of my palm, and slashes precisely at that spot, causing me to whimper as the blood rises to the surface.

I watch drops of bright red blood hit the floor, running down my wrist as he shifts his finger over the cut and places it right between my exposed breasts with a leer in his gaze.

He draws a line down toward my belly button and then from one side of my ribs to the other, making a cross.

“Such a waste. One of God’s beautiful creations, sacrificed all in the name of the church,” he says almost absentmindedly while licking his lips as his fingertips play in my blood, moving past my belly button and stopping at the top of my pubic bone.