The Inside Man: A Dublin Nights Novel

by Sahin, Brittney

  Sebastian had hired a designer to redecorate the hotel suite after he moved out. Holly said she thought it was cold and impersonal, so she’d insisted on a fresh new look.

  I wasn’t sure if new furniture would do much to help my mood, though, but the decorator had done a great job. A gray leather sofa with vibrant throw pillows and a handmade wood coffee table in front of it. Two bright yellow wingback chairs on the other side. Fake flowers and trees that looked real to liven the place up. Both bedrooms, the guest and master, had new linens and artwork from local Dublin artists, too.

  This wasn’t my home, no matter how “home-like” Holly and Sebastian tried to make it, though. An A for effort for sure, but something was missing.

  Me. The girl I used to be. The woman I’d become . . . the person I was now didn’t belong. She didn’t fit. Not anywhere. A part of me was still being held captive in that prison in Russia, and I needed to find a way out of there if I wanted any shot at normal.

  Cole stood in the middle of the doorway, his hip keeping the door open, his palm mounted on the interior frame. “You going to be okay?”

  I lifted my eyes to his face. My heart pounded fiercely in my chest.

  “You mean, will I fall and hurt myself if you leave me here alone?” I kept my voice as light and teasing as possible. “I’m not drunk. Just tipsy.” I smiled. The standard smile I used to whip out for my dad whenever he showed any genuine signs of worrying about me after Mom died.

  “Thank you for tonight.” His tone came across low and gravelly. A little beaten up. I did that, didn’t I? I hurt him. Changed him. And he still cared about me.

  “For?” I swallowed when he took a step closer and let the door swing closed.

  Alone with him in my hotel room. God help me.

  “My heart is beeping so fast,” I said aloud when I’d meant to keep those thoughts to myself.

  He placed his palm on my chest over my jacket, not that he’d feel anything with the coat between his touch and my body. His lips curled at the edges into a smile. “You were sixteen, and it was the first time you were totally shite-faced when you said that to me.”

  “So drunk I couldn’t get my words out right.” I’d said beeping instead of beating. My heart had been beating wildly that night. Not because of the alcohol, but because of Cole. He’d smiled and said, I sure hope your heart is beeping. Since that day, he’d loved to toy with me and refer to our beating hearts as beeping.

  He closed his eyes as if a painful awareness of how much time we’d lost had struck him. He slowly removed his hand from my chest. “I meant thank you for spending more than five minutes with me tonight,” he clarified, a huskiness in his voice. “I’ve missed you.”

  I wanted to say the words back to him, but my fears were clawing at me. This is real. You are not going to wake up in that bed in Russia only to find it’s all a dream.

  “You okay?” He frowned with obvious worry.

  “I missed you, too,” I admitted, even though it was hard to get the words out, but he needed to hear them. Deserved the truth.

  I turned to the side, catching sight of the box on my hall table. It’d been delivered last week, and upon opening it, I’d spent hours simply staring at the contents.

  Could I do it? Could I bare my soul to him? Maybe this would be the only way. The truth had to come out eventually.

  I wasn’t sure if it was the right decision, but I walked over to the box and reached inside.

  I held a stack of yellow papers to my chest, hoping Mr. Tequila wouldn’t soon have me crying. “One of the guards sent me my stuff from the prison. I didn’t think I wanted it, but I couldn’t bring myself to throw the box away.”

  He walked closer, his eyes moving to the papers as I set them on the table next to the box. I began to flip through in search of one in particular.

  “I’m not ready to talk about what happened during those four years.” I folded one paper in half. “But the letters I wrote you while I was in there—well, they might do a better job of explaining everything anyway.” I forced my gaze to him, still leery about my decision to do this, to hand over my innermost thoughts.

  When Cole had shown up at the prison with my brother, taking me completely by surprise, I’d blurted out that I’d written him letters. I was so shocked to see him.

  “If you’re not ready,” he began, his voice faltering a touch, “you don’t need to do this. I can wait for you as long as you need me to. You waited for me, and I—”

  “No, I want you to have it,” I cut him off. “This is the first one.”

  He took the letter and stared down at it for what felt like forever before his eyes returned to my face.

  “Do you remember when I was sixteen and insisted on riding my bike to school, but you were worried I’d get hurt?” There was a point to this, even if it didn’t seem like it.

  “I told you that riding your bike to school was a bloody stupid idea, especially in Manhattan.” He lowered his hand to the side, the one with my letter in it.

  “And I did it anyway and ended up getting hurt because I veered out of the bike lane.” I offered him a small smile.

  “When I saw you in that hospital bed with your arm in a cast, I was angry I hadn’t been able to protect you.”

  I hated hospitals. Despised them ever since my mother never woke from surgery after the car accident. “But I healed. I got better.”

  “And you got right back on that damn bike.” A small smile tugged at his lips.

  I nodded. “I did. It took time, though.”

  He let go of a deep breath. “And you’ll get better again,” he said, his voice soft and understanding. “And I’ll be here with you every step of the way. I promise.”

  We were no longer talking about a bike, but I had to hope healing was possible. But to heal, I’d need to forgive what happened at that prison, and I wasn’t so sure I could do that.

  Chapter Four

  Alessia

  Somewhere in Russia – Two and a Half Years Ago

  The words wouldn’t come. I didn’t know how to begin a letter to Cole. There was so much I wanted to say, but I’d never get it all down. Not that it’d get mailed.

  “I’m dead.” Dead people didn’t send letters. Well, not unless you pull off a sweet gesture like the character in P.S. I Love You. Cole used to make fun of Gerard Butler’s Irish accent in that movie. He’d sling his arm around my shoulders and pull me tight to him, trying to distract me, to keep me from sobbing. The crying was totally justified, though. But Cole would make jokes to try and get me through the depressing bits.

  And I needed Cole now to try and get through this prison sentence. To get through what I refused to believe would become forever. My brother’s best friend put me here, and my brother had no idea.

  Dear Cole,

  It’s me. I am trapped inside a prison in Russia. I think it’s Russia since the guards are Russian, at least.

  “Dear?” No, that was too formal. I crossed out my words, then balled up the paper and tossed it onto the wood floor. It was rife with scratches as if a dog had once lived here and clawed and clawed at it.

  I was sitting on my bed, which was barely bigger than a twin. I had a decently warm, black cotton bedspread, but my pillow was mediocre in terms of comfort. The bed, bedside table, and lamp were the only other pieces of furniture.

  It was bigger than a jail cell with enough room for me to work out in, and there was one window that overlooked a snowy mountain behind the mansion. And the place I was being held captive in was indeed a mansion. The inmate rooms were plain and boring, but I caught glimpses of Luca’s living quarters, which were draped in luxury. Probably the finest French upholstery known to man. He even had an indoor swimming pool, used only by him and his favorite guards.

  The guards liked me, and most treated me well. Every month or so, they gave me an update on the day of the year. It was the small things that made life bearable, like having a concept of the time.

  Cole,

/>   I’m sorry. I suck. I left you, and I’m an idiot for not taking you with me.

  One more crumpled piece of paper dropped to the floor. If I wasn’t careful, I’d use it all up, and after months of begging for the notepad, I didn’t know if I’d get another one.

  Cole would probably never read these letters, but I needed to believe he would. That my words, my breath, my everything wouldn’t die locked away while my brother believed me dead.

  At the sound of the door creaking open, I jumped off the bed, snatched the two balled-up pieces of paper, and held them behind my back as discreetly as possible.

  “And what are you doing?” It was my captor. My punisher. My enemy. My brother’s best friend.

  Luca’s normally cold eyes seemed warmer today, and I wasn’t sure why. Frankly, I didn’t want to know. His good moods were most often a bad sign.

  “Nothing.” I bunched the paper tighter in my fists as he locked the door behind him and slipped the key into his pants pocket.

  Luca was dressed in a brown sweater, dark denim jeans, and oxford shoes. His brown hair was a bit longer now and touched the back of his collar. He looked like one of the rich kids I used to go to school with at Columbia University in New York before I dropped out to pursue my brother. The kind of guy who lived on the edge and always got what he wanted.

  “Why are you so happy?” I asked.

  He attempted to circle behind me, but I brought my back to the window, the cool winter air from the outside cold against me. I was in khaki pants and a long-sleeved black shirt. Plain and boring. Just fine with me. At least I was afforded seven different outfits. One for every day of the week. My hair was tied into a side braid, which was usually how I wore it.

  From Oscar de la Renta to khakis and plain tops. It must’ve been how Martha Stewart felt when she’d gone to prison.

  I had no idea what I looked like or how sad and lonely my eyes appeared to others since there were no mirrors. Not that it mattered.

  “I had a good week.” His voice was singsong-ish and far too chirpy. “Your brother has become the man he once was again.”

  “What do you mean?” I didn’t expect an answer to my question, though. Luca liked to talk at me and rarely indulged in conversation or answered questions.

  My brother and Luca were part of an organization known as The League of Brothers.

  Secretive, all-encompassing, ruthless. Kind of like Batman on steroids in that they worked to keep crime from taking over the cities.

  It was because of me that Sebastian left The League. He believed I could potentially be used as a pawn, so best to cut ties. And by doing so, he chose me over his best friend, Luca. Or at least that's how Luca saw it.

  Sebastian had sent me to live in Sicily until things settled down after his resignation. He thought it would be safer for me to be away from him. But that was where Luca snatched me.

  Initially, he took me to Sebastian’s flat in Paris with the intention of setting fire to the place and letting me die while my brother watched, helpless to save me.

  However, one of The League’s sacred rules forbade murdering innocent women. I had no idea why the sick bastard chose to honor that vow, but as time passed, it became clear. Luca decided faking my death, locking me away and watching Sebastian mourn, would be more fun. Like I said, sick bastard.

  He sure as hell got off on tormenting me. Every time Luca visited, he shared a new story about my brother, one that often involved Sebastian killing someone.

  Murder felt like a dirtier word for some reason, so I’d instantly struck it from my vocabulary in regard to him, not prepared to accept that my brother was a killer.

  “Sebastian took over Ireland. He’s the leader there now.” Luca grinned. “He’s back.”

  Luca had plotted to get his best friend back, and it finally happened. The bastard won. Sebastian had returned to The League. Now that I was gone, there was no reason for him not to rejoin.

  “He went on a killing spree and wiped out every last man he believed responsible for your death. Nearly got himself killed, too. Nasty scar from a knife wound, but he’ll survive.”

  I needed to keep it together. To not let him get to me. Focus on the fact Sebastian was still alive. But he could’ve died in the name of revenge. Also, who had he killed?

  “The men who are dead were the worst of the worst. Human traffickers. Selling women for sex. They deserved to die, which is why I set them up.” His words were emotionless, like always. Did the man possess a soul at one time, or had he been born this dark? How had my brother not seen the evil in his eyes? Why didn’t he see it now?

  The idea of my brother still being friends with him . . . it was sickening.

  “Killing is still wrong,” I said in as steady of a voice as possible.

  “Killing is necessary.” He cocked his head to the side, studying me, eyes wicked and gleaming. He loved this part. Absolutely loved what came next. “You know what you need to do now.”

  I eyed him, my insides shaking. My stomach in knots, especially after the news he’d just delivered.

  I’d learned not to challenge him, though.

  Luca had explained he was a top-tier fixer for The League, the right-hand man for many leaders, not just his uncle. He was the only one privy to the location of this particular League prison. He said there were fifteen in total, and each location was kept secret from all but the fixers who managed them. The guards and staff were paid well for their discretion, and the secretiveness of the sites was insurance against the leaders being kidnapped and tortured for information. I had no idea if I could believe what Luca said, but I was sure he’d dumped all this information on me to kill any hope Sebastian would ever show up to save me.

  When I first came to this hellhole, I managed to convince one of the Russian guards that Luca had faked my death, and I was Sebastian Renaud’s sister. Luca killed the guard before the man could alert Sebastian.

  After the second attempt at persuading a guard to believe me . . . I wound up with more blood on my hands. I would never forgive myself for that. Never wash my hands enough. Or be able to get the metallic smell of blood from my nose. The guilt clung thick and heavy in the air to this day.

  “Kneel,” Luca commanded, and I forced myself to bow before him, lowering to my knees. He extended his palm, and I brought my mouth to the top of his hand and kissed him in defeat. Waving my white flag of surrender.

  “Thank you, sir, for allowing me to live,” I forced out the line he’d made me rehearse. I didn’t dare defy him. He knew how to hurt me the most, and that was by hurting innocent people if I refused to obey.

  “And?” He arched a brow, his face smug and confident.

  “You’re the true leader, sir. You belong in charge of all of The League.” My stomach roiled as bile rose in the back of my throat. Disgusting pig. He needed me to build up his ego and didn’t mind that he had to force me to do it. He was jealous of my brother, that much was obvious. Luca was a sick man who fed off of praise and adoration, regardless if it was sincere or not.

  With an amused chuckle—because this was all some game to him—he flicked his wrist, motioning for me to stand. But then he spun me around so fast that my breasts smashed against the window, and it took me a moment to realize he was snatching the papers from my grasp.

  A tremble moved through me when I faced him again and watched as he unfolded the first paper, then the second. “And who’s Cole?”

  “No one,” I whispered. The last thing I needed was for him to use Cole against me next, to try and manipulate me by threatening him.

  “Sure.” He smiled and tossed the papers over his shoulder. “It won’t be hard for me to find out, so you should tell me. If I have to work for the name, you know that will make things worse.”

  I went to my bed and sat down, my eyes on the floor beneath my black socks. If I was in here much longer, would I start clawing at the floor, too?

  It was as if a hand had latched around my throat and squeezed and squeeze
d.

  Sebastian will find me.

  He’ll discover I’m alive.

  I’d repeated those lines to myself over and over again since the night I arrived here, since the moment Luca had delighted in giving me a play-by-play of the night I supposedly died.

  Luca had sent Sebastian an anonymous text telling him I was inside his Paris flat and that it was engulfed in flames. My brother had rushed home to find firefighters trying in vain to extinguish the fire. He’d tried to get inside his home to get to me, but the firefighters had to pull him back. It was too late.

  The pain of his words had burned my throat and my chest. My cheeks had been covered in tears from my endless crying. I hadn’t been crying for myself but rather for what I knew my death would do to Sebastian.

  “If you’re writing to Cole, he must be special to you. And an apology means you did something wrong, so now I’m very curious.” Luca sat next to me, and I moved the legal pad to the side and shifted farther away.

  “He was a friend I left behind before I found Sebastian.”

  “His last name?” Luca quickly rose and faced me, his hand dipping into his pocket, producing the key.

  “You don’t need to know,” I said, attempting defiance. I knew it was a stupid move, but I was angry that he’d found a way to turn my brother into a killer again.

  “And you won’t eat until you tell me.” He started for the door and shoved the key into the lock.

  I didn’t speak. I didn’t budge. I held my breath until he was out of sight, and only then did I exhale.

  “Asshole.” I snatched my pad and set it on my lap, the blank page staring back at me. The words I didn’t have before came to mind now. I brought my pen to the paper and closed my eyes, drawing up a memory of Cole. The very last time I saw him.

  Sebastian and I had been finalizing the deal to purchase a nightclub in Dublin a year after I first chased him down to Positano, Italy. Cole’s cousin Holly had been at the club celebrating her twenty-first birthday, and Cole was there. I’d ducked into the shadows, worried he’d see me. I lied to Sebastian that night when I said Cole wouldn’t be a problem.