I hope you’re doing well. I’m still thinking about you, still hoping you read these letters and aren’t throwing them away.
Until next time, Dmitry.
Claudia
Chapter 18
Dmitry
Claudia,
I said I wasn’t going to write again, that the one letter I sent was it.
But then you send me things you shouldn’t, pictures of how pretty you are, how grown you’ve gotten. Fucking hell. You turned into a beautiful woman.
Sweetheart. Malehnkaya ptichka. Little bird.
What the fuck?
You have to stop sending me pictures of you…
Wearing that modest shit that makes me harder than I’ve ever been in my life.
Skirts that cover your legs, socks with little bows at the top that go to your knees. Fuck, the sliver of tanned flesh I can see peeking out from the pleated material can bring me to my knees, sweetheart.
Even now I’m thinking about the one where you’re in a cardigan set with your hair in thick black waves falling over your shoulders. So innocent. All I can think about is doing the most obscene shit to you, sweet girl, things that would scare you. You’d run from me because they are so wrong.
But God, they’d be so good.
It doesn’t matter that you cover up completely. It should be fucking illegal how gorgeous you are. Just thinking about you wearing that stuff around assholes makes me want to deliver some serious bodily hard on them.
I’m going to hell for saying all of that, but I already have a first-class ticket there. Besides, I’d welcome burning for eternity to get a glimpse of you once more.
Telling you to fucking stop sending me these things is what I should keep saying. It’s the right thing to do.
But it would be a lie to write those words. I like getting your letters. I fucking love seeing pictures of you smiling with the sun a halo around you.
I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve counted the freckles across the bridge of your nose.
Seventeen.
I love it all, in fact.
Hearing from you is the only bright thing in my otherwise miserable fucking existence.
I should tell you to leave me alone.
But I won’t.
So go on, sweetheart, be my good girl, and keep them coming.
Dmitry
Chapter 19
Claudia
ONE YEAR LATER
Dmitry,
Can you believe it’s been a year to the day since I graduated high school?
And you know what I’ve done since then? Not much of anything, if I’m being honest.
I’ve looked at online classes, even though I’ve been accepted to several universities, but nothing really feels right.
It doesn’t feel like it’s what I’m supposed to do. That probably makes zero sense.
When I think about it, it seems all muddled and confusing in my mind.
Can I be honest? All I can think about, even after all this time, is the last letter you sent me. It was so long ago, yet the words were ingrained in my brain.
Have you been getting the letters… the pictures? I’m blushing right now, remembering how you told me to be a good girl and keep sending them.
I have.
I’m so embarrassed and… excited with the pictures I tucked in the envelope with this letter, because they are more risqué.
Every week I’m hoping I'll get a letter from you, one that will give me all those hated words that made me feel things I’ve never felt before. I’m so embarrassed admitting this, but I figured what harm can you do? You’re there and I am here. So I keep writing, keep hoping. Do you know what I hope for, Dimitri?
That you’ll tell me I’m your good girl again.
Claudia
NOW
Chapter 20
Claudia
I stared at my brother with my mouth hanging open. I’m sure my expression was one of pure shock and hot, unadulterated anger.
I curled my hands tightly into fists, pinched my lips tightly together until they hurt, but said nothing. I just glared at him.
And he glared right back.
But underneath that facade of indifference and capo attitude, I could see regret. He hid everything but apathy well, but I’d known him my entire life and could see that emotion reflected in the bright blue depths of his eyes.
“I won’t do it.”
I saw a muscle in his cheek work as he ground his molars.
He leaned back, the leather of the chair making a soft sound from the shift of weight and position. With his hands on the arms of the chair, his fingers drumming on the leather, he said nothing.
Gio just stared.
I shook my head and said again, “I won’t do it, Gio. You can’t make me. I’m twenty years old. An adult. You aren’t my parent or legal guardian. You are not Father.” The last part was whispered on a plea.
I wanted him to remember what it was like. Surely he hadn’t forgotten all the horrible things we’d gone through in the past five years?
He promised he’d never be like Father. Or maybe he never said that. Maybe I was the one who just wished he wouldn’t turn out that way, an unyielding man who let the Cosa Nostra shape who he was.