Memoirs

I've never written memoirs. Not because I lack the proper style or the ability to give them the proper form. I didn't write because I was busy with life, in the full sense of the word. Now I have a moment, nay, more than a moment, and definitely more time than I'd like, to briefly recount those last moments, those last days. Quite important, because they ultimately changed my life completely. Perhaps not the days themselves, but rather what triggered this unfortunate chain of events that led me to where I am now.

My old teacher often told me: "It's always about two things: either money or a woman." And he cited the most banal example of a man's destruction, the cause of which was a woman. I'm referring, of course, to Troy. For centuries, people have killed each other for fair-haired beauties... or they were the reason for their mutual slaughter.

The most amusing paradox is that, for example, the Greek goddess of war is a woman, and so is the goddess of victory. But I digress. My story has little in common with the ancient Troy or the Greek deities.

My name was Samuel Rillke. I admit, not without pride, that it inspired admiration, respect, and to some extent (let's be honest, even a great deal) fear. I was one of the mob bosses. I don't deny it; denying the truth would be pointless now. They called me the White Dragon, one of the four who ruled the city. I am a native American, flesh and blood, with all our lousy patriotism and love of anthems, symbols, and flags ingrained deep, deep in our genes. The important fact of this story is that I am an orphan (or I think it is). Until I was nineteen, I knew neither my father nor my mother. Then I sought them out and killed them. With my own hands. I hated them. I still hate them. For what they did to me. That they abandoned me, condemned me, abandoned me. They didn't want my life, so I took theirs. From then on, I relentlessly pursued power. And when I gained it... power, tons of money, prestige, and respect... suddenly she appeared.

Her name was Teo. A black-haired beauty with icy eyes and extraordinary skills in dealing death. I never learned the truth about her. Where she came from, who taught her, and what her past was. She burst into my life like a storm, literally, finding me over a glass of my favorite alcohol and surrounded by beautiful women, who, however, were inferior in this regard, immediately and unconditionally declaring their surrender. Specifically, it was in a club, and she was thrown like a feather onto my table by some thug. Unfortunately, the table shattered upon impact. And she was furious. Those few seconds were enough for me to marvel at her outburst of anger. She slit the man's throat. With a piece of glass left over from the shattered glass. She did it so skillfully that the man was probably dead before the glass even broke his skin.

Yes, she was incredible. Completely unlike any woman I'd ever had the pleasure of meeting. She was extraordinary because she had no idea who I was and didn't care, and in the future, she didn't even show the slightest interest in my shady dealings, actions, or interests. She was extraordinary because she wouldn't let herself be pushed around; she demanded respect, ruthlessly. And the guy at the club learned that. She was extraordinary because she was vindictive in the cruelest sense of the word. And she was mad. Her madness focused on the blade of the knife, which she wielded with extraordinary skill, as if it were an inseparable part of her body, or simply as if she'd been born with it. She had no tolerance for firearms. She didn't use them herself, and I suspect she couldn't, and in others, she viewed it as a sign of weakness.

She despised no one. Yet her indifference and cold gaze were something far worse than contempt.

That was how our acquaintance began, or rather, her work for me. For reasons I couldn't fathom, I trusted her more than anyone else. Perhaps precisely because she was only interested in protecting my life? Which, of course, I paid her for.

She was incredibly thorough (besides being extraordinary in general) and precise, asking no questions, doing what she was supposed to do and what I asked of her. It never occurred to me to order or demand anything of her. She killed, abused, and coerced without a second thought, and did it far more effectively than any of my men had ever done before.

She was simply a treasure. A high price, but a treasure nonetheless. She seemed downright inhuman. Exceptionally quiet, taciturn, and unapproachable. But not for me. I always got what I wanted. But I didn't have to win her over. She simply came to my bedroom one night, soaking wet because it was raining, and we made love. I think it was the only display of weakness she allowed herself. I didn't ask her why she was walking the streets in such weather. I didn't ask why she'd come to me either. Maybe I should have… But I didn't, and now it's too late…

She turned out to be an equally extraordinary lover… when she felt like it (and fortunately, she often did). Otherwise, I would have melted the iceberg faster than I could touch it. In that sphere, she had complete control over me, and it didn't bother me when she suddenly became cold, approaching the window, her gaze pensive, and probing the world beyond. She could stand there for long periods. I should have approached her then, embraced her, and simply held her in my arms. But I was absolutely convinced she didn't need something as trivial as the warmth of another person, the feeling of security in the arms of a lover, or a few kind words. It seemed to me she took what she wanted and didn't need anything more. How wrong I was… She would never have asked for it, and you can't just take that away. It was a stalemate. She craved warmth, but she couldn't express it. I wanted to give her that warmth, but I was convinced she didn't need it. And so the cold grew more and more intense.

She was still with me. She still protected me, often being seriously injured in the process. Each time, I was afraid she would leave. Not so much from my life, but from me, but not from work. I couldn't bear that. Fortunately, it never came to that. She came back. Always. In bandages, with wounds still not fully healed, she stood before me and smiled faintly. She carried a knife on her belt.

And even when the hot shower water flowed down her body, staining her red, when she quickly washed away the traces of the recent fight… even then she was beautiful. When she tied her long hair back with a curse. When she gritted her teeth in silent anger at herself for allowing herself to be so tricked, so surprised. When she paced the room naked, unconsciously toying with a knife. In the middle of the night or early morning. She looked as if something was troubling her, but she never said what. I didn't ask. A fool.

I trusted her completely. I truly was a fool. She wasn't interested in my money, connections, or business dealings. She didn't care about the high-profile figures who protected me. Nor did she care about the army of assassins I'd hired to watch over me day and night. She wanted nothing from me… except warmth. Maybe love. Maybe deep down, she dreamed of romantic love, infatuation, a house with a white picket fence, a knight on a white steed. I don't know. I really don't know.

I'm only sure of one thing. If I'd given her the warmth of my arms then, embraced her as she stood silently by the window, held her as she slept, kissed her as she dressed, adored her with words, actions, gifts... maybe the cold would have vanished from her gaze. Maybe she would have started to smile sincerely...

Oh yes... She killed me. I should have seen it coming. That morning, at sunrise. I remember it was raining. Drops were pattering fiercely against the window, the wind humming a mournful song. It was gloomy. When I woke up, she was sitting in bed. Naked. Playing with a knife. Staring out the window. Lost in thought. Finally, she looked at me. That coldness still smoldered in her eyes as she quickly (and painlessly, almost) slit my throat. So quietly and without emotion.

I regret it. I truly regret not making her smile.

Now I'm my own tombstone. She did the right thing by killing me. One less son of a bitch in this world. I wish she'd killed more like me. She's standing over my grave now. So beautiful. The knife is on her belt. I can still feel her blood on it. She's leaving. This is truly leaving. She'll never return. And I'll stay here and tell my story over and over again. Over and over again... I was a fool. I deserved to die. For every reason anyone ever gave. And that's my penance.

I never wrote a memoir. Not because I don't have the right style...