Ruthless Creatures by J.T. Geissinger

I think for a moment. “Where were you born?”
“Hell’s Kitchen.”
Never having been to Manhattan, I don’t know much about
its different neighborhoods. But I do know that Hell’s Kitchen
isn’t considered high-end. “And you went to school there?”
His strong fingers massage my scalp, working the
shampoo through my hair. “Yes. Until I was fifteen and my
parents were killed.”
I freeze in horror. “Killed? By who?”
His voice gains a hard, hateful edge. “The Irish. Their
gangs were the deadliest in New York then. The biggest and
best organized. My parents were shot in cold blood in front of
their butcher shop on 39 th Street.”
“Why?”
“They missed a protection payment. One.” His tone turns
deadly. “And for that, they were murdered.”
I turn around. Wrapping my arms around his waist, I
search his face. It’s hard, closed-off, and a little scary. I
whisper, “You were there, weren’t you? You saw it happen.”
A muscle slides in his jaw. He doesn’t answer. He simply
adjusts the spray and tilts my head back into it to rinse the
shampoo out of my hair.
After a tense moment, he continues. “After that, I dropped
out of school and started working full-time in the shop.”
“At fifteen?”
“I had two younger sisters to look after. And no relatives—
my parents left everyone behind when they emigrated from
Russia. They barely spoke any English when they arrived, but
they were hard workers. We didn’t have much, but it was
enough. But with them gone, I was the man of the house. It
was my duty to take care of my sisters.”
I recall how he said it was his duty and pleasure to take
care of me and think I understand that a little better now.