Black Widow - Mila Raphael

Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
BLACK WIDOW
MILA RAPHAEL
Copyright © 2017 by Mila Raphael.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or
transmitted in any form or by any means, including
photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical
methods, without the prior written permission of the author,
except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical
reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by
copyright law.
Cover Design: Lee Ching with Under Cover Designs
Editor: Jenn Wood with All About The Edits
Interior Formatting: Lee Ching with Under Cover Designs
Author’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination.
Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric
purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or
to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is
completely coincidental.
We promised each other forever, but who would
have thought forever didn’t last as long as we
thought.
This one is for my parents;
C & F, thank you for always believing in me.
CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
“Once upon a time, there was a tale as old as . . .”
my mom started, but before she could continue, I
squealed with excitement because I knew this
story.
I waved my hands in the air, before taking a
small bow. I began swirling around and dancing
with my pillow, causing my mom to laugh.
“Shush, you . . . It’s a bedtime story,” she said,
adding a smile reserved just for me; the one where
her eyes would glow with so much love and
happiness.
“I love you, Mama.” I ran the few feet that
separated us, and jumped in her waiting arms,
burrowing into the warmth of her embrace.
“Oh, my little warrior. I love you too.”
We touched our noses together, moving our
heads back and forth, as we laughed. Suddenly, my
bedroom door was pushed wide open, and a roar
came from outside.
“Arggghhhh!” I jumped, startled.
“Run, my princess, run!” my mom wailed.
“He will find me, Mama!”
“Run, even knowing that he can find you. You
always keep running toward your prince.”
And with that, I stopped dead in my tracks. I
turned around and ran back toward the door,
hugging the legs of the man on the other side.
“Oh, honey,” he said, scooping me up and
hugging me tightly. “But today, I am the Beast,
remember?”
“You will always be my prince, Daddy. No
matter what.”
He hugged me tighter, and a few seconds later,
I felt my mom hugging us from behind. My head
rested against his chest, and I heard the soothing
thump thump of his heart.
“I love you, for always . . .”
“. . . and forever.”
When my father found me, I was just eleven years
old. He took me from my school, saying he was a
friend of my mother. I think he paid the security
guard to let him leave with me because I
remembered my teacher explaining the first day of
class about “stranger danger.” There was something
about parents writing a list of outside family
members allowed to take the children off school
grounds, and mine was always empty. But even
then, I saw the coldness, the void of emotions
behind his eyes, and I didn’t say a word. When we
arrived at my house, the whole place had a stillness
to it that gave me chills, even to this day.
The dead leave a cold impression.
In the living room, there was a man sitting on a
chair. He was slumped on it, and I couldn’t see his
face, but his neck looked weird. That was the only
word my eleven-year-old brain could comprehend.
When my eyes glanced over him from head to toe,
I vomited. He had a huge knife sticking out from
his chest and one of his hands was missing. His
white shirt was red with blood, and he also had a
puddle of blood on the floor beneath him. It was
the sight of his shoes that made me lose my lunch
over and over; shiny shoes with Mickey Mouse
socks. Thomas always wore Mickey socks. Thomas
was my stepfather, the man who’d raised me from
day one; the kind man who taught me to read and
ride my bike, the one who played dress-up and told
me stories every night. He was the man who sat
down with me when I was six because my
playmates would laugh at my little Japanese eyes.
He sat down with me and told me I was his
daughter of the heart, but not his real daughter,
because he couldn’t have kids. But when this
gorgeous girl, four months pregnant, stumbled in
front of him and asked for help, he couldn’t deny
her. By the time I was born, he was not only in love
with her, but with me too. He asked me to forgive
him for deceiving me. I just wanted you to be my
daughter, but their words were hurting you. I see it,
and you need to know why they say those things to
you, he’d said. I hugged him and told him he would
always be my daddy, then sat there with him while
he hugged me back and cried.
Now, here he was; my Mickey partner, my dad,
my hero . . . sitting in front of me, and he was dead,
murdered.
I started screaming and hitting my fists on the
chest of the man who was holding me.
“Daddy! Daddy, wake up. Daddy, nooooo!” I
wailed.
“Grab her, take her to her room. Let’s get this
over with. Clean this up.”
“Daddyyyyy . . .”
As they dragged me out of the room, kicking
and screaming, I saw men with white uniforms and
masks swiftly begin to clean the room. They bagged
Thomas like the coroner’s office would; I
remember that from CSI episodes I loved to watch
with my mom. They mopped up the room with
something that had a very strong smell, cleaning
away any vestiges of his blood and my puke, then
straightened the chair and pillows on the couch.
They were so thorough that I immediately stopped
crying, and started shaking with fear. The living
room looked . . . normal.
Inside the room where they took me—my room
—was my mom. She was strapped into a similar
chair as Thomas—upon closer inspection, they
were our dining room chairs. She had a cloth
covering her mouth, and she was dripping wet,
shivering, with several wounds on her chest. One of
her knees looked weird, and when she saw me, she
started struggling against her bindings even harder,
screaming behind the cloth.
“Widow.”
I kept trying to get to her, but my feet wouldn’t
move. I wanted to scream, but I couldn’t make my
mouth open. What’s wrong with me? Mom! Why
can’t I move? Mommy, help me.
“Widow!”
The scream felt like a slap to the face. My
entire body jerked, and I looked around.
“A-are you talking to me?” I asked the man
who took me from school.
“Yes, I am. And one thing you will learn; I
despise repeating myself or being questioned. Next
time, answer on my first call or I promise you will
not like the consequences, understood?”
“Yes . . . yes, sir. But . . .” But my name is
Willow. I didn’t finish; I just stopped talking when
he raised a perfectly threaded eyebrow and pressed
his lips together.
“Good. You are already learning . . . Widow?”
I jumped. “Y-yes?”
“I brought you here to say goodbye to your
mother.”
“Wha . . . Why?” Don’t question him. “I mean,
where’s my mom going?”
“Your mother isn’t going anywhere. You are.”
“I am?”
“Yes. Widow, you are a direct descendant of
Arachnids. Your place is with me.”
“I . . . I don’t know you.” The moment those
words were uttered, something flew over my
shoulder that had me flinching. I looked back and
saw a small man dressed in all black behind me. I
couldn’t see his face, just his eyes, and something
in them had me sort of hypnotized. A muffled sob
had me quickly turning back to my mother. She had
a metal star carved into her left knee; it was
bleeding freely.
“What? Mom!” I tried to run to her, but hands
grabbed me.
“Widow, you wound me with your words, not
knowing me.” He glared at my mom. “And that’s
why we must go. Say goodbye.” Without waiting a
second for a reply, the Japanese man raised a sword
in the air and as it cascaded down, toward my
mom’s neck, I started struggling hard, screaming
louder.
“No . . . no . . . nooooo! Noooo! Please . . .
Mom!”
I would never forget how my mom stared at me
and slowly closed her eyes, signaling me to do the
same. I will never forget how calm she looked,
simply accepting her fate. But worse, I will never
forgive myself for not listening to her, for not
closing my eyes . . . because the image of her head
rolling away from her body, and the blood that
immediately followed, was imprinted inside my
mind, where it would forever stay.
Seven years later
You were always beautiful,
but you should have never turned brave.
You forgot what I taught you, didn’t you?
I read and reread the little note left inside my gym
locker, then balled up the little piece of paper. I
ignored how my hand was shaking and slowly
looked around the empty room, my gaze stopping
on the camera. I immediately lowered my eyes and
glared at the floor. It’s too late now.
I grabbed my gym bag and pushed the paper
ball inside. I decided against showering or
changing; I needed to get out of here, and fast. For
outsiders, the note would be some sort of poem or
something left unsaid, but to me, it brought a dark
cloud closing over the sunny days that had been my
life for the past two years. I thought I left it behind
at sixteen, so why is this happening? Why now?
Fuck!
I walked calmly, but surely, out of the gym and
toward the front door, never looking back. I ignored
Teenage Boy with Muscles from treadmill three,
when he tried to get my attention while he leaned
over his beat-up car. Before the note, I had planned
to finally take him up on the offer of “Netflix and
maybe more” that he had been offering for the past
two weeks. But now . . . now, he didn’t even
register in my mind. Just background noise and
nothing else.
I threw my bag to the passenger seat, and
slammed my door shut. Starting my 2012 GMC
Terrain, I put it in gear, and drove away.
After nearly thirty minutes of driving without a
destination, I pulled over on a random part of the
highway and leaned my head against the wheel. I
started counting . . . One, two, three . . . You are all
right, just breathe . . . Four, five . . . Then, my eyes
glazed over, and rage took over my body. I started
hitting the wheel and slapping the dashboard,
kicking everything I could find in the tiny space of
the driver’s seat.
Fuck!
Fuck my life!
Fuck this motherfucking . . .
I took a deep breath and exhaled so quickly, I
felt my lungs burning. I closed my eyes and the end
of the note came to mind. It burned behind my
eyelids, much like the piece of paper was probably
burning a patch on my bag.
The bite is always worst when there’s poison in it.
A black widow should never forget
how powerful a bite can be.
“Black Widow.” I choked on a sob and let the
tears stream down my face.
“Blanca Willow! My name is Blanca Willow!” I
shouted in rage, my body shivering. How did they
find me? I am dead; killing myself should have
been enough. I gave my childhood to them, I gave
them my innocence. How did they . . . Why, why
now? I was finally living my life in peace, finally
acting like a normal eighteen-year-old should
behave. I wasn’t living out of a bag inside my car,
cash stuffed in the car seats and inside my shoes,
running from everyone who saw a kid sleeping in a
car. I was done looking over my shoulder every
time someone called out to me. Why! God, why?
The ringing of my phone shattered the safety
net I’d unknowingly created for myself, and I
jumped so high, I banged my head on the car roof.
Rubbing the hurt spot with my left hand, I slowly
picked up my phone with my right.
Unknown Caller
It’s them. I knew it, I knew it with a certainty
that rocked my world on its axis. They really found
me, and now, I must suffer the consequences.
“Hello?”
“Home.” There was static on the other side, but
I heard her voice loud and clear. I closed my eyes
and felt a new wave of tears threaten.
“Paige . . .” Saying the name of the person I
once called my best friend wrecked the tiny pieces
of denial I was still harboring. They made her call
to remember that no matter what I tried to tell
myself, there were a lot of people who could suffer
the consequences in my place.
“Home, Widow. You have three days.”
I covered my mouth and swallowed the sob that
was threatening to burst. “Why?” I had to know,
and now would be my only chance to ask.
“Because your father is dying. He won’t last
until Sunday. If he dies before you are here, nothing
and no one will be able to protect you.”
“But . . .” Something didn’t make sense. “What
aren’t you telling me?”
I heard a deep sigh on the other side, and I
could imagine my ex-best friend glaring at the
ceiling, wondering how I got to be Black Widow
and not her.
We don’t ask questions; we obey.
“Torēdo has been signed. Zander is already
here.” With that, the phone call ended, and so did
my life.
I wanted to ignore the shiver that went through
me, or how I was crying so hard I could no longer
see. I wanted to be oblivious. I wanted to be brave,
as they called me. Brave enough to run away, but I
already did that once. If I did it again, the
consequence would be death.
Using the bottom of my shirt, I cleaned my face
and took a few deep breaths, calming myself. I took
a moment to remember how the past two years had
been; how many times I laughed, how I danced in
the rain, and how I watched the sun rise and set on
the beach. I recalled how I’d let a boy kiss me
under the moonlight, and how I only cried when
watching sad movies. All of those moments were
made because I chose to allow them because, after
today, having a choice would no longer be allowed
for me.
“Time to go home, Willow. There’s nowhere
you can hide, because brave . . . brave is the only
thing you are not.”
“Father. . . Miss me?” Even though my words
dripped with sarcasm, I made the official bow, my
arms closed behind my back, each hand holding its
opposite elbow, making a perfect rectangle. I
bowed until my back protested, keeping my eyes on
the floor, staring at the tips of my toes. I held the
position, breathing slowly, until I heard a grunt, and
straightened myself.
“Widow. A sight for sore eyes.”
“I wish I could say the same, Father. You don’t
look so good.”
“Leave me with my heir.” His voice went from
cracked and frail to commanding in three seconds,
and everyone in the room bowed and left, closing
the door behind me.
“You haven’t changed, Musume”
“You really must be dying. You finally called
me daughter.”
“Come closer.” He patted the left side of the
bed.
“Father, I only came because this is goodbye,
correct?” I didn’t move from my place.
“It was not a request, was it?” The venom
dripping from his rhetoric question burned a hole
through my chest and reminded me of my place. I
found myself walking toward him without a reply,
and sat gingerly on the bed, never looking at him.
“What happened to you?” I hated that my voice
cracked in the end; eleven-year-old insecure
Willow, who fought and cried for months because
all she wanted was to make her father proud was
making an appearance.
“Poison. The doctors still haven’t pinpointed
what exactly, but they can affirm it happened three
months ago. I came back with a cold; I never get
sick.”
“I remember.”
“After that, it would come and go, getting
worse each time. Now . . . now my internal organs
are shutting down. I am alive and talking to you,
thanks to dialysis.”
We were quiet, the sound of our breathing and
the machines connected to him the only noises in
the large room.
“Oyabun . . .”
“Yes, daughter of mine.”
“Why me?” I whispered the question after the
seconds of silence that we had been enduring. It
was nerve-wracking, like waiting for a hand
grenade to explode after you pulled the safety pin.
“Widow . . .”
“Willow. My name is Willow. You are dying.
For once in your life, you could at least
acknowledge that you know your daughter’s
name!” I snapped, but immediately lowered my
eyes to my shaking hands on my lap.
“Your name will always be Black Widow. That
was the name scribed in the holy papers. Your
mother took you from us, from Arachnids, and
gave you a Mazushī namae to try to hide you. But
mark my words, while you live and breathe with
my blood streaming through your veins, you will
never be Blanca Willow to me, or to those who are
mine.”
“Mazushī namae, name of the poor. Because
the Yakuza has the best names.” I looked around
the room and tried to contain my rage. “You raped
my mother because her older brother decided to
show mercy to someone you ordered to be killed.
She decided to keep me, and for the first eleven
years of my life, you didn’t acknowledge me. At
first, I thought you never knew I was born, but
that’s a lie, isn’t it? Jiji told me, but I always
wondered. Why did you come for me when I was
eleven?”
“Jiji . . . My father was a fool. I never
understood why he spoke to you against my orders.
And I was there when you were born; Why come
for you when you were eleven? Because I didn’t
notice it sooner, the poison inside you. My soldiers
sent me a picture of you a few weeks earlier, you
were in a rage; it was beautiful. This man had
slapped your friend at a party, a kid’s party, but the
look on your face? Akuma, the devil; that was when
I saw black hair and red eyes flashing, the darkness
lurking inside, waiting to come out. You are the
Black Widow we had been expecting, the one
strong enough to take my place. My own daughter,
the one I threw away, how poetic.”
I swallowed hard, my hand unconsciously going
to the braid that lay over my shoulder, touching the
left side of my chest. I dyed it red when I left years
ago. Everyone had always been enthralled by my
red eyes. The doctors told my mother it was
because of the lack of pigments in my iris that
made it look like they were red, and even though
my skin is paler than most, the doctors still said I
couldn’t consider myself an albino, but while inside
my mom’s womb, that was where my body was
taking me. It suddenly changed, though, and
became normal, with the exception of my eyes.
“Funny, isn’t it?” There was a dark humor in his
tone.
“What?”
“You tried to change, but you became the
same.”
“What do you mean?”
“Black hair became red hair, red eyes became
black eyes, Musume, you can try to hide it, but the
Black Widow lives inside you, even now.”
My throat closed, and I had to force myself to
take small and even breaths. He was, unfortunately,
right. I tried and tried to change—blonde with blue
eyes, redhead with green eyes, brunette with purple
eyes. Nothing worked, nothing was me but black
and red. Right now, I had my red hair in a braid,
black contacts and a black dress with red stiletto
shoes. You would think I’d made the choices
deliberately, but you couldn’t be more wrong.
“I can tell you the name of my stylist, if that’s
what you want, Father. How I dye my hair, or
which colors I dress myself in are honestly none of
your business. You called, I came. Explain to me
what you require of me, and I will be gone.”
“Easy, Widow, I am on your good side, am I
not? I am sure Pamphobeteus fortis told you I
called for Torēdo?”
“Yes, Paige told me.” I never saw the appeal of
using scientific names of spiders on us, but that was
how we were organized in the Arachnids.
“Do you remember your lessons? Do you
remember what it is?”
“Torēdo means trade. You are trading me for
Zander; he becomes the new Oyabun.”
“Don’t be a fool!” For a second, he didn’t look
like a frail man on his death bed, but the ruthless
killer that I called Father, and my heart started
beating faster. “No one, and I mean no one, will be
Oyabun but you, my daughter. The one who carries
my blood and the blackness of a widow. Zander will
be Wakagashira.”
“First lieutenant. Interesting . . ...