Constantin Papadopoulos stares back at me with the sort of smug defiance only a billionaire could maintain.
“One hundred million euros hidden away while you cut corners in your business?” I cluck my tongue at him, the way the nuns in Catholic school used to when I got into trouble.
“I found this one hiding out in the bedroom.”
I turn to see Diego, one of my men practically dragging a woman to the lower deck of the luxury yacht we’ve just boarded. He shoves her, and she falls onto one of the deck chairs in front of me. Since we arrived by night, as usual, she has on nothing more than a flimsy negligee that leaves little to the imagination.
“And yet another treasure that you’ve been hiding away,” I admonish before approaching the woman who is trembling with contempt and fear as she stares up at me. “It seems you’ve been holding out on us, Constantin, though I can certainly see why. This little gem is definitely tempting.”
She’s exactly the kind of woman you might find on the yacht of a rich bastard like Constantin. No doubt, just one of many in his personal harem of arm candy, each an exact replica of the other: whatever isn’t fake has been studiously contoured via a regimen of pilates, lettuce, and kombucha.
The unfortunate woman has every right to be scared. None of us who have taken over this yacht are good men. In fact, we’re almost as wicked as the man who owns this boat. We take what we want, from a very select group of individuals, without much concern for those whom we’ve stolen it from.
“I think I’ll take this one for myself.”
The look of panic on her face, the clenched fists, and the tense body language have piqued my interest. She scrambles as far away from me as she can on the deck chair, pressing into the raised back. Her fists sink into the cushion by her sides as her body remains taut and wary with apprehension.
I’m more focused on the long legs stretched out before her, leading up to the lacy edge of that barely-there thing she has on. It’s risen up on her hips, and now I can see the strip of silk between her thighs. The strain of her muscles has caused her back to arch, forcing those round globes—unfortunately fake, since they haven’t so much as quivered with movement—to be even more pronounced.
“Yes, this one is mine,” I say, staring down at her with eager eyes, not that she can see them. Like all of the men with me, we wear specially manufactured, full-body suits that leave no trace of DNA or fingerprints behind, or a clue as to what we look like, even our eyes, which are hidden behind specialized goggles. The best feature is the barely noticeable mouthpiece inserted into the front, turning our individualized voices into a uniform mechanized sound. I could brush by Constantin and verbally apologize to him at some lavish party when this is all over, and he wouldn’t recognize me as the man who is about to steal eight figures from him.
Nor would this woman, even after what I’m about to do to her.
I always love this part of the hunt, running into unexpected detours that add an extra something to the fun.
“No!” she protests, as I reach out to grab her ankle, dragging her toward the edge of the deck chair. Her eyes dart first to Constantin, then to the other men with me, as though any of them would dare defy me to save her.
“You animal!” Constantin roars.
“Please don’t,” the woman whimpers, pleading for mercy with her eyes.
“I do love it when they beg,” I say with a laugh. “There’s something to be said for making a man work for it.”
Her eyes practically double in size when she realizes it: I have no intention of showing her anything resembling mercy.
“No…please,” she cries.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. This is going to be painful,” I warn her as I drag her back inside. “You have only Constantin to blame.”
I take her to one of the bedrooms inside and slam the door shut behind us. I throw her onto the bed, causing that lacy thing to fly up high enough to fully expose the thong bikini underwear underneath. She wastes no time trying to scramble away from me, but I quickly grab her ankle again and drag her back across the sheets toward me.
“You’ll stay put, if you know what’s good for you,” I growl.
I’m surprised she hasn’t tried to kick out at me or punch me with one of her fists, still clenched at her sides. I suppose she realizes that would only make things more difficult for her in the end.
I can see the defeat and fear flash in her eyes as I lean in closer. When I’m near enough to practically breathe down her neck, I grab the first balled fist and pry it open.
Hidden inside is a small velvet pouch. I snatch it out of her grip and roll it around between my fingers, feeling the small gemstones inside. A peek through the opening reveals several brilliantly clear diamonds.
“Well, that was definitely worth it for me. How about you?” I ask before laughing down at her.
“Bastard.”
“Open your other fist, and I may just go easy on you.”
Her mouth is set in a defiant frown before realizing she holds absolutely no cards. Her tense body goes slack, and she slowly releases the other fist to reveal a set of emerald and platinum drop earrings, five carats total for the gemstones by the looks of it, not counting the precious metal settings.
“I can see why you put up such a fight,” I say, grabbing those as well.
“How did you know?” she asks in a petulant voice.
“Body language,” I explain. “You didn’t bother trying to hide or cover yourself with your hands or arms. No woman on earth, even one who basically makes a living from her body,” this earns me a scowl of resentment, “would present such open access to said body, unless she had something far more valuable to keep hidden.”
“Those are mine, not his,” she says with a pout. “He can afford to lose so much money. I can’t. I worked for those, dammit!”
I consider her for a moment. “You know what, you’re right. I believe you have worked for these.” A flash of hope shines in her eyes. “But it was still bought with dirty money, so I’m only going to let you keep one of your precious treasures. You choose. The earrings or the diamonds.”
If she has any brains, she’d know how much more valuable the emeralds are than what’s in the velvet bag. On the other hand, the diamonds will be easier to use as currency. Her gaze darts back and forth between the two choices with greedy frustration. Finally, she rolls her eyes and picks the diamonds, no doubt already planning a trip to Belgium where she can quickly trade them for cash.
“Kudos, I say, dropping the bag in her lap. That should leave you with enough to buy a plane ticket to your next Sugar Daddy. First class, in fact. Next time, do a better job of hiding them, maybe in your mouth. I’m sure it’s used to being put to work to support you.”
“Asshole,” she spits, but not before wisely taking hold of the bag in her lap.
I laugh. It was a harsh insult.
With the emeralds in hand, I walk back out to where my men are waiting with Constantin. He stares at me like the monster that I am, no doubt wondering what’s been happening back inside.
“Now that I’m done with her, it’s your turn, Constantin,” I warn as I approach him. “You see, we need your retinal scan to access the vault in your house in Santorini.”
His eyes go wide with outraged surprise, probably wondering how we know about it. It’s where all the account numbers and routing information for his various offshore holdings are held. “Never!”
“Au contraire. My friend Bob—” A fake name “—is going to use this device in his hands to copy it…or we can just take your fucking eyeball. Your choice.”
He chooses wisely.
* * *
We’re meeting in Madrid, just five men, all of whom are especially jovial for some reason, enjoying a beer.
“Congratulations,” I say, lifting my bottle up toward them.
“Congratulations!” They enthusiastically echo my toast and tap their bottles to mine with a laugh.
As they drink and
joke about the fantastical ways they will one day spend their money—we’ve all made a pact to lay low until this is over—my eyes circle the table to get one last look before we go our separate ways until the next heist. Deigo, the ex-muscle for a mobster. Francis, a crooked charmer, whose former occupation had him dealing mostly with wealthy widows. Tiago, who used to make his way skimming ATMs.
Ulrich is the one I’m closest to, probably because I met him first. Our introduction to each other was on the streets of Barcelona the summer after I graduated university. Ironically enough, I caught him in the act of trying to pickpocket me. After chasing him down, we came to an understanding. I was fascinated by this young man who was the same age as me, but lived a completely different life. Over a beer, I learned just how different, though as it turned out, quite useful.
I’ve always thought there was a certain poetic irony to my adoptive name being Marín, taken from the word for sailor; so very fitting for a pirate.
The couple who adopted me were wealthy, living in Marbella. Other than the new language, it wasn’t much of an adjustment for me. I ended up growing up amid the same privileged elite that I probably would have if I’d stayed in New York. In fact, one of the reasons I’m so fluent in English is because the school I went to made it a mission to teach us to the point of emersion. By the time I came of age, I had even more of a reason to be fluent, not just in English, but several other languages as well.
After all, my biological father’s clients are located in almost every part of the world. And each of them has a pound of flesh owed to me for the sin of working with that man.
“So, are we selling the earrings to divvy up the money or will one of you pay a fair share for them?”
They all look around at each other and one by one shrug in turn. The watches, gadgets, and occasional items of clothing are popular prizes among them, but none have ever shown any interest in holding on to jewelry. Far too difficult to get rid of.
“I think I’ll take them. That was a fun little addition to this job.” I chuckle to myself, remembering the resistance the woman put up.
With the shares officially divided, I sit back to enjoy the moment. There will only be a few more post-heist meetings like this before the final job where I finally take down the man responsible for all of this; the same man who murdered my mother.
Richard Coleman.
For now, I have some earrings to bury with the rest of my treasures.
Chapter Two
Leira
…five….six…seven…
I squirm through the rocky opening, counting to myself to keep from going temporarily insane. I’m not any more claustrophobic than the average person, but this long, narrow passage I’m in would be enough to send anyone into a panic attack.
Still, I know what lies on the other end.
The tight squeeze these jagged walls have on my body is nothing compared to the daily suffocation of convent life.
Frankly, I’m surprised none of the sisters have found this escape themselves. Then again, unlike yours truly, they all came to the convent by choice. Or maybe they have, but Mother Agnes has prohibited them from actually revisiting it the way I am now. Either way, it’s all mine this morning.
…thirty-two…thirty-three…thirty-four…
I’m supposed to be in the garden with Sister Sara but I feigned a stomach ache. A lie. Something I should probably confess later on, but probably won’t.
It isn’t that I don’t believe in God, or even in following the rules of the convent (not that there’s a specific rule regarding what I’m about to do). But really, would God want me missing out on the beauty He created that lies beyond this ordeal? It’s just sitting there, completely ignored by humankind instead of being enjoyed the way it should be.
When my count gets to seventy-four, I finally see the opening. The first time I wandered into the craggy hole, I only made it to fifty-five before giving up and reversing course. It was only on a particularly dull day, sowing seeds to the point of mind-numbing madness that I decided to explore further, promising myself I’d get to one hundred before giving up.
Now, here I am.
I shove my head through the opening on the other side to look down into the clear, blue waters of the lagoon. I smile and quickly wriggle my body through the mouth of the small passage. On this side, it’s a precarious but short climb down to the edge of the water.
Once at my usual small clearing, I take a moment to catch my breath, enjoying the warm Mediterranean sun beaming down on this tiny island. I suppose there are worse places to remain in exile for the summer before my final year of college. I could be in Siberia or some country closer to the equator where my copper skin and thick, curly hair would fit in more.
Or I could be dead.
I close my eyes, releasing those morbid thoughts. When I open them, the sun reflecting off the sparkling surface of the water like diamonds renews my enthusiasm for this adventure. I quickly remove the vestments of my postulant’s clothes, which maintain my image as a nun in training: white blouse, long black jumper dress, socks, shoes, bra, and underwear. I save the veil for last. Unlike the rest of my overly modest, plain clothing, I regard it with the sort of reverence in which it should be held. Something about it always makes me feel guilty about what I do on this side of the cliff.
Lastly, I remove the hair tie keeping my wild mane of curls tightly bundled underneath that veil. I drop it next to my clothes, then sink my fingers into the mass to shake it out so that it falls to the middle of my back. Being half-black and half-Latino of Mexican origin, I’m an interesting—sometimes frustrating—mix of both my parents. This hair is one of those things. Half the time, I never know what to do with it; the other half, I love how it depicts my true nature—wild, unmanageable, and longing to be free.
The gold cross on a chain around my neck remains in place as usual. I’ve never thought about removing it before, and I see no reason to change that even now. I wore it long before I came to the convent and can’t even remember the last time I took it off.
My parents were both Catholic, my mother, more so than my father. When she died along with my oldest sister, he raised my five remaining sisters and me to be Catholic as well. These days, my faith has quite a few asterisk marks next to it, one for each lapse, or subjective interpretation of mine.
I’m sure Mother Agnes would consider this a sin. As tough as she is, I can handle her admonishment.
There are only two individuals I fear: God and my father. Not necessarily in that order.
My dad’s wrath if he found out what I’m doing wouldn’t even be based in religion. But my punishment would surely be of biblical proportions. Never mind the fact that I’m a full-ass-grown adult.
“It’s for your own protection, mija.”
Considering the fact that our family has a mortality rate that would put the Kennedys’ to the test, he has a point. My mother and oldest sister, Lorraine, died in a car crash before I was even one year old, though there were always whispers about it not really being an accident.
Layla, the third youngest and smartest, and definitely my favorite, was found shot to death after having been kidnapped by my father’s mysterious enemies.
Dad has never explained in detail who these enemies are exactly. These same people took the next youngest, Lucinda, just before my father had me sent here. Being the closest in age to me, that one hit the hardest, and my fingers are still crossed that she won’t suffer the same fate as Layla.
Thankfully, all the others, Lucetta, Lana, and Luisa, are alive and well, for the most part.
Thus, I’m pretty sure Dad is now relying on me to take over the family business one day. He never remarried after my mother died, even though I suspect he would have preferred a son to hand the reins over to. Or maybe he is just wary of my knack for defying the rules.
But what does he expect when he treats me like some coddled princess trapped in a tower, or worse, a prisoner? Even the “freedom” of college hasn’t
allowed me to explore life in any way. In a few months, I’ll head back to that very Catholic, very conservative, overly strict, all-female college my father insisted I go to, close enough to home so that he could still keep an eye on me. Of course he’d send me to a convent of all places to hide out. It isn’t just his rules that I bend to the point of breaking. The Catholic Church and I have never seen eye to eye on exactly what constitutes a sin.
For example, swimming naked less than three hundred yards away from a convent. But is it really wrong if there’s no one around to see me? After all, Adam and Eve were naked at first, just the way God intended it. Besides, here and now, there’s no Adam to be shameful in the presence of.
I laugh before diving into the water, letting it wash away all thoughts of good and evil. The lagoon is wide and deep, and I dive until the sun no longer penetrates and the water is cooler. When my lungs begin to protest, I quickly kick my way up, flying past the surface with one loud gasp.
This is where I belong, surrounded by water, free to explore every new and undiscovered cave or nook. Back home in the Hollywood Hills, I at least had free use of the pool and took every opportunity to use it—not that I ever swam there in this state. This is much more preferable. It almost makes being sent here worth it. The way the warm water feels against my skin, unobstructed by any clothing is pure heaven, though I suspect it would be blasphemy to say such a thing. All the more so since I discovered how much more enjoyable it is when I shave every bit of hair from my body.
It’s a welcome respite from being surrounded by stone and darkness, quiet and solemn reflection while I toil away at one routine task after another with the sisters of Santa María de Atlántica Convento. I’m sure I’d have gone crazy by now if not for these every-so-often detours from the daily drudgery.
I shouldn’t feel this way about the convent that is basically protecting me from danger, but I didn’t realize it would be so stifling. Sometimes I even wish I’d been kidnapped like my sister, Lucinda. At least that would be some excitement in my life. I instantly dismiss the thought with a guilty frown. I can only imagine what my father’s enemies are doing to her, if she’s even still alive.
Spanish Pirate: A BWWM International Legacies Romance Page 2