“Flashlight,” the American said, holding out his hand.
Havoc’s associate handed over the heavy, long-handled torch he’d requested.
The white man shined it in front of the villager’s face.
“Please let me go. I haven’t done anything.”
Havoc stepped forward to translate the Hindi to English, but the American held up his hand. “I understand what he’s saying,” the American growled, before crouching at eye-level. He whispered in the other man’s ear.
The target’s eyes widened as a single, fat tear fell down his cheek, causing him to wince as the salt lodged into his wounds. The American had said the phrase in Hindi in a low voice, but Havoc wore a device designed to pick up such sounds.
“This is for Asha, you bastard.”
And then he delivered the last damaging blow using a weapon after all. Although Havoc found the flashlight impractical, he still admired the man’s ability to swing it with such grace.
The American stood and strode over to Havoc. He wiped the blood from his face and looked at it with disdain. It wasn’t his own after all. He seemed dissatisfied, but not that the deed was done. No, the man was disappointed the target hadn’t presented much of a fight. Havoc handed him a clean shirt. The American’s body was a myriad of scars and ink, which made him look more menacing.
“Is your blood thirst quenched, sir?” Havoc asked.
“I could kill him a thousand times and it wouldn’t be enough,” the American answered.
“I understand.” Havoc did. He’d witnessed many men die, most by his own hand. The American, although skilled in combat, was not a fighter by trade. His hands were too clean. His eyes too clear. His manners too intact. In fact, when Havoc had met him in the dense jungle, he’d spied his client with his hands pressed against the trunk of the large Banyan tree, his head bowed as he wept openly. He figured the man had a change of heart, but when he pulled himself straighter and turned to Havoc, the rage radiated from him into the dense air of the jungle.
“I trust our business is concluded?” the American asked, his face coolly composed as if he hadn’t just killed a man with his bare hands.
“Yes sir, just as you’ve asked. The hyenas will be released from the cages.
The American shined the bloody flashlight on the three steal cages they’d trapped the animals in. “Are they hungry?”
“Blood thirsty. They will leave no trace, sir.”
“Excellent,” he said, patting Havoc on the back. “What about the rest?”
“We’ve confirmed the target’s mother is in a sanitarium. She will be there the rest of her life. She feels her deceased daughter-in-law has cursed her family and the girl’s ghost haunts her.” Havoc paused, pondering if he should add the last tidbit of information, but in the end, he decided not to edit. “The daughter-in-law’s spirit comes to her in the form of a goat.”
The American stared at him before he shook with laughter. The strange response heightened Havoc’s curiosity.
“Something funny?”
“I couldn’t have imagined it any better,” the American replied. “What about the boy?”
“He is a man now, and we will do as you instructed. My man will approach him in a few days with the fake inheritance left to his deceased sister-in-law by her biological parents.”
“Will there be any legal problems?”
“No, sir. As her only living relative, he will easily get the money. It is a large sum and will make him the wealthiest man in the village…in most villages, in fact.”
“I will wire the rest of your fee tonight.”
The American turned to leave the jungle. Havoc wasn’t an impetuous man, but he could not silence his questions any longer.
“Mr. Montero, sir.”
The American paused, slowly turning back. “Yes.”
“Our firm has been asked to do many things, but nothing like this. Why does a rich and powerful man like yourself care about the tribulations of a small village? Why would you want one brother severely punished and the other generously rewarded?”
The American considered his answer for a moment. “I assure you there are reasons, but that is not my story to tell. Good day.” He nodded toward the other men, all of whom looked upon him with respect. “Gentlemen.”
Nick deleted each word with a harsh keystroke. He picked up the newspaper Charles had sent them a week ago. It had been handled many times since then, the newsprint smudged with her salted tears and the paper itself crumbled by his own hand. He had watched her read it. She’d held back her building emotion until she had fully translated it for him. Then he had taken her in his arms, and she released years of pent up anxiety and fury.
The truth of Aditi’s fate was not as dramatic as Nick’s version, but it was just nonetheless. The story spoke about the village man attacked in the jungle by wild animals. Shyla wanted to go to her brother, but Nick didn’t think it was wise for her to travel, especially in her condition. So he had gone today in her stead as much to confirm Aditi was dead as to thank Mukash for taking care of the woman he loved. The other man refused to accept the envelope full of cash, but Nick insisted, shoving it in his hand. A wife, whose shoulders appeared permanently stooped, had survived Aditi. The farm was on the verge of bankruptcy thanks to Aditi’s foolish dealings. The money would at least help in that regard. Neither he nor Mukash voiced it, but the relief in the air was evident nonetheless.
He had visited the school and all the other places he’d written about. Shyla’s descriptions provided an easy roadmap for him to follow. He had even stopped at the sanatorium to inquire about her ex-mother-in-laws health. She was plagued with nightmares about her first daughter-in-law who ironically took the form of a goat. The rugged truth was richer than any fiction he could conjure.
His own thirst for revenge couldn’t be sated. How badly he had wanted to climb that last water tower for her and end Aditi. But in the end, her kindness and warmth had calmed his lusty desire for vengeance. After he returned today, he had found himself still yearning for catharsis and had written one last Montero chapter. One last time to release the emotional restraints that dammed his regret the man had not expired by Nick’s own hands.
He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath and backspacing the last fucking word out of existence. Now, he could go to her, his mind free of rancor and revenge. His soul cleansed, his heart pure, and belonging only to her. Just as hers belonged to him. Everything about his life had started to change when they broke bread together that cold February night so long ago. They came from two different worlds, but they recognized each other’s hurt. Hurt translated the same in any language. His world shifted in every way, tilting toward the sun.
He stood and looked around the classroom before turning off the light. On the whiteboard behind him, she’d already written the next day’s lessons. His classroom was directly across the hall. He taught the more advanced students English literature. They had two hundred girls at this school. Each one had suffered great atrocities in her life. But one of the most important lessons his wife had taught him was that the human spirit had an amazing capacity to heal and grow.
Shyla had gone from victim to survivor, and now she was an advocate. The girl was a natural-born leader in a battle that required many warriors. She gave lectures, ran a school for unwanted girls, and next year her novel, The Choice Less, would see publication. He couldn’t be prouder.
He did still write every night and ran every morning, but these days he wasn’t running away or chasing something. No sir, these days he was happy in his present. Max Montero would see no more books…at least none that were published. He did finish the last book, though, and even managed to give the character a happy Elaine-approved ending. A new heroine emerged from those pages. Natasha was a kick-ass kind of girl, capable of bringing a man to his knees while having him enjoy every increment of his rapid descent.
He locked up the room and headed for their small cottage behind the school. He wrote in
the school building at night so he wouldn’t disturb her sleep. Nick regarded the simple house with great pride. It was reminiscent of something from a Hemingway novel. A floor-to-ceiling wall of books spanned the length of the living room. Nick made a mental note to talk to Shyla about securing them to the wall— safety first. He adjusted the frame with his grandfather’s cards and then the photo on the wall of Maya surrounded by her family—her mothers, Uncle Nick, and Aunt Shyla.
He headed toward the bedroom. His wife lay asleep on the bed with the night table lamp on and a book perched open on her protruding belly. Nick stripped down to his boxers and slid next to her. He wasn’t planning on waking her, but she moved toward him, placing her hand on his chest. He kissed her temple and worked his way down to her lips. “Hello, Goddess,” he greeted.
“Hello, husband.”
“It’s late,” he said.
“I was trying to wait up for you.”
“I thought you were attempting to teach our baby how to read already,” he said, punctuating each word with a kiss. He removed the book.
She laughed before her expression turned serious with worry. “How is Mukash?”
“He’s fine, baby. He’ll come here to visit soon.”
She exhaled a deep breath. “Thank you for going.”
“I’d go to the ends of the earth for you.”
“I believe you already did.”
He chuckled, pressing the underside of her wrist to her lips. “How are you feeling?”
“Great.”
His lips made a path down to her belly. “Morning sickness today?’
“No,” she said, tousling his hair. “I think that phase is over, thank God.”
“Good. Did I miss anything? Any kicking?” he asked, hoping he hadn’t.
“The doctor says it’s still early.”
Nick pressed his ear against her stomach. He couldn’t wait to be a father. They had decided they didn’t want to know the gender, not that it mattered. In India, it was illegal for doctors to reveal the sex of the baby. The government had passed the law because there were too many female-targeted abortions. It was just as his wife had once told him: changing a mindset was the true battle, one that required education, faith, and hope.
“Nick, what are you doing?” she finally asked him.
“Just listening.”
She giggled, tugging his hair. “My belly is not a conch shell. Come here.”
He sat up and held her in his arms, kissing her head. “What else did the doctor say? I hate that I missed it.”
“There will be many more appointments.” She took a deep breath and turned to him, biting her lower lip.
“What is it?” he asked, his hand immediately going to her waist again, his heart rate suddenly increasing. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes, yes, baby, it is.”
“Then what?”
Shyla swallowed, placing a hand on each side of his face. “The doctor heard two heartbeats on the sonogram.”
“Two?”
Irrational fear seized him. “What does that mean? Our baby has two hearts?”
She laughed again, shaking her head. “Twins.”
His mouth opened and snapped shut several times as he absorbed her one-word statement, which ironically doubled everything they had planned.
“Say something, Nick.”
“Twins,” he repeated.
“Say something else.”
“Shucks.”
“Nick!”
Nick swallowed, his heart filled with pride and love for this girl—woman—who had shown him the true definition of family.
“That’s the best news I’ve ever heard, Goddess.”
Meet the Author
M.K. Schiller is a hopeless romantic in a hopelessly pragmatic world. In the dark of night, she sits by the warm glow of her computer monitor, reading or writing, usually with some tasty Italian…the food that is!
She started imagining stories in her head at a very young age. In fact, she got so good at it that friends asked her to create plots featuring them as the heroine and the object of their affection as the hero.
She hopes you enjoy her stories and find The Happily Ever After in every endeavor. M.K. Schiller loves hearing from readers. Find her on Facebook, follow her on Twitter @MKSchiller, and visit her website at www.mkschillerauthor.com.
Be sure not to miss Forget Me Not by Crystal Bright, coming February 2016!
Forget Me Not
Roses are red, violets are blue.
Only one woman could make NFL star Gideon Wells walk away from the Super Bowl: His Mama, "Queen" Elizabeth, the beautiful, strong black woman who adopted him and his two white brothers when they were just kids. So when Elizabeth develops a pressing health issue, Gideon doesn’t hesitate to come home and run the flower shop she loves almost as much as her boys. But there’s an unexpected complication in Queen Elizabeth’s shop: and that complication looks really good in a gardener’s apron and pruning gloves.
This mama’s boy has a naughty side too.
Janelle Gold has always thought of herself as a geek, more into books than sports, preferring brains over brawn. So a gorgeous jock like Gideon Wells is not exactly the type she usually goes for. But there’s something about the hot quarterback that makes Janelle think sometimes opposites do attract, and it’s not just his dedication to his family, or the fact that he can hold his own in the flower shop. There’s just something irresistible about a man who stops to smell the roses.
If you enjoyed Unwanted Girl by M.K. Schilling, you’ll love The Bollywood Bride
by Sonali Dev. Available Now!
The Bollywood Bride
"A fresh new voice." --Susan Elizabeth Phillips, New York Times bestselling author
Ria Parkar is Bollywood's favorite Ice Princess--beautiful, poised, and scandal-proof--until one impulsive act threatens to expose her destructive past. Traveling home to Chicago for her cousin's wedding offers a chance to diffuse the coming media storm and find solace in family, food, and outsized celebrations that are like one of her vibrant movies come to life. But it also means confronting Vikram Jathar.
Ria and Vikram spent childhood summers together, a world away from Ria's exclusive boarding school in Mumbai. Their friendship grew seamlessly into love--until Ria made a shattering decision. As far as Vikram is concerned, Ria sold her soul for stardom and it's taken him years to rebuild his life. But beneath his pent-up anger, their bond remains unchanged. And now, among those who know her best, Ria may find the courage to face the secrets she's been guarding for everyone else's benefit--and a chance to stop acting and start living.
Rich with details of modern Indian-American life, here is a warm, sexy, and witty story of love, family, and the difficult choices that arise in the name of both.
Prologue
How do you explain losing your words to someone? When it’s the words that are gone, what would you even use? If Ria could, she would have told them it was like trying to cook without ingredients, paint without color, laugh without air. But there was nothing to tell them with.
They’d given her paper and a pen. As though it was her voice that was lost and not her words. They’d given her other things…
A ruler on her knuckles. Talk.
Hours in the punishment room. Talk. Pills that made her sleep all day. Talk. Baba’s tears. Please, beta, why won’t you talk?
If she could’ve done it, if she could have touched with her tongue all the things the monster had broken inside her when it broke her bones, if she could’ve spoken them without screaming so loud they burst Baba’s eardrums, his tears would have done it. But the thing that took your words in the first place could hardly be what brought them back.
In the end what brought her words back was not being asked.
And him.
The day he arrived at the foreign house, he had grabbed her hand and dragged her off the couch where she wept, unable to stop. Out the door and into the sunshine, he pulled her along as
they ran and ran, hand in hand.
“It’s a magic tree,” he shouted, the way people shouted when they ran as fast as they could. “It’s like a castle, with bridges and towers and a moat.”
She sped up, racing him as though she ran across grass in her bare feet every day.
It wasn’t a castle at all. Just the biggest, tallest tree she’d ever seen.
“I’ll race you to the top,” he said, his hand still in hers.
She snatched it away and flew. Up on the bridge. Branch to branch to branch, rough bark scraping her soles, smooth leaves slapping her cheeks, higher and higher. Her feet clasping, her hands grasping until there was no higher to go. Until sunshine and wind kissed her face and she was all the way at the top of the world where there was no one else but her, and a boy she’d never seen before today on the branch below.
“Wow! Can you teach me to climb like that?” he said, beaming at her with eyes exactly like the kaleidoscope Baba had given her back before her words went. Blue and silver, stars and sparkles. Remnants of bangles and beads, opening and closing and pulling her in. But it was the wonder in his eyes that changed everything.
No one had ever looked at Ria that way—no tentativeness, no pity, no fear. None of the things she sought out in eyes. Nothing that jumped out and demanded words and stole them. Nothing but a spotless invitation letting her in, and it let her out.
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