Mikalo's Flame

by Syndra K. Shaw

  “Ah,” Richardson said, his eyes on me.

  “I assume this took place at a meeting you were invited to Miss Grace?” he then said.

  I almost laughed.

  Thank god he knew what was up and thank god I had him on my side. And I love that he was using my last name instead of calling me by my first like he was with Marcus. One showed respect, the other a disdain bordering on anger, a distinction lost on the sweating cretin with his elbows on the table.

  I glanced at Abby, the white of her skin turning even whiter beneath her Geishas’R’Us make-up.

  “No, Mr. Richardson,” I said, not quite on a first name basis with him yet. “I don’t believe it was. I’m not sure what Marcus is remembering, but you and I both know that course of action, with regards to the Byzan’s estate, would lead to more problems and confusion.

  “Briefly, this is what I’d recommend,” I then began before briefly encapsulating the challenges the Byzan’s multinational estate faced, the tax loopholes still legally available to them, and what was best to do now, first, and what could wait.

  In all honesty, I was showing off. Flashing my brilliance. Not just to bury Abby and Marcus or remind Richardson why I was absolutely necessary to the Firm. Or even to show the Byzans that I was the one to trust, the one to listen to. I was also stretching my muscles a bit for Mikalo. Showing him what I did and how well I did it.

  It was exciting and delicious and exhilarating .

  I could feel him watching me, protective and proud. Perhaps seeing me in a new light.

  I finished.

  Richardson smiled. Papa Byzan nodded in agreement. Abby took a long swallow of her wine. And poor Marcus sat confused, not able to keep up, not quite aware he had been effectively neutered in the eyes of the Managing Partner.

  Mara turned to me, blinking, her eyes struggling to focus.

  She had been quiet while I spoke, staring straight ahead or deep into her drink, obviously lost in her own world, oblivious to the reality around her.

  Now she watched me as if seeing me for the first time.

  “Hey ...” she said again, the word thick, mumbled, the puff of alcohol-laced breath stinging my eyes.

  “Hello Mara,” I said.

  Her arm still linked with Mikalo’s, she pulled him close, snuggling into him.

  She smiled weakly before swallowing another small hiccup.

  And then she spoke.

  “You’ve met my husband?”

  Chapter Nineteen

  I breathed calmly, feeling my cheeks blush, watching Mikalo for some reaction. For some something, for some anything, to indicate Mara was just drunk and crazy and, you know, wrong.

  “You know Mikalo?” she continued, pronouncing his name like Michelob, the beer.

  Not surprising.

  “I’m sorry?” I finally stammered.

  “My husband,” she continued, gripping his arm tighter. “We decided many, many, many years ago that we’d be perfect for each other. And our fathers, they agreed. Everyone agreed it was a fucking brilliant idea. Brilliant. And so someday he is to be my husband. It’s been decided. It’s destiny.

  “Isn’t that right, darling?” she finished, looking up at him, her nose only inches from his face.

  Mikalo laughed uncomfortably.

  “No, no,” he finally said, his eyes begging me to get her away from him. “That is not a truth, Mara.”

  “It’s been decided,” she said again, her arm clinging tighter to his.

  “By you, yes,” Mikalo said. “Not by me or our fathers or anyone. Only you.”

  “But that is enough. I am The Byzan. That should be enough, no?”

  “No,” he said, his voice firm as he tried unsuccessfully to pull himself out of her grip.

  She pouted, playfully punching him before shoving the wine glass to his lips.

  “Here,” she said as he pulled away. “Drink.”

  He raised his hand and pushed it away.

  “C’mon,” she insisted, the expensive liquid sloshing over the sides and into his lap. “It’ll make you less of an asshole.”

  And then she laughed.

  Loud.

  Taking the glass from her, Mikalo placed it safely out of reach.

  Her father closed his eyes and sighed.

  “Oops,” she said, seeing the spilled wine, not yet noticing the glass was no longer in her hand.

  She reached down and, zeroing in immediately on Mikalo’s crotch, she started rubbing, clumsily trying to clean it up.

  She paused, her eyes finding Mikalo’s face.

  “Fuck,” she whispered.

  His hand immediately grabbed hers, gently lifting it and putting it on the table, his large palm patting hers impatiently.

  “Mara!” her father barked.

  Slowly, she looked at him, her brow knitting in confusion.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Stop.”

  “His prick, it’s fucking --” she began

  “Stop!” her father interrupted, his eyes closing as if he was fighting off a major headache.

  She sighed, pouting, the new glass quickly in hand, the wine disappearing in a series of heaving gulps.

  The table lapsed into an uncomfortable silence.

  Like a kabuki cougar, Abby pounced.

  She leaned forward across the table, her eyes zeroing in on Mara.

  “Of course Ronan knows Mikalo,” she said, an insincere smile plastered on her painted lips. “They’re to be married.”

  Mara’s head lifted. She blinked, taking in this new bit of information, the words worming their way through her befuddled brain.

  Then she turned to me, moving from Mikalo to press herself close.

  Her face inches from mine, her teeth almost bared, she spoke.

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m one of your attorneys,” I offered, a small smile on my lips, my tone one would use with a small child or an incredibly drunk heiress.

  “Pffft,” she said, spittle flying from her lips.

  She pulled back like I was a leper and took a long swallow of her wine. “We have hundreds, thousands, millions of attorneys. We own attorneys. Cities of attorneys,” she then snorted.

  “You say ‘I’m your attorney’ like it is a thing that means something. Like it is some important thing.”

  She turned to me again.

  “But what it says is that you are no one. I pay for you. I buy your house, your food, the clothes on your back. They are mine. It is all mine. You are nothing, nothing, without me or my money. More money than your dreams can dream.”

  She turned away.

  “You are no one and ... and ...” she said, nodding toward Mikalo.

  She stopped, unable to remember his name.

  “This man, here, my guy, my husband, he will not marry a no one. It is unheard of. It is something impossible.

  “Besides, who cares about the help?” she then asked to no one in particular. “I mean, really. Who cares?

  “And why in the hell would someone like him --”

  She indicated Mikalo with the glass holding the wine, the liquid sloshing and spilling over the sides.

  “Ever have an interest in someone like, well, hell, like this?” she continued, the wine spilling my way.

  “I mean, for Christ’s sake, papa,” she then said, turning to her father. “She’s the help. The help!”

  She turned to Mikalo.

  “You don’t marry the help,” she explained, on the verge of tears. “You kick ‘em, you fuck ‘em, or you fire ‘em.

  “But you don’t marry them.

  “I mean, are you fucking insane or something?” she then asked him.

  I was keeping my temper in check. Unwilling to let Abby see me angry or give Marcus the pleasure of watching me crack. And I certainly wasn’t going to lose my cool with a big client -- and big and very drunk client -- in front of Rainier Richardson.

  I was going to let this pass, knowing it to be the drunken ravings
of a spoiled child.

  Mikalo had other ideas.

  “I am not insane,” he began. “I’m in love. I love her. Everything about her.

  “She is someone you will never be,” he continued, finally pulling his arm from hers and all but pushing her away. “She is magnificent and kind and loving and she makes me happy and I do not know if there will be marriage --”

  He looked now at Abby who was doing her best to suppress a satisfied smile.

  “But there will be no other woman for me. I can not see a life without Ronan. Without my Grace.

  “So attack her if you must,” he then said, his eyes back on Mara. “But it will mean nothing to her because you, even if you are a big client for the Firm and think you are some important thing, you are nothing to her.”

  He stood to go, his hand reaching for mine.

  I rose apologetically, a brief nod to Richardson, a small smile to Mara’s father.

  They both nodded in return, my early departure immediately forgiven.

  Mara looked up, her eyes blinking as the reality of Mikalo leaving suddenly dawned on her.

  “Wait, what?” she asked, turning to him and then to me.

  “Papa,” she called out over the table. “Do something!”

  Her father caught the eye of the waiter, signaling he was to take Mara’s glass.

  She barely noticed, focused as she was on not tripping in her spindle-thin stiletto heels as she struggled to stand.

  “You can’t go,” she said to Mikalo as he turned to do just that, his hand in mine.

  “Let go of her,” she then hissed, pulling my hand from his. “Don’t touch him. Just don’t, don’t touch him.”

  Mikalo pulled close to Mara, his hands gripping her shoulders.

  “Stop it,” he said, his nose to hers, his voice low and ominous. “Stop it. Relax. And please be more sober.”

  He gently but firmly pushed her back into her chair.

  “Come, my Grace,” he said as he grabbed my hand and pulled me from the table.

  We walked.

  At the door as my coat was slipped over my shoulders, I glanced back at the table.

  Rainier and Papa Byzan sat as before, deep in conversation. Marcus looking glumly into space, a glass of wine still clutched in his sweaty palm.

  And Abby and Mara sat close, leaning into each other, Mara spitting and spewing, Abby nodding her head in agreement and patting her shoulder.

  As I turned to go, Mikalo’s hand on the small of my back, I looked back.

  Abby and Mara were watching us, Mara’s face stained with drunken tears, Abby’s lips lifted in a small red, evil grin.

  Chapter Twenty

  There was nothing better than holding Mikalo’s hand.

  We angled our way through the crowds choking Columbus Circle and, escaping to the relative calm of Central Park West, started our way home.

  “I did not speak,” he continued, “Because Mara, she was humiliated already. To take my arm from her or push her away or, I do not know, be unkind would hurt her even more.

  “There was no harm. I knew she had much to drink and I knew that the others knew, so I did not worry.”

  I nodded.

  “What made me worry, my Grace, was when you did not arrive,” he then said.

  “I had no idea it was even happening,” I said.

  “You were not told?”

  I shook my head.

  “No.”

  “Ah,” he said, sighing. “Then there was a lie.”

  “Abby? Marcus?”

  He laughed.

  “They said you were very busy and that I was to enjoy myself and not worry. And then they seat me next to Mara. I try to sit next to Mr. Byzan, who I know and have not seen for some time, but, no. This Abby, this wrinkled woman with the white face, she says I am to sit next to Mara.

  “This I did not understand until there is talk of how she and I, Mara and I, of how we look so wonderful together and so happy together and how it is some great surprise that we are not together.

  “I knew she knew about us and it was at this time when I knew that this woman, this Abby, she is no friend of yours and should not be trusted.”

  “Oh, I know,” I quickly said. “And she’s really pissed I’m with you.”

  “And why would this be?” he asked as we walked.

  “Your looks, your money, how wonderful you are. She doesn’t believe, oh, I don’t know ... She just doesn’t think I should have it, or something.”

  “But is this a thing for her to decide?” he asked, truly confused.

  “No, of course not. But it won’t stop her from trying to destroy it or weaken it.”

  He stopped, turning to me.

  “It is a thing that is impossible,” he said, his eyes on mine. “To destroy my heart, to weaken my feeling, this thing, it cannot be done.

  “You are the woman I love and that is not because of what someone thinks or someone decides. It is because of my heart. And I have very little to say about what my heart feels. I only follow it and it says that you are the woman that I want to be with for my life. For many, many years.

  “So this Abby or her boy Marcus or, I do not know, whoever else there may be, they cannot change what we have because they cannot change my heart.

  “Unless ...”

  He stopped.

  “What?” I asked, my eyes shining with happy tears. “Unless what?”

  “Unless it is your heart that has the change and there is a day when you decide that, no, this man, this Mikalo, he is not for me.”

  “Never,” I said. “Never, never, never, never, never, Mikalo. Never.

  “I, too, have a heart and I’m listening to it and I just can’t imagine finding someone or loving someone more perfect for me than you. It’s just impossible.”

  He drew me into him, wrapping his arms around me and holding me close.

  “Then the problem with this Abby and Marcus, it is not a problem for me or for you, I think,” he said, the words warm against my forehead.

  “It is,” I said, snuggling into the lapel of his coat, comforted by the masculine scent of his skin and the expensive feel of the fabric against my skin. “It’s work. It’s my reputation. My ability to do my best for those who hire me.

  “It affects everything, Mikalo. And that’s why it’s important to fix it. Somehow.”

  “How?” he asked.

  I shrugged.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Speak up, correct the lies, work even harder to prove them wrong. That’s all I can think of.”

  He pulled away, his eyes watching me.

  “That will not work,” he said. “You will give more to that than to the work you need to do and then there will be no energy for anything else.

  “Protecting what you have will be all you do. And the rest, it will not do so well.

  “Is this a way to live a life, my Grace?” he then asked. “Is this a way to spend weeks or months or years? Is this what you want to do?”

  “It’s what I have to do,” I said. “I love my work --”

  “Ah,” he interrupted. “But do you love where you work? Must it be a necessary thing to do your work only there with those horrible people?”

  I stopped, stunned by what he said. Not because he said it, but because it was an honest, valid, stunningly simple question.

  Why put up with Abby and her machinations at all? Why not look for greener pastures elsewhere? Why not just put the word out, quietly, that I was open to having discussions with other law firms?

  Why not?

  God knows I was good. God knows I would easily find work elsewhere. Similar firm, similar reputation, similar strength and standing. Similar paycheck.

  Why not?

  He watched me.

  “Sometimes it is best to ‘lose’ this thing than to ‘win’, especially against those who do not speak the truth,” he said.

  “Maybe you’re right,” I said. “Are you giving up the fight with Silvestro and Caugina?�
��

  A brief moment as he thought, rolling the words in his mind, aware he’d set himself a trap he probably couldn’t get out of.

  “No,” he finally said. “This is a fight for my father and my mother and what they worked to build. It is not a fight I can easily escape from. It must be fought and it must be won.”

  “I agree,” I said. “The fight I’m now fighting is a lot like yours. A fight for what I’ve worked so hard to build. The years of school, the debt, paying back all those student loans, the hours spent doing nothing but work when others were getting married, having children --”

  “You would like children?” he suddenly asked.

  “I ... uh ... um ... You know, I don’t, I don’t really know,” I finally said. “In all honesty, it isn’t something I’ve really thought about.”

  We walked again, my arm in his.

  “As I was saying, I believe this fight is a --” I began.

  “I would like a baby someday,” he then interrupted.

  My heart leapt, my mind suddenly empty of any response I could give.

  “To be called ‘father’,” he continued. “Well, it is a wonderful gift, no? And to be a ‘mother’, to hear that little voice call for ‘mama’, that is the best feeling in the world, I would think.”

  I needed to say something to fill this sudden silence. Of course I had thought of kids, my biological clock ticking its way into eventual oblivion. And I have no doubt I’d make a great mother. Certainly better than my own.

  But it’s always been about finding the right guy first, you know? And with my nose buried in documents, my office sometimes more of a prison than not, who had time to meet “the right guy”.

  Yet here he was. The Right Guy.

  Did I want kids? With Mikalo?

  “Yes,” I suddenly said.

  He turned, slightly confused.

  “Yes to ‘mama’ being a wonderful thing?” he said. “Or ... ?”

  “Yes to all of it, Mikalo. Yes to kids, yes to someday being a mama, yes to someday you being a wonderful father. Just yes. Yes to everything.”

  He laughed.

  “Oh, yes to everything?” he teased. “This version of Ronan, it is quite new and wonderful. She says yes to everything!”