The waitress, a pretty little thing with a tiny waist that looked just about large enough to not get blown away in a stiff breeze, came over and took my order, an espresso and croissant. While I waited for my order, I took out my iPhone and opened the web browser, looking for new displays of items that I personally liked to steal. It was Felix and Father who liked fine art, I was more into the antiquities area. What good is having the Mona Lisa, anyway? It's just a painting on a wall. And I had plenty of pictures on the wall to look at.
Not that I'd turn down stealing fine art, of course. If the prize was good enough, I'd go after nearly anything I thought I could pull off. I knew that Charani wanted me to retire from being a thief, and thought that my taking the position of King would have made me too busy, but I was still a young man, not ready to settle down. Three or four more years, the right heists, and then I'd be ready to start a family with Jordan. We weren’t exactly taking precautions against having a baby, but we weren’t trying either. And if fate moved differently for me, so be it.
I saw what I wanted, grinning at the irony of my find. We had met Jordan due to swords, after all, in trying to steal some of the finest samurai swords ever let out of Japan. I sold out my brother over a Quran that came from the Islamic Caliphate of a thousand years ago. That my first solo heist would be of weaponry and have Islamic connections as well would only be a beautiful sense of completion.
The Museum of Marrakech is one of many within the Moroccan city, one of the places I loved to visit in the world. After all, much of the population speaks French due to the former colonial status of Morocco, and the weather is perfect for my Romani genes. My skin loves the warm sun, soaking it up and giving me what I thought was a perfect light brown coloring that accentuated my body and eyes.
To top it off, the museum is beautiful, a true reflection of Moroccan and Arabic culture. In the spring, just before the summer weather hits and things go to hell tourist-wise, the museum was planning an exhibition of ancient weaponry and armor, ranging from the few remnants that had been dug up of old Carthage through the Crusades and all the way until the end of the Ottoman Empire.
“Perfect,” I whispered to myself, tabbing the page to research more deeply later. My waitress brought me my order and tried to flirt a little bit, but I dismissed her out of hand. Jordan's distrust troubled me, but there was no way I could ever be tempted by another woman. I may be a thief and a backstabber, but I’m not a cheater.
The espresso was dark and rich, just like I enjoyed it, and the croissant was the epitome of French pastry, flaky, buttery, and so tasty that I had to resist the urge to order another. Taking a deep breath, I resolved to take the time during my training and preparations for the Marrakesh job to make sure that I fixed whatever the separation was between Jordan and I. I did love her, and she was going to be my wife. There would be no way I could leave her unhappy.
Perhaps the solution was in Syeira. Felix's mother, she'd been a princess who'd found herself the main advisor to the next King, but was now suddenly nothing compared to her sister. My mother was finally in the position she deserved to be in her whole life, and it had to eat Syeira up inside. Of course, she had no position in which to attack me, and she loved her sister enough to not try and corrupt their relationship. But corrupting Jordan? That I could see.
The challenge, of course, was how to remove Syeira from the equation without arousing more suspicion. I thought about it for a long time, long enough to enjoy a second espresso while the Paris traffic whizzed by. There were plenty of options, of course. A banishment would be the easiest in the short run, considering that it would leave her alive. After all, our family had four properties, and I really didn't have any interest in returning to Albania of all places. It was beautiful, but also, a cultural shithole compared to France.
The problem, of course, would be that by being in Albania, Syeira would be closer to the other heads of the various families that made up our tribe. She knew how to be political, and knew how to make the right connections. The last thing I needed was a traitorous rot spreading through the tribe.
On the other hand, killing her had its own drawbacks. First of all, there was no way that I could be in the area or even remotely connected to the event. If there was any way that a connection could be drawn, distrust of me would grow not from Jordan, but from my mother as well. I could quickly find myself a King without a country, a scenario that I was not willing to entertain.
It would have to be death. The question I asked myself, as I sipped my second espresso, was just how I was supposed to go about doing it? Who could I trust enough to get the job done? And how could I arrange it without having Jordan or Charani being put in danger?
Chapter 35
Jordan
I sat in a chair on top of the barge, Syeira sitting next to me, for all the world looking like two women enjoying the unexpectedly pleasant Paris weather and sipping some tea together. In reality, of course, things were much different. In the week since she had told me that there was a chance that Felix was alive, I had felt the ground shifting under my feet almost constantly. Francois being involved in his disappearance? What about Charani? Could I even trust Syeira, or was I somehow being manipulated by a woman who had just lost her son and was looking to blame someone?
It took viewing the actual message on Syeira's laptop to convince me that, at least on one front, I could trust her. Whether she was being deceived or not, she had reason to tell me about Felix.
Still, despite the hope that was flaring in both of our hearts, she proceeded with caution, moving at what felt like a snail's pace. She'd been involved at some level with both politics and the underworld for nearly her entire life and knew that rushing could quickly lead to ruin. As such, the only time we even discussed it was when the two of us were alone and in the open air.
“So how's the search going?” I asked, trying to act casual in case someone was watching.
“Dnepropetrovsk is a big city, with a lot of area around it,” Syeira replied. “It may not be Paris, but that in some ways makes it harder. There are a lot of dachas, what you call estates, in the countryside surrounding it. And a lot of them are connected to the Russian Mafia.”
“So what have we done so far?” I asked, then sitting back and controlling my temper. “Sorry. Just . . . the idea that Felix could still be alive has gnawed at my heart, and I find it hard to not want to rush.”
“I as well,” Syeira replied, slightly mangling the English but still making her meaning clear. She spoke three other languages — I couldn't fault her. She was normally pretty good. “It is doubly difficult because I cannot use the means I would normally go through. The normal method would be to use our tribe's families, who would then use their connections in other Romani tribes in order to find out.”
“Romani?” I asked, surprised. “How?”
“We are the unwanted stepchildren of most of the world,” Syeira said with a mirthless chuckle. “And we've been chased off and persecuted almost everywhere. Because of that, the Romani have developed one of the largest diaspora in the world, rivaled and in some ways supplemented only by the Jews. It gives us quite a network to use.”
“As long as you know how to use it properly,” I commented, “such as someone who was born a princess of the Romani.”
Syeira shrugged and gave me a cryptic smile. “It has its advantages. In any case, I have had to jump a few steps in the typical process, and do a lot of things that are against the normal protocols. Some of the Romani I have spoken to are not exactly allies of our tribe, but are highly motivated by the idea of quid pro quo.” Syeira sipped at her fruit juice and tapped at the computer next to her. “It is why I keep this computer next to me all the time now, it seems. I too have been desperate for information.”
I took a deep breath and looked over. “What is the point at which we go there ourselves and try and find out directly?”
“Not smart,” Syeira answered me, shaking her head. “Neither of us speak Ukrainian or
Russian. We'd stick out. And if Felix is in the hands of the Russian Mafia, the people we’d need to approach would be paranoid. They even hear a rumor of two foreigners sniffing around about him, and he would be dead before we even got the first whisper.”
“So we just hang in here and pray?” I asked, my blood starting to boil. “Not my style.”
“Trust me, Jordan, I am doing everything I can.”
I nodded. “This is hard. I still love Francois, but now I have problems trusting him. We have so few details, and I have so many questions.”
She took another sip of her juice and set her glass down. “I have as well. I find it hard to believe that he betrayed Felix. My anger towards Francois is more in that I think he let his desire for power get the better of him. He may have left Felix behind thinking him dead, when in fact he was merely injured. I’m not saying he did it on purpose either, just that he was making a hasty decision and he may have been clouded in his perceptions.”
“Perhaps,” I replied, sighing. “This is hard. I still love him.”
She looked over, her gray eyes wise and full of compassion. “You have said that, and I don’t fault you for it. I have seen too many strange things in my life to ignore the fact that love is often, as the poets say, blind. We love those who we should not, or those who we are not supposed to. People love abusive spouses, even as they are injured and beaten. People are fools, women especially.”
I sat back and considered her words, but before I could reply, we saw Charani approaching the barge. She’d taken the morning to go out shopping and now came back in the Renault SUV that we were to use during our time in Paris. “When should we tell Charani? She is your sister.”
“And Francois’s mother. I would never believe she was a part of it, but I wouldn’t expect her to keep it from her son if she knew. When we have an answer from my sources, we will approach both of them, at the same time.”
Charani parked the car and got out, waving. “Hey you two. Can I get some help?”
“I'll help,” I said. “Good shopping?” I asked, trying to put an innocent smile on my face. “I know that after last night's feast, my appetite is high for more. Whatever you made, it was delicious.”
She smiled, her long hair hanging over her shoulders in an ebony wave. “I have worried about you, Jordan. Even though you have improved, I still worry.”
“I know. But it’s getting better,” I said. Reaching inside, I took one of the bags of groceries and lifted it out and into my arms. “I appreciate your support.”
Charani took a bag into her own arms and looked up at the barge, where Syeira had turned her head away to watch the river flow by. “My sister is still haunted, despite her efforts to rid herself of the ghosts,” she said sadly. “I will continue to help her, though, and will be there for her for as long as she needs me.”
I could see in her eyes that she truly meant what she was saying, and I resolved in my heart that she had nothing to do with Felix's disappearance. Whatever happened, if Francois had done it on purpose or not, his mother hadn’t known. I reminded myself to mention it to Syeira later. The twins had so much in common, and they depended on each other.
I used my free hand to reach out and take her hand, giving it a squeeze. “You are a wonderful woman, Charani Hardy, you know that?”
“You will make a wonderful Gypsy Queen,” Charani replied. “Come, let us get these inside and unload the rest. After that, I’m making a late lunch for the three of us. Francois can eat when he comes back.”
I helped Charani, but Francois came back before she finished her cooking, looking handsome and happy in his suit. I came over and gave him a hug, as my love at least temporarily overcame my wavering trust in him. Maybe it was the rakish slant to his smile or the way his eyebrows framed his dark eyes so well, but I had to admit that my pulse quickened when he raised my chin up and kissed me softly. “I missed you too, mon chere.”
“I take it things went well at the bank?” I asked, my hands resting lightly on the swells of his chest muscles, and warmth spread through my body.
Francois nodded. “Very. Our system worked perfectly, thanks to Felix's foresight. I even had time to stop on the way home and have an espresso. I'm glad though that I came home when I did. Mother, that smells divine.”
“I'm sure you would come over here and criticize me in at least three different ways, probably including the overuse of paprika,” Charani teased, “but thank you. Go, change, and I will save lunch until after you’re done.”
I set out plates for the four of us, Syeira helping with the glasses while Francois changed, coming back looking like he was prepared for exercise. “Going to do a workout?”
“I was thinking, after lunch, I would like to get the kinks worked out,” he said, playing with the zipper on his Le Coq Sportif running suit. “My back feels good enough to handle some exercise, and I don't want to lose too much.”
“Yes, you might go from superhuman to merely human,” I joked, setting the last plate on the table. “You just want to show off, don't you?”
“Maybe,” he chuckled. “But I would only be able to do that if you were willing to come with me. What do you say? Later I can take you to a little bistro for dinner. Mother, Syeira, you two fine with that?”
“Enjoy the evening,” Charani said with a smile. “It is good to see the youthful fire rekindle some.”
“We do what we can,” I said, looking over at Syeira who gave me a small nod. She understood, and I knew that regardless of the situation, as soon as she knew something, she'd tell me. “But first, let's enjoy some lunch.”
Chapter 36
Felix
Trembling, I knocked on Mistress' bedroom door at precisely eight in the evening as she had commanded me to do. Part of my trembling was caused by pure physical exhaustion, as after my normal morning workout, she’d commanded that instead of coming to see her, I was to be working with Sacha. The burly ex-member of the Russian Army was a bear for work, and had taken me along with two other men out into the forest for what he said was both physical labor and training.
“You three may at some point be tasked with accompanying Mistress Svetlana to cities and other areas off of the property,” he began in his barely understandable Ukrainian. “While she has informed me that all of you have the social grace and skills to be a worthy companion, she can’t evaluate you in the area that I and her uncle Vladimir feel is most important.”
“Which is?” one of the other men, Yvgeiny, asked.
“Vladimir Ilyushin is a man whose business puts him in contact with dangerous individuals,” Sacha replied patiently, like a teacher trying to reach a rather dull pupil. “She’s the closest thing he has to a daughter, and sometimes seen as a target of opportunity by Vladimir's rivals. It will be your job, as her companion and escort, to serve and protect her.”
I nodded, eager to prove my worth. Just the thought of not only being near the Mistress but to stop those that wished to hurt her left my pulse rushing. Sacha, despite his trollish exterior, was intelligent and saw my expression for what it was. “Slow down, pet,” he jeered, refusing to use my name. “Just because you may have the opportunity to be her arm candy doesn’t make you worthy.”
“I understand,” I said in my best attempts at speaking Russian. My accent was horrible, and I was sure my pronunciation was garbled, but he got my meaning. “What do we do?”
“First, let's see how well you can keep up,” he said, pointing. He turned and started running through the woods, away from the river and toward the far off mountains, misty and unfocused in the far distance. The three of us candidates were all wearing fifteen-kilogram backpacks, while Sacha was wearing just the hiking boots and Russian Army fatigue pants that we also wore. Still, he set a hellacious pace, bounding over rocks and fallen trees in the old forest.
It was truly old. Privately owned, the last time someone had cut any significant number of trees here was perhaps when the Soviet Army and the Nazis were fighting in the bitter
winter cold, and maybe even not then. Trees fell over when the winter ice and snow bade them to fall, and not before. The foliage was dark, deep, and it was easy to not see where you were going. Ruts in the forest floor weren't visible until it was too late, and in less than a mile, Yvgeiny fell, tumbling to the dirt and screaming. I heard the dry cracking sound that I assumed was his ankle, or perhaps a dry pine branch that he'd stepped on, but I didn’t give him even a backward glance, my eyes fixed on the form of Sacha ten meters ahead of me. Getting lost in this forest was almost a certain death sentence, especially hungry, tired, and with night temperatures dropping well below freezing.
For some reason, a reason that tickled the back of my mind where my old life lay, I knew that the reason I was able to move so well in the darkness was because I had done blackout training of some type before. I didn't quite remember where, but the scent of wood and dirt was familiar to me as I ran, hopping a branch that was mostly covered in pine needles and then vaulting a fallen log. Sacha spared us a glance back and poured on the speed, extending his gap to fifteen meters before I had a chance to adjust my pace. He was trying to exhaust us, and doing a good job of it.
My legs were already tired from my morning exercise session, which had thankfully been inside using squats and the kettlebells, but the run was turning the tiredness into white hot agony that coursed through my muscles with every step. Still, I dared not slacken my pace, or else Sacha would disappear into the forest, and if I got back to the house I doubted I would be greeted well if I got back at all. Regardless, I'd have lost my chance to be closer to my Mistress, and that I would never allow.
Double Dealing: A Menage Romance Page 22