by Cat Porter
I needed to protect her. Save her.
I needed her.
Pushing through the tittering crowd, I stood in the light in front of the blood smeared table. Everyone’s gaze devoured me. Their knotted expectations released and filled the air with the press of something more fervent than before. Something nauseating, bracing, galvanizing. Adriana twisted in Berezin’s hold. Evgeny only took me in anew, dissecting me from head to toe as men in absolute power were want to do, men like my father, searching for the intriguing, useful pieces they needed, wanted to acquire.
The useful tool.
“Luca?” asked Evgeny, his eyes still on me.
Luca came up beside me and bowed his head slightly, a hand gesturing in the air. With my compliments.
“Sit,” Evgeny said, slanting his head at me, his voice lighter. The courteous host.
Come out a winner, Luca got his chance at a contract with Evgeny and, hopefully, me and Adri would walk away. Come out a loser, Luca lost his contract, maybe a limb, and I lost my life. And fuck knew what would happen to Adri.
That wasn’t going to happen.
I pulled out the chair and sat at the table, blowing out short breaths to steel myself. But there was no “steeling” anything. It was all an illusion right at this very moment. All of it. The spotlit table meant to blur my vision and thoughts, the excited betting and shuffling of money all around me.
I’d never done this before, played this particular game. I’d seen it once in a warehouse on the outskirts of Chicago. Both hapless victim and the speedy adrenaline rush it had left us with had been dismissed and forgotten almost the next second.
Now I was the victim, the bull in their arena, the dice, the wheel of chance providing the adrenaline rush.
The hushed tones of the men and women around me buzzed in my ear, the shuffling of their tense movements suddenly loud, their anticipation crackling in the air like lightning in a coming storm. A cold sweat prickled my skin and ran down my spine. I was the offering. The sacrifice to their party god, to their thirst for entertainment. To big business.
This ship must have a freezer full of dead bodies that got unloaded once they were out at sea.
“Turo, no.” That beautiful, exotic voice uttered.
My eyes darted to Adriana’s. Terror. Worry. Was she worried about me? There was something different, new. I let it wash over me, fill me. She lifted her chin and held my gaze, those memorable lips of hers pressed together. That was one fucking great kiss. Was it my last?
“Place your bets, everyone,” Evgeny announced.
An eruption of activity and noise. Paper shuffling, shouts, clamoring voices. A man darted quickly around the room, collecting more money, jotting down final bets.
“Take the gun now,” Evgeny said to me.
I lifted the gun, the cold, hard surface slippery in my hand, and my stomach dropped. I’d held a gun hundreds of thousands of times, now this one, a run of the mill revolver, felt heavy, unusual. My lungs crushed in my chest, my ability to breathe suddenly thwarted. Did that even matter? Enjoy it, this could all be over in a matter of minutes.
Don’t look up. Don’t look at her again. It will kill you. It will. Don’t. Fucking. Do. It.
But I wanted to. Wanted to look in Adri’s eyes once more, be held by them, by her. Would this really be it? My life to end here on an oligarch’s floating empire in the middle of a foreign sea, halfway around the world from home? Home. Home. My parents would never know what happened to me. There’d be no body, no evidence of foul play. No traces.
No trace of me left in the world.
And why should there be? What have you accomplished so far, fucker? What is it you think you deserve?
Ciara’s last words mocked me: “I hope you die alone, you bastard, because that’s what you deserve.”
“Prepare,” Berezin’s voice ordered.
I raised the gun to my temple, an almost silent moan escaping my mouth, my feet pressing into the floor, my thigh muscles pulsing, back rigid, neck straining. Excitement raced around the room, whipping around me like wildfire devouring dried weeds.
“Turo!” that voice cried out, a broken, muffled cry from somewhere far away followed by a stream of Russian, settling like a haze on that tense organ in my chest.
“The music will play,” came Evgeny’s voice. “My favorite piece of Bach’s.”
From the darkness, a young woman in a revealing black evening gown appeared at his side. She held a violin ready on her shoulder. Berezin was cultured even when playing his savage little games. This would be ridiculously insane if it wasn’t really happening to me right now.
But it is.
It is.
“The music will play. And play,” said Evgeny, his eyes lighting up. “And once it stops you must pull the trigger. If you don’t, I will pull my own on you, and that wouldn’t be much fun.” He raised another pistol in his hand.
My elbows ground into the table. My shoulders straining, arms tense as iron, one hand gripping the edge of the table. Pulse raging.
The violin began, and my body lurched, my jaw ground together at the raw edginess of the abrupt chords. I loved Bach. I should be happy he’d be sending me to my final resting place.
The gun pressed against my temple, and I forced my finger to move to the trigger, to the commitment to unleash a bullet.
The bullet that might be there.
Might not be there.
To be or not to be.
The metal was cold. My arm shuddered, my neck.
I shuddered.
The violinist’s bow and arm moved quickly, sawing out my summons, my eulogy.
My battlecry.
Every muscle wound tighter.
Ready. Ready. Ready. Ready. Ready.
I shut my eyes. My mind flew with the stabbing, strident notes of the violin.
My mother’s elegant face, the press of her hand in mine that last morning in Chicago that had made me ache inside, her knowing laugh, the one I missed. Yes, yes, I fucking missed it. Her determined voice from a decade ago. “Turo, you are better than this.”
Better than this.
Am I?
Everything, everything, everything was loaded on this trigger.
The note screeched, hung in the air.
A roar escaped my chest.
The gun pressed into my head. I tightened my finger.
Click.
A gasp of silence.
An exhale ripped from me, lungs gulping for air.
Everyone around us cheered and whooped, jeered and argued. Clapping filling my ears. My heavy eyes lifted and found Adriana’s.
Victory.
Berezin had released her from his grip. She watched me, eyes gleaming, still, quiet, but not quiet. I’m here, Turo. Here with you.
“Ah!” Berezin clapped his hands loudly and I flinched. His face lit up in a huge smile. The master of ceremonies was pleased.
Now what, you fucker?
“However, this was two in a row, eh?” He looked around at his audience and they agreed in a cacophony of languages. “Tss, nyet.” He pressed his lips together. He wasn’t truly fulfilled; he wanted drama, spectacle to have the last word.
Evgeny gestured to someone behind him. “Bring him again.”
Two muscle men brought over a haggard man who wore glasses. In his forties, fifties? The drink in his hand was taken away. “No, no! Wait, no!” his voice slurred. “What are you doing? Why?”
Whatever he was high on, booze, drugs, or relief, it was now being driven off the road by a fresh, bitter gust of fear. He was shoved down in the other chair at the table opposite me.
Evgeny clapped a hand on his shoulder. “My friend here won a round before you,” he said to me. “Let us raise the stakes now.”
“Yes!” they shouted.
Evgeny said, “A duel.”
“Da, like Pushkin and Lermontov!” shouted a Russian accented voice.
“Exactly,” said Evgeny. “Those were men of fire.”
<
br /> First Bach and now nineteenth century Russian poets who’d dueled to their deaths.
“No!” said my opponent, jerking, twisting himself out of the security guards’ hold. He’d already gone through his ring of fire. He’d been hijacked from his victory lap.
Poor asshole. This was far from over.
“Stand,” ordered Evgeny.
I launched from the table, knocking back my chair.
“Move the table, everyone to the side,” said Evgeny and the bettors scurried to one side of the room, servants quickly dispatched the table as I stood there waiting, heart thudding. Evgeny placed another revolver in my opponent’s trembling hand, another gun was placed in mine. The butler brought my rival to the center, close to me. He stank of liquor, his eyes red, full of water. I looked away.
Adriana’s determined, large, steady eyes found mine, her chest heaving with breaths, lips pale.
Determined to survive, to live.
Yes, live.
“Now turn around.”
We did.
“Good. Ten paces only, just like Pushkin. Begin.”
The audience emphatically counted to ten, enjoying their part in the grand entertainment. With each number, I took a step. New bets were taken, shouts, the fold and slap of paper bills so very loud, the din of rushed, heated voices. My insides tensed against the jitter of my flesh. Cold purpose filled my every vein. I took in a breath and held it tight. I was ready. Ready to kill.
And Evgeny and this idiot and Pushkin weren’t about to take that away from me.
“We will close the lights,” said Evgeny. “And when they come back on, that is your signal to fire. Lights!”
Engulfed in black darkness, my flesh prickled with ice, the gun a part of my hand. The crowd tittered and babbled. The air thick.
Pulse pounding, pounding, pounding.
Lights.
Fisting the gun, I swiveled in the bright white, everything a blur except for my target.
I fired.
He fell back on a yell, slamming into the floor. I banged the gun down on the table at my side. Cheering exploded, a pandemonium of laughter and whoops. I dragged in a painful breath.
Evgeny clapped, his applause thundering in my ears. “Bravo, Luca. Bravo.”
My insides clenched. I didn’t even get ownership of this fucking victory?
“Is he dead?” I asked.
“He is,” Evgeny said on a laugh. “He is.” Evgeny bowed his head at me. The clapping grew louder, the shuffle of bills louder still.
An arm slid around mine tugging me back, but I couldn’t move. I was metal bones stuck together. Brittle. I would collapse. “Turo,” Adri’s hoarse whisper, the heat of her hand on my cold, numb flesh. “Turo, come.”
Come where? Back to life? Back to functioning in this fucked up circus? How much more? How much more?
Luca brushed past us, a hand touching my arm. He strode off with Berezin.
Adri held on to me, and warm blood pushed through my veins as the crowd jostled around us, leaving the game room. We moved. She murmured words in Greek. Not sweet, not kind, harsh words, brutal words.
Up on deck I gripped the railing, my back stiff, breathing in the damp air. Adriana still held on to me. My anchor.
Those voices echoing in that room ran through my brain, the violinist’s bland face done up with so much makeup, Evgeny’s excitement, the cold, hard metal slick in my sweaty hand. I’d faced myself in that moment, in the flickering, loud darkness, the violin ripping through me.
A stillness took hold of me. A big chasm opened before me. A chasm I’d never wanted to see before, but had always been there. A loneliness I had created, nurtured.
That’s where I festered.
When the music had stopped and it was just me and the gun and the silence, I knew. I knew I had put all that bluster and nothingness there myself, and I stood alone and cold in the bitter wind as it bore down on me.
Adriana wrapped her hands around my arms. “Thank God—”
“Don’t, Adri. Don’t involve God,” I said, my hands pressed into the sides of my pounding skull. “He has nothing to do with this. Nothing at all. Nothing.”
22
Adriana
We sailed back to the Allegra in silence, the water sloshing against the launch, its engine humming confidently, normally as if it were any other night. But it wasn’t. Turo had given me his suit jacket as we’d waited on deck. He wouldn’t look at me as he’d tucked it around me. His warmth lingered on the fabric, his scent, and I breathed it in deeply. A scent of bright lemons and oranges and intriguing musk. A fragrance of yesterday, not now.
No, not now.
The sea was an iridescent pastel color, pale liquid hues of pink and lilac in the first haze of sunrise. Its delicate beauty was lost to me. Turo stared straight ahead toward the Allegra. Tight, closed off. I wanted to help him, but how?
The girl Luca had brought with him from Evgeny’s boat was speaking to him in French accented English, but he was only pretending to listen. He caught my gaze, and I returned his hard look with a cold one. She was a dark-skinned beauty from Lebanon. Was she a model who’d come for the party? Or maybe a slave girl, his prize from Berezin for the night? Or…
Hell, I’m too tired to care.
We finally came up alongside the Allegra, where two crew members waited for us. And Alessio. A furious Alessio, his hands gripping the railing, lips pressed together, the line of his jaw sharp and tight. Turo sat up immediately and held out his hand to help me board, a cold hand. The girl followed and then he climbed on.
Alessio stalked toward me, taking in Turo’s dark suit jacket hanging on me. “Are you all right? Why the hell were you on Berezin’s boat?”
“Your brother insisted we go along with him,” I replied.
He let out a hail of curses.
Luca hopped on deck, and Turo grabbed his arm. “You make sure I get that agreement from your uncle, you hear me?”
Another agreement. Another business deal. All of them with terms and clauses, and no guarantees. Luca only lifted his chin in a silent reply. Was that good enough for Turo? Why would he trust Luca after tonight? I knew I wouldn’t.
Alessio charged toward Luca. “You took her to that boat? What the fuck were you thinking?”
“Rilassati! Relax. She’s a big girl. And she had her bodyguard with her.” Luca gestured at Turo.
“I told you, I made myself very clear,” said Alessio. “You do not get the rest of us involved in your shit.”
“My shit is what keeps you afloat when you’re in need, little brother,” Luca’s voice seethed.
Alessio ground his jaw. “You could have seen him tomorrow. Tonight was—”
“It had to be tonight.” Luca patted Alessio on the side of his face. “Tutto bene. Is good.” His insouciant gaze bounced over me and Turo like an errant ping pong ball. “You all enjoy the rest of your evening.” That ping pong ball became a barbed weapon, meant to sting. It only dropped to the floor at my feet and rolled away.
The girl laughed. “It is morning now.”
Luca tugged her arm and they both entered the bowels of the ship, their footfalls thudding in the distance.
“You look like shit,” Alessio said to Turo. “What the hell happened?”
Turo only closed his eyes and opened them again, staring out at sea. I took off his suit jacket and put it over his shoulders. A sharp intake of breath tore from him at my touch, and my heart ached at the sound.
“I can’t thank you enough, Turo. I don’t know what to say. Which words. You risked your life again, you—”
“Don’t say anything. Don’t thank me.” His voice was terse, bitter and my stomach dipped at the roughness, at his trying to control whatever he was feeling right at this moment.
Once again, he’d stepped in for me. A mercenary taking the dive, risking it all.
My mercenary.
“Cara—” Alessio took my hand in his and I let him. We left the deck. Left Turo alone
staring out at the sea.
“Have you ever been on that Russian’s boat?” I asked.
“No, but Luca’s told me stories about Berezin’s parties.” He kissed the top of my head and held me close. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I wasn’t here to stop him. What happened?”
“I’ll tell you tomorrow.” I squeezed his arm. “I’m so tired.”
“Of course you are. So am I.”
“How did the party finish?” I asked.
“Crazy. But good crazy. You did an amazing job, Adri. Pure magic. It was everything I wanted it to be and more.”
“I’m glad, Alessio.” I gave him a kiss on the cheek as he opened the door to our cabin.
Alessio headed for the bathroom, and I kicked off my shoes and stared into the mirror where my makeup lay scattered on the dresser.
What I saw tonight.
What Turo did.
I wouldn’t be Luca’s toy again. Anyone’s toy. And I hated seeing Turo forced into doing such horrible things. He’d killed a man tonight. But there was no mourning that tragedy, because otherwise I would be mourning Turo.
Everything was different.
Alessio turned the faucet on in the bathroom, and the sound of him brushing his teeth through the door made me grab onto the edge of the dresser. Nothing was ordinary anymore. I couldn’t just go to sleep and wake up tomorrow, have a frappé and a laugh, stroll through Mykonos and shop and swim as if it were any other day.
All I could hear were those gunshots, feel the pull of Berezin’s hand on mine, imprisoning it, the close of my throat as he grabbed at my bum. His filthy insinuations that were his arrogant way of flirting. His too spicy cologne nauseating me as we watched Turo play his sick game of death.
All I could see was Turo’s haunted face, his cold, hard stare, just now on deck.
Alessio came out of the bathroom and my body jerked up from the dresser. “Come to bed.” He ripped off all his clothes and, dumping them on the floor, threw himself onto the bed, groaning, burying his face in his pillow. His breathing deepened immediately, a low snore rising from him. He was asleep.
I knew what I wanted to do. Needed to do. And it wasn’t sleep.