Whispers of Redemption Pt. 01

"No Actually, that's fine. Send him up. Thank you for all of your help, but I have decided that I don't want the examination. And I would rather you keep the previous conversation to yourself." Kayla had come to her conclusion. She didn't need every last soul in her small town of Brampton, Boston, knowing that she was the abused girl around the corner. She didn't want any doctor probing around in her just so they could turn around and tell her what she already knew. Your godfather raped you. She didn't need her name or her story in the newspaper (which it sure as hell would be) and she didn't need to give Bruce anymore of a reason to want to beat her...to death. She had it all planned out. She was going to run away and make a new life for herself. She was going to get tested as soon as she got out of this place. And she didn't care how stupid Samantha would think she was.

"Kayla, if you're thinking about running, let me tell you someth-"

"Don't pretend like you know me. Don't pretend like I'm being irrational. You don't know me and sure as hell don't know what I've been through. If I'm going to get out of this and if I'm going to end this...I'm going to do it my way."

Samantha stared at the fiery little wisp of a girl before her. There was a red tint to her deeply tanned skin and her black curly hair threatened to engulf her dainty face. Her chest rose and fell with pent up emotion and her eyes seemed puffy. Samantha shook her head. This girl reminded her of herself...so many years ago when she was in a situation too similar to this one. This girl had no way of knowing that she was most likely going to be the reason for her own damnation, but Samantha knew. She wanted her to prove her wrong though. She wanted her to find her redemption. She reached into her bag, plucked out a business card and dropped it on the bedside table.

"My address and my number" Drop by or give me a call if you need anything. I'm here to help you do it your way. Don't throw away your life in attempt to make a new one. It doesn't work that way, take it from someone who knows." With that she walked out of the room.

***

"Hi Miss. Warner, your godfather is here too see you" A nurse said perkily as she let Bruce step past the threshold.

"Oh Kayla, darling!" he exclaimed bogusly. Kayla wanted to spit in his face. Of course Bruce wouldn't ignore her in the hospital where a bunch of witnesses could see, of course Bruce wouldn't beat her to a pulp until they got home.

"I'm fine" Kayla retorted sardonically. If he could play the game she could to. He didn't say a word. She didn't want him in here...she didn't want to ever go back home. At least, what was supposed to be home? The nurse left them alone.

"You better pray to Abraham, Jesus, and Mary that when you get out of here I don't get my hands on you" he gritted out. Kayla searched for the nurse's button on the side of the hospital bed covertly.

"Relax Torch, you didn't put my name on the insurance remember?" Kayla retorted flippantly.

Jeremy walked in. Kayla gasped and Bruce's usual smug visage furrowed in confusion. Where have you been? She found her self repeating in her head. It was weird, she didn't know him but he was probably the first person she had ever met that made her feel so safe. When Jeremy had caught sight of the menacing older man he narrowed his eyes cautiously before he glanced at Kayla. He rolled up his sleeves and continued to chew on his gum. When he stood nearly a foot away from Bruce he stretched out his hand in congeniality.

"Jeremy" He said gruffly. Bruce stared at Jeremy's out stretched hand and glanced back at Kayla. Shortly after over analyzing the situation he shook Jeremy's hand sternly.

"And what are you doing here?" He voice was seeping pure contempt. Jeremy's eyes narrowed. He withdrew his hand and walked over to where Kayla lay.

"You okay?" He asked as he pulled a few over the counter pain meds out of his pocket. Tylenol, to be exact. Kayla stared into his jade eyes and found her self speechless again. "Yea, I'm okay" She croaked.

"Here take these" He handed her a few tablets and the cup of water on the side table. Kayla sat up and ran her hand through her hair consciously before downing the water and the tablets. Bruce cleared his throat. Jeremy turned around to face him once more. "I take it your the patriarch" He said shrewdly

"Close enough" Bruce bit back. "I'd rather you keep your hands off my daughter. I don't know you and I don't trust you."

"The only time I had my hands on your daughter was last night, sir. And at that point I was simply trying to keep her from bleeding to death." Jeremy still wore the black muscle shirt and blood stained khaki slacks from the night before. He had chosen to stay whole night for her well being but specifically because he had wanted to see if this Bruce guy would show up.

"Fair enough. Thanks for your help. I don't got shit to pay you back with, so if that's why you're lingering around, you should probably just hit the road." Jeremy clenched his jaw.

"Right." He turned to Kayla giving her a small smile. She was one beautiful mess. He wanted to save her, as ridiculous and far-fetched as it sounded. But that was his problem; he was always getting ahead of himself. Here he was perpetually falling in a black abyss, and somehow he wanted to keep her from falling as well.

"Stay strong kiddo" He said softly as he rested his hand upon hers. She grabbed at his hand with strength he didn't think her capable of. She stared at him with a mutual longing for different circumstances. He watched her eyes moisten. Thank You she mouthed as her healing lips quivered and a lonesome tear raced down her caramel cheek. He swallowed the urge to stay. Don't worry, he mouthed as he squeezed her hand. He reached into his pocket and slipped a white piece of paper between her back and the bed. Whatever it was he didn't want Bruce to see. And just like that he was gone and Kayla was alone in the room with Bruce once more.

Bruce's expression was murderous; he approached her bedside all the while glaring at her with pure heated hatred. She never knew what it was that she had done to deserve such hatred.

"You spreading' your legs for that bastard too?" He jabbed angrily. Kayla searched for the nurse's call button once more. She didn't trust his temper. He grabbed her left wrist purposefully bruising the already bruised flesh. She cried out and he covered her mouth with a rough palm.

"You belong to me. You better tell Mr. nice guy to stay the fuck away from you if you want him to stay alive" Bruce said dryly.

November 3rd 2000 Boston, Massachusetts 1: 30pm

Kayla was discharged thirty minutes before the hour. She sat at the bus stop waiting for the next bus to arrive. Her hair blew around her neck and mouth to tickle her ear. The wind was stronger today. She had considered cutting her hair a few days ago when Bruce had used it to drag her across the floor of the tiny living room. But she had decided against it, she'd rather wear it in a bun than cut it. She figured her mother had always loved her hair (it was a vain attempt at making up for what she had lost-memory of her mother), she remembered very little of her mother, almost no memories at all...only one to be exact. It was the recollection of her mother washing her hair in the bath-tub. She had lost most memory of her childhood after recovering from the car crash that had killed her parents. As the only survivor she often regretted the fact that the crash didn't kill her also. It would have been a lot less painful than what she was going through right now.

Kayla's mother was a full blooded Cherokee and her father was of Scottish and Black American decent. It was an exotic mix and she couldn't remember how it came about, how they met. Bruce never spoke about her parents. She often wondered how so many people spoke of her father as if he were a hero, yet he had a best friend like Bruce Torch. Just didn't add up.

Her eyes were a grayish hazel and her tresses were thick and curly; black with rare dark brown highlights throughout. Her skin was that of her mothers- a golden brown- but here features were her father's-soft small lips, a small round nose, almond shaped eyes, high cheek bones with trademark dimples on each. Thinking of them was tormenting...because there wasn't much to think about. She yearned to know them.

She'd have to get a better job than the one she had to pay Jeremy back half-a-grand. Five-hundred dollars to her was a fortune. More than she'd ever seen in her life, but she would pay it back regardless. He'd even left her an outfit- jeans, a light gray cashmere sweater, brand-name sneakers and a red coat. She clung to the pain medication she'd found in the pocket of her sweater with unnecessary fervor. Whoever he was, he was rich and it made her grateful but sad all at the same time. There could never be a friendship between them. He was a Good Samaritan, someone who probably had everything he wanted and didn't mind stepping off his ostentatious steeple to help out a less fortunate charity case like her. It would probably be a story to tell among the other trivial matters he discussed with mutual friends. A battered teen he'd probably thought was an unfortunate soul. Someone who had asked for what she had gotten. That's the kind of response she had always educed from people. He wouldn't be any different. He wouldn't believe that she still dreamt about traveling around the world, or watching the tide crash onto the shore when there was a full moon, sit at the park and not have people staring at her newest bruise, dance deliriously on the peak of a grassy hill-where the sun shone down like fire and darkness was impossible, play in an orchestra and have people cheer her name. He wouldn't believe that she could play every instrument you handed her. That from ages five to twelve she was a ballerina. No, that life was over and as tangible as the wind. All that awaited her was Bruce's heavy hand. No one would know the truth, ever. Life was only beautiful for those who were ignorant of its faults.

Chapter Two: Contemplation

November 3rd 2000 Boston, Massachusetts 2:00pm

"Where were you Gianni?" Paul, Jeremy's father asked. He continued to scribble notes on his legal pad with his glasses resting low on the bridge of his nose.

"Your mother was worried sick, you know that?" Paul removed his glasses and braced his hands upon his silver marbled desk. Jeremy's mother would always be worried sick. Her husband was the most successful mob boss in Massachusetts; all three of her daughters had married questionable men in different states and her only son was already fully equipped to follow his father's footsteps. Not that he would

"I was out with Rocco" Jeremy lied. His father pursed his lips and waved his index finger at Ray and Leo to leave the room.

"Sit down" he ordered. Jeremy sat. His father stared at him with a cold expression.

"I called Rocco and he wasn't with you. He was at the Bianchi party...where you were supposed to be" Paul said dryly. "Why do you insist on lying to me Gianni?" Paul inquired. Jeremy hated the use of his first name. He stared his father in the eye; it was disrespectful to look down when Paul spoke to him. But his respect for his father was mechanical habit, not choice. He could tell him that he had left the party to escape Angela...and in doing so ran into...well, ran into Kayla, but with that an explanation would be needed. Jeremy didn't have or need to make time for an explanation.

He sighed inwardly at the thought of her name. Yes, he was officially a psycho. He liked to watch her breathe, liked the sight of her undulating chest when she did. He liked the little sounds she made in her sleep, and how innocent her eyes looked when she would wake up from a doze, unaware of where she was. He liked that, in her sleep, she was no longer the scared, ruined girl. She held onto his hand tightly. When she did that, he could see the fighter in her...he could see the reason why she still lived.

"You think dishonesty is gonna help you run all of this when I'm gone?" Paul taunted.

"I needed a break" Jeremy replied placidly. His mind wandered to Bruce Torch. She'd lived with them from age twelve to current, eighteen. He found it hard to sleep when he remembered the way Bruce looked, tall and baleful... (At least, he would appear baleful to Kayla). He had a long scar running from his temple to the crevice of his nose and a disdainful beer-belly. All Jeremy could picture was him beating the defenseless girl that had sat in his car last night. What was even worst was the thought of him forcing himself between her legs. It took every last cell of discipline in Jeremy's body not to get Rocco and Frankie and end Bruce Torch this morning after he had left the hospital and had Sam clean the blood from his car seat.

"From what? Or was it the fact that Angela was there that made you disappear?" Paul drawled sarcastically, shaking Jeremy from his daydreams. Jeremy clung to the sparse line of restraint left in his conscious to keep from cursing; he was always respectful to his father. It was just hard being the only son of the greatest Italian mob boss in Massachusetts sometimes. He wanted things from you that you just couldn't give...like your soul and your morality.

From the moment he turned eighteen he had been handling the "expenses" of his father's business...he had become the head of this game they played. People no longer spoke of Paul Alessi, they spoke of Jeremy Alessi. But Jeremy refused to be involved in the illegal externalities of it all...that was mostly the result of his mother. She had made it clear that wasn't the type of life she wanted for him. He had a keen sense when it came to numbers and investments...it was what he was born to do. In high school, he had skipped ninth and tenth grade because of his academic dexterity. Gianni Jeremy Alessi wasn't exactly normal. He was fifteen in eleventh grade, amongst seventeen year olds. He played football, lacrosse, and soccer. Yea, he was a jock. His grades never slipped because of his sheer innate intellect. He began taking evening college classes in eleventh and by the time he graduated high school at the age of seventeen he had already finished two and a half years of college.

He attended Stanford University for the remainder of his two years and earned his Bachelors degree at nineteen. He attended Princeton's cohesive Masters and Doctorate two year degree program in business management, killing two birds with one stone. At twenty-two he was more successful than the average thirty-five year old but to Jeremy it was luck. He was rich and knew exactly how to keep making that kind of money; his name was worth more than his life, his mother was the most kind-hearted, loving woman he'd ever known, and God had decided to render him competent of using just a little bit more of his brain than the Average Joe. He owned a night club off of Dixie Street and the Grand Opening of his new restaurant, Sarah's Winters, was only three days away. He was content with his life.

"She's a good girl, Gianni." Paul said

"Don't start Pa" Jeremy retorted. Angela Pelosi was no good girl. She was a gold digging, hot headed, spoiled brat. He hated the way she held her head up so high, or the way she flicked her long auburn mane off of her shoulder with the back of her hand. Every word that left her overrated lips was condescending. She had a lot of false pride floating amongst the hot air in her dense head. So what, she had a killer body...legs that could make a man beg...on all fours...in his underwear. So what, she was the most beautiful woman at all of the Alessi dinner parties. So what. She wasn't his type, she never was. They had grown up together, always fighting. If anyone knew her best, it was Jeremy. Angela Pelosi was a cold-hearted dark angel and ominous in every way.

"Gianni don't be a fool, you'll break her heart if you keep acting like this. She will be your wi-"

"I'm not marrying Angela. I don't even like her much less love her." Paul's face hardened and he leaned in closer to his son.

"This isn't debatable. You will marry her before this year ends and that's the end of discussion. Angela will be a good wife and a good mother to your children; submissive." Jeremy scoffed in disgust. "Gianni, I've already spoken to her family. We are discussing the-"

"Che Cosa (what)?!" Jeremy bellowed.

"Si. You know what to do, so do it soon. You don't have the freedom to look for a bride, Gianni, not with the kind of profession and family legacy you have, unless you want to be signing prenuptial documents before every doomed marriage. So I'm giving you one. You can't go wrong, don't fuck this up. Capisce?" Paul stared at his son for a few moments and slipped his reading glasses back on.

"Forse (maybe)" He muttered through a clenched jaw. More like "never", but Jeremy didn't have time to argue. Paul stared him in the eye, displaying an intimidating warning. Jeremy sighed and looked out through the large window overlooking most of Dalton Heights, the richest Suburbia in Boston. His father had several houses and condos but spent most of his time in this three-story mansion. Jeremy, himself, owned a two-story house in Catalina, thirty minutes away from Dalton Heights. He refused to waste his money on anything more than what he would use.

"You know anything about Bruce Torch?" Jeremy murmured to his father as he studied the way the trees blew to the west and then the east...effortlessly dancing. Paul frowned at his son. He seemed unnerved. Attention was always Paul's when he was talking to his son but today Jeremy had this distant look in his eyes and every now and then he'd frown or even smile. Paul folded his arms across his chest. He knew Bruce Torch, but what was it to Jeremy?

"You in trouble, Gianni?" Paul asked

"No. Do you know him?" Jeremy insisted

"Yea, he's a car salesman. I attempted some business with him a couple years back." Paul replied

"What kind of business?"

"He wanted a loan"

"You gave it to him?"

"Hell no." Jeremy glanced at his father and then back out the window.

"He hurt a friend of mine" Jeremy admitted

"Any friend of yours is a friend of mine. Who did he hurt?"

"You don't know her."

"Her. This is about a girl, Gianni? What, he dip his hand in the pot of gold before you got the chance?" Paul chuckled. Jeremy fiery gaze flashed towards his father. Green fire. He had a flash-point temper and it was already seeping from every pore on his face. Paul sobered.

"Are we talking rape?" Paul asked

"Possibly. Let's just say I couldn't recognize her face when I saw her." Jeremy said angrily. Paul knew his son. Jeremy hated murder, he hated unnecessary death. In fact, Jeremy had never taken a life. What had possessed him to have such blood-lust in his eyes? Of course, only a woman.

"What. You want him dead, Gianni?" Paul asked unbelievingly

Paul wondered who this girl was and what Jeremy's definition of "friend" was when it came to their relationship. Jeremy was the voice-of-reason incarnate, always the peacemaker. So when his jaw set, when his eyes were unwavering and his voice deceivingly placid, they all knew his decision was final...there would be no voice of reason.

"Gianni," Paul sighed "You can't have her, whoever she is. Stay away from what you think is love. It's infatuation. You already have a wife."

His father definitely did not know what love was. Jeremy had watched his mother slave for Paul's attention his whole life...whole damn life. If there was anyone who would die for love from the paramount of her being, it was his mother. But in any case this had nothing to do with love. It was nothing like that, he barely knew the girl. He just wanted revenge. He just wanted to give her peace. But her eyes; they were most beautiful. And her lips regardless of their state were captivating. Her voice was angelic and hauntingly magnetic. Her mere face was enticingly peregrine. She was different from him in every way but in every better way. He wanted to see her.