by Vivian Wood
“I’m not a wanted man.”
True. How close can Damir get to us, how much can he do with the police on his trail and his accounts emptied by Misha? This has gone way beyond revenge on my family. It’s bigger than what’s happened to me. I keep circling back to the same question: what reason does Misha have to lie to me about any of this?
As if he knows where my mind has gone, Misha asks, “Do you believe me, ljubica? Everything I’ve told you?”
He’s started calling me ljubica again, and I haven’t told him not to.
The evidence agrees with what he’s told me. The police want Damir, not Misha. I exhale slowly, hoping with all my heart that I’m making the right decision. It’s all I’ve got left to go on. My heart. “All right. I believe you. Everything you’ve told me.”
The relief in his blue eyes is intense. He starts to get up and comes toward me, but I hold up a hand. “That doesn’t change what you’ve done and the lies you’ve told. I can see now the necessity of us fleeing London, though you still frightened the hell out of me and I’m not over it. I’m coming with you, but I’m not going to sleep with you. I’m not going to kiss you. All that’s over. So you have to make a decision: will you still save me, even if you can’t have me?”
Misha studies me, frowning. “You think I would send you back to die? Under any circumstances? Ciara, I’m not letting you out of my sight. Ever.”
He reaches for my hand but I pull away. “None of this forever business. I’ll let you protect me until Damir is arrested. I’ll do whatever you say. Then, when it’s safe, I’ll return to London and try to start my life again.”
I wonder how long it will take my university to dis-enroll me when I don’t hand in any assignments or attend my exams. Is a madman was out for my blood across international borders because my dad swindled him and then my sugar daddy sold him out an acceptable deferment excuse?
Misha doesn’t say anything but I see the echo of the words in his eyes. Ever. I’m not letting you go, ever. A shiver passes through me. I need Misha right now because he’s going to keep me alive while Damir is at large, but I have the feeling he’s not going to give up on us no matter what I say to him.
I hope he doesn’t make me regret this, but right now I don’t have any other choice.
At Sharjah we disembark and cross the tarmac on foot toward another plane. I notice that Misha carefully buttons his suit jacket, concealing the gun he has holstered beneath his arm, and I ask, “Is this a non-dodgy charter flight, or are you just being particular about your outfit?”
He gives me a tight, humorless smile. “It’s a legitimately hired private plane. I don’t have endless questionable contacts at my disposal, especially not now an Interpol alert has been issued for Damir. They’re his contacts, not mine, and they’ll have dropped him like a ton of bricks.”
“So if I told the flight attendant on this plane that I was being kidnapped, they’d take me seriously?”
“Yes. But I’d rather you didn’t.”
I give him a withering look. Of course I’m not going to do that now.
Outside the plane we’re met by a dark-haired man in a customs uniform. He asks for our passports in brisk tones, and my stomach plummets through my body. I was so focused on the Damir that I forgot there were other things that could derail our plan.
To my amazement, the man produces two British passports from a pocket, checks and stamps them. Then he passes them to Misha and nods. “Have a pleasant journey, Mr. Gaettiti, Miss Stein.”
Misha hands me my passport and I look at the photo that’s meant to be me. It’s a blonde woman about my age who looks passably like me. I suppose these were made in a rush.
“What would you have done if I refused to get on this plane willingly?” I ask, tucking the passport into my jeans pocket. “Did you have a Plan B?”
He links my arm through his elbow, proprietorial and protective at the same time as we walk toward the jet. “There was no Plan B. I banked on you trusting me by now.”
“I only decided to trust you thirty minutes ago. Cutting it fine, weren’t you?”
“Perhaps. But I wasn’t worried. Ravnikars always get what they want.” His eyes flicker over me covetously, so quickly I almost don’t see it. Almost.
Cocky bastard. He still thinks I’m going to fall into his lap and then into his bed.
As I walk up the stairs to the plane Misha’s large hand is splayed on my lower back, warm and possessive. I reach behind me and pull it firmly away.
“Where to now?” I ask him, settling into a leather seat for take-off. This jet is very minimalist and business-like, with a boardroom in the center of the cabin and a lounge beyond.
“The Seychelles are beautiful this time of year.”
I raise an eyebrow at him. “You’re kidding.”
“If we’re going to be in exile it might as well be somewhere beautiful.”
The flight attendant approaches us with refreshments and I feel my insides clench with the memory of needing to escape. But I’m not trying to run from Misha now. This is my life, for the foreseeable future.
I take a bottle of sparkling water with a murmur of thanks and notice there’s a self-satisfied expression in Misha’s eyes. He’s got me at last.
Chapter Twenty-One
Misha
The Seychelles is a paradise of turquoise water, white sand and warm breezes. I came here alone once as a much younger man to enjoy some time away from work. The archipelago of islands was able to draw my attention for a short time before I found myself working again. It wasn’t so much a holiday as a change of office space.
This time I’m not on holiday and I don’t even try to enjoy the sea air and gently swaying palm fronds. I spend most of my time at my laptop, tracking the news, managing my portfolios and reading reports from the private detectives I’ve hired to look for Damir. They’ve found no trace of him since Ciara was attacked on the street and, as far as I can tell, the British authorities and Interpol have no leads on his whereabouts, either. As he’s on the run without funds I don’t imagine it will be long until he’s apprehended.
Please, don’t let it be long.
I read the news, check in with my detectives and then work on investments for a few hours, and then the cycle begins again. I could take a break occasionally but I don’t know how. If Ciara and I were together as we were in Dubrovnik she’d know how to get me to switch off; to enjoy her smiles and warmth and connect to the beauty around me. But Ciara has withdrawn from me, and I sense sadness emanating from her every time I come close to her.
I have rented a house for us on La Digue, on the beach away from the hotels and other residences. It’s a stunningly beautiful locale. A honeymoon destination, even. I thought Ciara would be happy here, but perhaps I made the wrong choice and should have taken us to some bleak, rainy mountainside instead.
Shortly after we arrived a security detail I hired from a company in Dubai flew in, half a dozen men who guard the perimeter of the property twenty-four hours a day. They watch Ciara like a hawk on my orders. Though she doesn’t complain, I know she hates it. There’s little for her to do apart from read and sit on the private beach in front of the house. I’ve bought her a laptop and an e-reader, but stressed to her that she must be careful what she does online. No social media, no emailing, no contact with anyone at all from her old life. I barely see her using the laptop. Mostly she reads and swims.
We eat together in the evening, but our meals are strained, over-polite affairs with little conversation. I update her with news about Damir. There isn’t any really, so it doesn’t take long at all.
“What about Bethany?” she asks one evening, pushing her fish around on her plate. I told Ciara about not being able to get in touch with her during our flight to the Seychelles.
I feel the familiar stab of guilt that I wasn’t able to protect Bethany. “Still missing. There’s been no sign of her since she left work the day you were attacked.”
I’ve
tried calling her phone several times, blocking my new number first, but it goes straight to voicemail. One of the investigators I hired checked up on her bank account for me—not strictly legally—and the money I gave her hasn’t been touched. The account hasn’t been used at all since Ciara and I left London, something that makes me fear the worst.
“Won’t the police be coming after you, soon?” Ciara asks me.
It takes a moment for me to draw my attention back to our conversation. “Me? Why?”
Ciara picks up a piece of bread, but shreds it on her side plate instead of eating it. “I see you working all day.”
She leaves that sentence hovering in the air, full of meaning.
“What of it?” I ask.
Ciara looks away, uncomfortable, and mutters, “I don’t know. You can’t be doing anything legal, can you?”
I see. I worked for Damir and so everything I do now is tainted with corruption. “Would you like to know, or would you prefer to jump to your own conclusions?”
She shrugs, and keeps tearing her bread.
“Left to my own devices, beholden to no one for the first time in my life, you think I would immediately start money laundering or arms dealing? The money I took out of Damir’s accounts is buried in the Caymans. I haven’t decided what I’m going to do with it yet but I haven’t touched it. Money from accounts that I managed but that I believe were linked to Damir’s criminal activities is in those accounts too. The money that I earned legitimately while at Ravnikar Enterprises, on properties that I managed and investments I made, is the money I’m reinvesting now.” I’m aware that I’ve become angry as I talk, laying heavy emphasis on the words. The money that I earned, investments I made. Either Ciara trusts me or she doesn’t, but I thought I’d made it clear to her by now that I’m not my brother, I’m not beholden to him, and I’m not a fucking gangster.
“You can look at the work I’m doing. I’ve got nothing to hide from you.”
“Fine,” she agrees, her eyes challenging me. “Show me. Teach me some finance.”
“You mean that?”
“Sure. There isn’t anything else to do.”
I keep my face neutral, trying not to show how happy I suddenly feel despite the grudging way she put it. I would love to teach her about what I do. “All right.”
After we finish eating I get out my laptop and I take her through the various accounts, where the money came from, the projects I was working on at Ravnikar Enterprises, how the business came our way. She asks intelligent questions about the projects and seems genuinely interested. I show her the investments I’m considering and why. I enjoy her sitting close to me while I share something with her that I’ve never shared with anyone before. It’s always just been me doing this by myself, with Damir’s accountants to enact the orders I give them.
I watch her surreptitiously as she clicks through spreadsheets and reports, her eyes bright with interest. She’s stopped putting on makeup and curling her hair. The clothes she wears are loose, comfortable things that make the daytime heat bearable. She’s different, and never looked more beautiful. I wish I knew how to tell her that without her thinking I want something from her.
Because I do want something from her. I want everything, with a longing so powerful it keeps me up at night. I think about touching her, but mostly I think about making her smile again. My mind can’t stop playing what if. What if Damir had never lost his temper with Ciara and had his men attack her? What if we’d been left alone until she loved me so much that the truth hadn’t immediately burned everything to the ground?
I show her the money buried in the Caymans. Seen through her eyes I know it’s an obscene amount and that she finds it distasteful, but it’s there in case we ever need it. I don’t know if it’s occurred to her, but we could be hiding from Damir our whole lives. The police may never catch him and my investigators may never track him down.
“How did my father come to be involved with Ravnikar Enterprises?” she asks.
Oh. That. “He was referred to us via a mutual business acquaintance. I convinced him that the development was an excellent opportunity to him.”
Ciara goes silent, and the illusion of our intimacy shatters. A few minutes later she stands up and says coolly, “All right. Thank you for showing me this.”
I watch her walk out of the room without another backwards glance. I could have lied, and told her that it was Damir who’d been responsible for ruining her life. But it wasn’t. It was me.
It becomes clear over the following days that Ciara is desperately unhappy. I thought I could turn a blind eye to it and tell myself that her happiness is secondary to knowing that she’s safe, but my guilt grows stronger and stronger until it’s all I can think about.
We can’t go on like this.
I begin to formulate a new plan. A dangerous one that could mean I lose everything, forever, including her. She’d be safe, though. I go over and over the plan in my mind until I’m sure I’ve thought of every contingency. I think it will work, and once I’ve accepted that I see that it’s the only possible solution.
Over dinner a few days later, I break the news to her. “I’m going back to London. It will look to Damir as if I’ve returned in order to cooperate with the police investigation.”
Ciara stares at me, her fork dangling loosely in her hand. “But Damir will try to kill you.”
“Yes. That’s the plan.” I’m going to draw him out, away from Ciara, and I’m going to finish what started long ago, way back in our childhoods. Damir might kill me, but if I go out I’m going to take with me. He won’t get Ciara if I can help it. She’ll be safe here, and afterwards she’ll be able to return to London and start her life again, away from the dangerous influence of men like her father, Damir and myself.
Ciara puts her fork down, her food forgotten. She seems perplexed as she studies me.
I try to put my reasons for going into words for her. “I’m the one who dragged you into this, so I should be the one to put it right.”
She looks away, chewing on her nail. “When will you go?”
If I hoped she would put her arms around me or say thank you I guess I was expecting too much. It is expecting too much. All the same, my chest feels hollow with the need to hold her in my arms. My lips remember the feel of hers and I crave one last kiss from her. A kiss that means goodbye, forever. But I can’t even have that.
“First thing in the morning,” I tell her, and she nods absently. “I want you to stay here, in this house, and the full security detail will be here with you. I’m sorry I can’t offer you anything better. I know it’s lonely here, but I’m hoping that in a short time you’ll be able to return to your old life, and the Ravnikars will become a distant—”
Ciara stands up, her shoulders tight and her fists clenched at her sides. Then she turns her back on me and walks quickly out of the room.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Ciara
I can’t sleep. Every time I close my eyes I see blood. Damir murdering that man in front of me. My parents’ broken bodies in the plane wreckage. Blood pouring down Misha’s chest, except that this time his attacker is Damir, not his father, and Damir’s eyes are lit with cold, demonic light.
Several times I go to my bedroom door, wanting to go into Misha and wake him up. And then what? I don’t know what I want to say to him. I don’t even know if there’s anything to say. It’s only right that he does this. He could have stopped Damir long ago, and he didn’t. Now Misha’s using himself as bait to catch his brother, so I can be free.
I shove my hands through my hair, anger racing through me, and I’m not even sure with who. With Damir, definitely, and with my father, and probably with Misha, as well. With all of them, for creating this storm of fear and danger that’s led me here to a beautiful, tropical captivity. I fling myself back onto the bed and clench my arms tight around my pillow, imagining it’s Misha, as I’ve done every night since we arrived on La Digue. I imagine his arms around me, hold
ing me close and whispering to me in English and Slovenian that everything’s going to be all right. I’ve wanted to go to him a thousand times, rail at him, cry, have him fuck me, hard, to get all the anger and frustration out. I know he feels it, too, the unfairness of what’s happened to us. That we were thrown together in impossible circumstances and found something even more impossible.
Love.
Only to have it snatched away, just as it began to blossom. When he leaves tomorrow, I know I’ll never see him again. He may die at his brother’s hands or he may survive, but either way I know that he’ll never come back. I saw the finality in his eyes. This is his way of getting closure, for everything that has happened between him and his brother, from the day his mother took his hand on her deathbed and not Damir’s.
At seven in the morning I hear the shower turn on in the bathroom and I get out of my sleepless bed and dress. I wait outside by the car, two men from the security detail watching me from a discreet distance. Twenty minutes later Misha comes out. He’s dressed in a crisp white shirt and carrying his laptop bag, a jacket slung over his arm. It’s an attitude I’ve seen from him so many times, the neat, reserved businessman, except that today his eyes are haunted.
“Coming to see me off?” he asks, his voice husky in the thin morning light.
I nod, and he opens the car door for me and I get inside. We sit in the back, rigid with unspoken words, as one of the guards drives us to the airport.
A jet is on the tarmac being refueled. I get out of the car and stare determinedly at the plane, not knowing where else to look or what to say. There are no words to bid farewell to a man who might be about to go to his death for you, not when you can’t say the only three words that matter.
Misha comes around to my side of the car and looks at me for a moment. “Can I tell you something, ljubica? I will tell you in Slovenian so that you don’t understand what I mean. I don’t want to hurt you. I just want to say it once in my life, and then I’ll leave you alone forever.”