The Lion's Den: The 'impossible to put down' must-read gripping thriller of 2020

by Katherine St. John

  I gave the group a smile and slipped down the hall without looking back.

  Day 3

  Monday morning—Varazze, Italy

  I wake to a soft rapping on the door. Camille, the young crew girl with the long braid, gently pushes it open, holding two steaming cups of coffee emblazoned in gold with THE LION’S DEN.

  “Good morning,” she says. “Is eight.” She sets the tray on the table between our beds. Amythest doesn’t budge. “Breakfast on the upper deck in thirty minutes. Wear the gym outfit; you go to town for private . . . ” She spins her hands like they are the pedals of a bike. “You know?”

  “Spin class?” I offer.

  “Yes, that one.”

  Amythest snores through this entire exchange. Camille looks down at her, clearly reluctant to wake her.

  I shake Amythest’s shoulder. She pushes her eye mask up and looks at us, sleepy and confused. “It’s eight,” I say.

  She nods and lets her head fall to the pillow, moaning, “Why am I so tired?”

  In the hall, someone calls out to Camille, who closes the door gently as she exits.

  “We gotta get up,” I say. “We have breakfast, then Spin class.”

  She sits up, a look of distaste on her face. “Spin class?”

  I nod, my sentiments mirroring hers. “Yep.”

  She flops back down. “You have to be kidding.”

  “Unfortunately, no. Summer has always been very serious about her Spin class, and apparently she wants to share it with us.”

  “Ugh. What if we don’t want to share?” Amythest pulls the covers over her head. “I’m not done sleeping.”

  I wiggle into my workout leggings. “Something tells me we don’t have much choice in the matter. At least you can use your phone in town.”

  “Okay.” She throws the covers back. “For that I’ll get up. What happened last night? You were, like, doing some shit to the door.”

  I hesitate. “Apparently they lock us in at night.”

  Her eyes go wide. “What?”

  “Yeah. Weird, right?”

  “That’s so sketchy.” She shivers.

  I couldn’t agree more.

  Bernard and Vinny escort us on the tender to the mainland, their black suits incongruous with the bright day. We’re quiet as we skim across the glassy sea, too tired to bother raising our voices above the hum of the motor. I want to ask Wendy and Claire if their door was locked, too, but decide that for now it’s probably better not to rock the boat. Literally.

  The Spin class is up a short path, in an open-air studio under a portico overlooking the sea. The teacher is a ripped Italian guy with an almost impenetrable accent, and I struggle to keep up, feeling like I’m slogging through mud for the first few songs. But the breeze is fresh, the view is incredible, and once I warm up, I’m actually glad I came.

  By the time we finish, the day has begun to heat up. We wipe the sweat from our faces with cold, eucalyptus-scented washcloths and thread our way down the hill. As I fall into line behind Summer, I overhear Rhonda telling her what she really needs to do, if she wants to keep John, is to get pregnant. Summer grabs her by the elbow and pulls her aside as the rest of us file into the tiny café near the little dock.

  I don’t know what Summer says to her, but when they join us in the café, Rhonda’s quiet. Summer peers over my shoulder as I shoot a pic of my espresso with the view in the background.

  “Nice pic,” she says.

  I know her friendliness is skin-deep, but I much prefer it to the alternative. “Thanks!”

  We perch on a bench in the shade and sip our drinks. “Do you think Emmanuelle is pretty?” Summer asks.

  “Which one is she?”

  “You know, the short-haired crew girl that was flirting with John last night.”

  “I mean, yeah. But not nearly as pretty as you.”

  “You’re sweet,” she says. “She was throwing herself at him. Girls are always throwing themselves at him right in front of me. It’s so rude.”

  “I don’t think she was . . .”

  Brittani slides onto the bench and throws her arm around her big sister. “I’ll smack a bitch.”

  “I don’t like her,” Summer muses. “I’m gonna have her fired.”

  “I don’t know if that’s necessary,” I object. “I think she was just trying to do her job.”

  “What are we talking about?” Wendy asks.

  “The crew girl that was flirting with John last night,” Summer says.

  “Oh, I didn’t notice.” Wendy cocks her head. “Which one?”

  “The hot one with the short hair,” Brittani says.

  “See? You think she’s hot,” Summer points out. “It’s a problem.”

  “But you’re way prettier than she is,” Wendy reassures her. “I mean, look at you. You’ve just finished a Spin class and you’re glowing. You’re not even sweating. Do you have pores?”

  “I knew I kept you around for a reason.” Summer laughs. “But I don’t know . . . She’s got that French thing going on. I think I’m gonna have to get rid of her.”

  It’s clear nothing I say is going to change Summer’s mind, so I take the opportunity to slip away as the other girls feed her compliments. Not a game I feel like playing, even if we are here at her invitation. I sit on the steps that lead down to the dock and check my phone. Service is spotty, but my signal is strong enough that a message pops up letting me know my phone and watch have finished syncing with the cloud. God only knows what my data roaming charges are going to be, but without Wi-Fi, I have no choice but to use data.

  I haven’t checked social media in over twenty-four hours, and I have a ton of notifications, mostly from people commenting on the photo of all of us girls on the steps of the jet (2,684 likes), and the photo of the shore from the tender (1,736 likes). I scroll through the comments, then check my in-box. Six new direct messages, but none of them are the one I’m looking for.

  I click on Dylan’s profile. It’s empty, nothing but his first name and a profile picture of a mountain. No other info or pictures. He must be the last person of our generation that refrains from sharing his entire life on social media. Which is cool, but also annoying. Makes him really hard to Internet-stalk.

  I click on the direct message icon and write:

  Hi stranger! Somewhere off the Ligurian coast, headed to Saint-Tropez. You over here?

  Then immediately delete it.

  Maybe he hasn’t seen the pics I posted yet. He probably doesn’t check his feed much, though I know he does at least somewhat regularly, because he often likes my posts. I’ll wait one more day, and if he hasn’t written, I’ll write him.

  I’m not unhappy to put it off—my feelings about seeing him are complicated, to say the least. Not to mention, the chances of Summer allowing it to happen are slim.

  Regardless, he hasn’t contacted me, so no use overthinking it now. I post the pic of my espresso, making sure to geotag it.

  I hold my phone in my hand as we’re ferried out to the boat, but the only time it buzzes is with a new comment from Hunter:

  Espresso? Really? Show us that yacht beotch!

  Followed by a shit-ton of boat and champagne emojis. I laugh, missing him acutely, wishing I could confess to him the crazy reality of this picture-perfect trip. But before I can reply, I’ve lost service.

  On the boat platform, Julie hands us each a bottled water and instructs us to shower before our staggered mani-pedis on the lower deck. I wash up quickly, glad to be included in the shift with Summer, Wendy, and Claire.

  I’m the first to arrive. A pleasant breeze flutters my sundress as I step onto the lower deck. Emmanuelle greets me with a glass of light-pink champagne, a strawberry balanced on the lip. I thank her and take a sip, the crisp sweetness coating my tongue as I look out toward the sea, sparkling in the sunlight. The yachts belonging to the Russian billionaire have moved on, replaced by the biggest sailboat I’ve ever seen and a sleek blue vessel about the size of ours.
Between them, two Jet Skis cut a line toward the horizon.

  Four pedicure baths are laid out in front of the couch that faces the sea, and a white-uniformed manicurist directs me toward one. She taps my watch and motions for me to take it off, but I decline and place my feet into the warm water, still admiring the view. I feel something nick my foot and instinctively jerk my feet out of the water with a gasp, spilling my champagne. I look down to see the water is full of little fish.

  “Good for skin,” my manicurist says with a smile, making her hand into a little fish and using her fingernails to bite my knee.

  I let out a laugh. “They surprised me.” I guess I’m more on edge than I realized.

  I slide my feet back into the water, and at least fifty tiny fish immediately attach to my skin, gently nibbling. It feels like a ticklish version of the pins and needles you get when your foot has fallen asleep, and I can’t help but giggle again. I feel Wendy’s nails lightly scratching my shoulder and turn to see her flanked by Summer and Claire, each holding a glass of champagne.

  “What are we giggling about?” Summer asks. Her tone is light, but there’s a definite acidity to her voice. She relaxes as I gesture down at the fish. “Oh, they’re the best.” She settles in next to me. “They eat the dead skin right off your feet. Great exfoliation.”

  “And supposedly they’re an aphrodisiac,” Claire chimes in, claiming the station on the other side of me.

  “No wonder John ordered them for us,” Summer remarks. “He’s hoping I’ll let him do me again against those windows in the bathroom later.”

  “He sure is horny,” Wendy says.

  “You have no idea,” Summer says flatly. “But hey, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do, amirite?”

  I’m the sort of girl who only does who she wants to do, but I giggle with the others nonetheless.

  “It’s too bad he can’t get it up when I’m on top. That would make it more fun.” Summer sighs. Okay, I didn’t need to visualize that. “But whatever. It doesn’t take long.”

  Wow, her tune certainly has changed since she was with Eric. All she wanted from him was sex. Day and night, she was a fiend. And she kept going back for more, even when she knew it wasn’t good for her.

  Camille materializes with a beautifully arranged tray of fruit, cheese, yogurt, nuts, and prosciutto and sets it on the table behind our couch. I turn to take a slice of cheese only to find Emmanuelle already whisking the tray away.

  “Excuse me,” Summer calls. “We’ll keep that tray.”

  “I’m sorry,” Emmanuelle says. “Monsieur Lyons doesn’t want to ruin your lunch.”

  No wonder Summer’s so skinny. “Enjoy your last day,” Summer mutters under her breath, glaring at Emmanuelle’s back as she scampers away with the tray.

  Once our nails are lacquered in bright shades of pink and red (I wanted turquoise but it wasn’t offered; apparently John is offended by “strange” nail colors), Summer traipses to her room for a massage and facial, and I head up to the sundeck with a script for an audition I have next week.

  As I emerge from the stairwell, the glare of the sun on the smooth white boat is so bright that at first I don’t see the two people deep in conversation in the hot tub. Their backs are toward me, her long hair twisted in a bun, head angled toward his silver mane as she hangs on his every word. They’re so close, I’m worried I’ve interrupted a romantic interlude and am about to retreat down the stairs when Amythest turns and waves. John swivels his head around and flashes a grin.

  “Join us!” Amythest calls blithely, as if their little rendezvous is entirely aboveboard. “John was just telling me about the movie he’s producing. It’s so exciting.”

  “That’s great,” I say, covering my unease. “I was just coming up to try to get some work done, but it’s so bright up here, I think I’m gonna head back down. We just finished our mani-pedis, so yours is coming up. You may wanna head down, too.”

  “Okay.” She places her hands on John’s shoulders intimately and says something I can’t hear over the jets, then emerges like Venus from the water, topless. Thank God for my giant dark sunglasses, because my eyes would betray my astonishment as her perfect DDs float up out of the water all shiny, like some kind of teenage boy’s wet dream. She is wearing bikini bottoms, thankfully (though they’re a tooth-floss thong), and she struts around to the other side of the Jacuzzi so that she never leaves John’s line of sight as she grabs her dress and slips it over her head.

  “See ya later,” she coos with a little wave, and I follow her down the stairs, speechless. I mean, hell, it’s the Riviera and topless sunbathing is de rigueur, but could that tête-à-tête in any way be construed as appropriate? It’s a good damn thing it was me who walked up to that deck and not Summer, or Amythest would be on a plane home.

  My wits return as we reach the main deck, and I grab her hand. She turns expectantly as I say in a low voice, “Friendly advice. Be careful. With John. Summer can be a little jealous, and you’re very young and pretty. Maybe keep your top on when he’s around?”

  “Oh,” she says with an air of innocence, “I’m sorry. I figured it’s the South of France. Or, I guess, Italy? Whatever.” She giggles.

  “If everyone else is doing it, that’s one thing. But don’t be first. And not when John’s around.”

  She nods somberly. “Thank you. Funny thing, I told John what great taste he had in picking out Summer’s canary diamond, and he said it wasn’t a diamond. It’s a sapphire.”

  She’s searching my face for a response, so I raise my brows. “Oh?”

  “I mean, sapphires are nice and everything. It’s just, she told us it was a diamond worth, like, two million. So, she lied.”

  I nod, less than surprised. “Between you and me,” I whisper, “she does that a lot.”

  “Oh!” she exclaims. “And you know how we don’t have Wi-Fi?” I nod. “They do. Like, John and his guys, I guess. Probably Summer, too. He was totally getting notifications on his phone the entire time we were in the hot tub and, like, responding to emails and stuff.”

  I shake my head, once again unsurprised. “Sounds about right.”

  “Amythest!” Brittani yells from the deck. “Get over here. Your champagne is getting warm!”

  Amythest flounces over to the manicure station, and I trudge back up the stairs to the upper deck, where I find Wendy just finishing up a sickeningly sweet Skype call with her boyfriend on one of the computers. I hang back so as not to interrupt as they make kissy noises at each other and profess their undying love before ringing off. Wendy turns to me, her eyes full of tears.

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt,” I say.

  “It’s okay.” She shrugs. “We were almost done.”

  “You really miss him, huh?” I ask in reference to her tears.

  “Oh.” She wipes away the tears. “No, not at all, actually. That’s why I’m—” Her eyes overflow again. I take her hand and sit next to her. “I really wanted him to be the One, you know? But . . . ” She sighs. “He’s soooo sweet. It just—it kinda goobs me out TBH—I know that’s bad—”

  “No it’s not,” I assure her. “If it doesn’t feel right, it’s not right.”

  “And he’s terrible in bed,” she confesses. “He licks my pussy like he’s a kitty lapping a bowl of milk. It’s . . .”

  I try to hold back a laugh and it comes out as a snort. I quickly cover my mouth, not wanting to hurt her feelings, but she starts laughing, too, which only makes me laugh harder.

  “Like—” She sticks her tongue out and imitates a cat cautiously licking.

  Now I’m laughing so hard I’m crying, and her tears have turned to happy ones. “Jesus, Wendy,” I say. “Get outa there!”

  “But I’ve wasted a year with him, and I think he’ll pop the question soon,” she protests.

  “Then you better hurry,” I say. “Do you honestly wanna only sleep with him for the rest of your life?”

  She shakes her head vehemently.<
br />
  “I don’t know where you got this shit about needing to be married, but it’s not true,” I continue. “You’re smart, successful, beautiful—you have it all, and you don’t need a man. If you find one you can’t live without, then awesome, but you don’t need one just to have one. And you can do better than Wes. I promise.”

  She nods. “You’re right. I have to break up with him.” She takes a deep breath. “Not here, though. I’ll do it when I get home. I just—I really do want a family.”

  “And I’m sure you’ll have one,” I say. “You have lots of time! But how are you gonna meet the man of your dreams if you’re with Mr. Pussycat?”

  She laughs and gives me a hug. “Thank you.”

  Once she goes downstairs in search of lunch, I install myself at the computer under the vigilance of John’s likeness.

  I sneak a glance at the camera positioned behind me, pointed directly at my screen. Of course I don’t know how sharp the feed is or whether someone is currently watching, but it makes me uneasy—though I have to assume the computer is being monitored anyway. I also don’t want anyone to think I’m up to something because I’m angling the computer away from the camera, so feeling a bit silly, I put on a big show for the phantom watchers, pretending that the reflection of the sun in the monitor is too much. Then I angle the computer away from the watchful eye of the camera and quickly log in to my email before anyone can make me return the screen to its rightful position.

  I scroll through my in-box to find only one new email worth opening:

  Hey sis,

  Glad you’re having fun. Your instagram feed is awesome. I’m jealous. It’s sunny here too but hot. I need a vacation. Did you figure out how to work that watch LOL?

  Saw this and thought of you (may take a min to download, be patient!):

  http://tyrlus.grx.au/sdlkvnpq2083r39jfaoijv-84rn82hfpidfnpq9843y-t92nv9rejfkjsdhf874gpijnv9

  Chat soon!

  Sis

  I click on the link and a pop-up opens with a spinny wheel. After a few seconds, the word “loading” appears under the wheel, and a blue line creeps across the box: 5 percent, 23 percent, 46 percent—it’s taking forever.