A Million Different Ways (A Horn Novel Book 1)

by Dangelico, P.

  “What can I do, child?”

  “I need to get to Geneva without them following. Is there a back door out of here?”

  “Yes, and the bus stop is a block away. There should be a bus,” he glanced at his watch, “leaving in fifteen minutes. You must hurry.”

  Quickly, he guided me to a small door that led to the church office and opened up into a back alley. Stepping out onto the cobblestone street, I thanked him profusely.

  “I’ll contact the police. Good luck, madame.” He waved in encouragement.

  I had just lied to a priest…may God forgive me.

  Down the narrow street, the bus pulled to a stop. With plastic bag in hand, I sprinted to catch it in time before the doors closed.

  “You made it,” said the smiling bus driver in French. I deposited the coins in the machine, walked to the back, and threw myself down in an empty row. Slouching down in my seat, I closed my eyes and wiped the nervous sweat from my brow with the back of my hand.

  As I stared out the window, trying to gain control of my breathing, a profound sense of loss was already settling into my bones. And yet, like most of the significant choices I had made in my life, walking away had been easier than I had anticipated.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  “Five hundred francs a week. You pay now––cash,” she said, her Russian accent thick and heavy. Mrs. Orloff held out her fat little hand, palm up. The other was resting on her well-padded hip. I looked down at her with a vexed, disbelieving expression. I looked down because she was no taller than a gnome.

  “Explain to me how the rent could have gone up a hundred francs a week in a little over two months? Did you paint? Did you replace the broken refrigerator? Because the chipped ceiling doesn’t classify as shabby chic.”

  She frowned, I think. Her droopy jowls made her look like a perpetually sad hound dog. Then her wily, black eyes took in my Chanel bag and the expensive clothes.

  “We have waiting list. You don’t want apartment? I have Brazilian girl will take it.”

  I was in no position to quibble. I needed a place to regroup before deciding what to do next. I took the cash out of my purse and begrudgingly slapped it in her hand. “I told you––” she cackled. Ignoring her, I threw the plastic bag holding my meager belongings over my shoulder and turned up the stairs. “You make good money becoming…as Americans say…sugar baby. In Russia, we call them whore. I don’t know what you did to lose sugar papa, but now that you not skinny, we find new one.”

  I cranked my head around and pinned her with a searing scowl. “I was not…I was working as a housekeeper!”

  Her crooked smile revealed a mouthful of gold fillings. “Let me know when you are ready for new papa.” I was too exhausted to try to reason with her. Robbed of my will to fight, I watched her waddle into her apartment without another word of protest from me.

  Once inside my room, I dropped my belongings on the floor and sat on the small twin bed…sulking. Not much had changed. It was still dingy. It was still depressing. Except it didn’t smell as clean as it did when I left it. I made a mental note to bleach the sheets and every surface in the place. I got up and checked the refrigerator. The loud buzz emanating from it was strangely comforting––at least it was working.

  The bottomless sadness that had been steadily growing since I had boarded the bus felt like dead weight strapped to my ankles. I didn’t even have the energy to cry about it. But as tired as I was, I needed to go to the grocery store. It wasn’t just my own health I was responsible for now.

  I undressed, and hung the expensive clothes back in the closet. I needed to start blending in with the locals again. A pathetic memory crossed my mind. The argument I had with Sebastian about him not buying me anything––because I wanted to salvage my pride and leave the relationship having given and taken in equal measure. Pleasure for pleasure. I looked down at my flat stomach, where a child was safely tucked away, and smiled to myself. I had definitely gotten more than I bargained for.

  I took three pairs of jeans, a sweater, a couple of shirts, and sneakers out of the bag. All I had left.

  My medical books, the computer, my underwear––gone. The hundred thousand euros was still sitting in my checking account. I needed that money for the baby. I wasn’t about to let my pride get in the way of caring for him or her.

  I put on my old jeans, a t-shirt, and sneakers. Strangely, the old clothes didn’t feel right anymore. The worst of it was that it didn’t feel like I was returning to my old reality. It felt more like I was suspended between two different ones. I belonged nowhere––except with Sebastian.

  When I reached into the Chanel purse to pull out my wallet, I felt a cold, hard object. Unknowingly, I had taken the iPhone with me. I stared at it a long time before sitting back down on the bed and turning it on. As soon as it powered up, a long list of texts and messages started to signal.

  Twenty-five voicemails and thirty text messages, to be exact.

  They began as terse questions, progressively growing more frantic with worry. As I read each one, my anxiety paralleled the rising agony in his written words, the guilt unbearable. Tears stung my eyes and tunneled down my cheeks. And for the first time in my life, I wasn’t certain if my faith was strong enough to sustain me.

  ‘Come back to me. Please. I don’t know what will become of me if you don’t.’

  That was the final text. I couldn’t listen to the messages; I wasn’t strong enough. I told myself that letting him go was an act of love, an act of compassion, except I was having a hard time believing it. And the alternative was unthinkable. I would hurt him more if I stayed. Paisley wouldn’t hesitate to carry out her threat. She had that Attila the Hun, scorched-earth look about her. And I would be directly responsible for destroying his livelihood and his reputation, his family name. He would come to resent me eventually. I couldn’t live with myself if that ever happened.

  I placed the phone on the kitchen table and grabbed my wallet. Anyone could spot the Chanel bag from twenty paces, and there were enough pickpockets in this neighborhood to make the bag an appealing target. After locking the apartment door, I walked past the kids playing in the corridor and made my way down the stairs.

  The symmetry was not lost on me. The sight, the smells––everything was the same…except for me.

  A dirty soccer ball rolled in front of my feet. I picked it up and held it out for the two seven-year-old boys it belonged to. “Falemenderit,” they shouted in Albanian, as they ran back to their game.

  “You’re welcome,” I replied and kept walking. Walking away, but never leaving this place behind.

  * * *

  As I entered the grocery store, I was instantly overcome by a strange déjà-vu. Had the last few months been a dream? In desperate need of a diversion, I picked up a cantaloupe and pressed my thumbs into the soft navel at the bottom. The sweet perfume of the ripened fruit drifted up. The laugh of a small child tugged at my attention, caused me to glance up.

  He sat in a shopping cart gnawing on a slice of tangerine while his young mother wiped the tiny, sticky fingers with a wet nap. A little boy: dark hair, light brown eyes, long, thick lashes. I stared in morbid fascination. The child’s father appeared from around the corner and the little boy shrieked in joy upon seeing him. My stomach twisted in agony as the melody of the child’s giggles hung in the air. I turned away quickly and marched to the other end of the store, needing to get as far away from them as possible.

  Saving money on food wasn’t an option anymore. I needed nutrition. I picked out a nice chicken to roast that would last me a couple of days, fresh fruits and vegetables, and a freshly baked French baguette. I couldn’t manage more than two bottles of water.

  The lethargy was back with a vengeance. I would have had no trouble whatsoever sleeping like the dead on a bed of nails. I could have slept standing if I had to. It was a dangerous new habit.

  The little boy and his parents were two spots ahead of me in line to pay for the groceries. T
he little boy’s large, amber eyes found me. He stared as if he were stealing my thoughts. I smiled and turned my attention away, on the brink of tears again. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong, something bad was about to happen, and prayed to God that it was simply the result of stress mixed with the surplus of hormones running in my blood.

  I took my time walking back to the apartment, engrossed in the sights and sounds in spite of the circumstances. Tiny birds, chirping madly at each other, competed for a few scraps of bread on the sidewalk. Men on bicycles raced past me in a blur of color. Teenage lovers crossed the street, their fingers laced together. The warm sunshine on my clammy skin dissolved the lingering aftertaste of concern.

  I closed my eyes for a moment and heard the sound of sirens approaching. When I opened them, police cars zipped by me, lights flashing, sirens blaring. They turned down my street. By the time I reached my corner, the whole block was congested with dark SUV’s and regularly marked police vehicles. It looked like a motorcade of an important political figure.

  Two small boys, no older than twelve, stood next to me watching the scene unfold.

  “Is it a raid?” I asked them in Albanian.

  They looked up at me with a cautious expression. “No. They’re looking for someone,” the taller one replied.

  “A drug dealer?” The kids in this neighborhood were wise beyond their years, and often the eyes and ears of the community. Sadly, they knew everything that went on.

  “No. Those men are Americans.”

  My head swiveled in the direction the child was pointing. That’s when I saw him emerge from my building, Ben and Gideon following closely behind. My few possessions were in his one hand. The other gripped the roots of his hair while his wild eyes scanned the crowd assembled on the sidewalk.

  I could have sworn that my heart stopped beating.

  As long as I lived, I would never forget the desperation on his face, the anguish. I could feel his pain intensely in every cell of my body, and it shocked my system. The blood drained out of my head and pooled at my feet. My trembling knees could no longer hold me up. I knelt down immediately, the grocery bags falling onto the cement sidewalk, and willed myself not to pass out. The cantaloupe rolled away. One of the boys fetched it for me and handed it back.

  “Take these groceries to your mother,” I told the boys. They looked at each other skeptically. “Take them,” I repeated gently.

  They took the bags and scurried away. I don’t know how, but somehow I found the strength to get up, turn around, and walk away one more time.

  * * *

  I still had my wallet––the silver lining, I guess. Although that was about it. No passport. No clothes, other than the ones on my back. I walked for hours until I reached Yuri’s nightclub, hoping desperately to find Emilia.

  Darkness had fallen by the time I was standing in front of the locked doors of the club. I burst into tears when I realized it was Sunday night. Exhausted and starving, I found a coffee shop close by, hid in a corner, and ate three stale brioches before I walked back to Pâquis and checked into a hostel.

  The man at the front desk handed me a set of sheets and directed me to a room with four beds. There was a tense moment when he asked for identification. Luckily he believed my story about being robbed on the train. One bed was occupied by a young Canadian woman traveling alone, even though she made enough noise for three people, the others were empty.

  After washing my face and brushing my teeth with my finger, I crawled into bed fully clothed and stared at the empty blue wall that my bed was smashed up against. I could still see Sebastian’s distraught face in my minds eye, branded there for all eternity. And then I prayed, prayed for God to take away his suffering, to keep him safe. Silent tears soaked my pillow but eventually a dreamless sleep stole my anguish away.

  It was still dark out when the Canadian girl began packing her things up. My bleary gaze stumbled upon a digital clock in the room that blinked 4:30. I dragged my grief stricken body to the bathroom. It was clean, thankfully, and empty, but I still took the quickest shower since creation; a result of the paranoia I couldn’t shake. Breakfast was included in the modest price of the room so I went downstairs and ate more than my share. I was constantly hungry now. The morning nausea, coming and going, wasn’t as bad as I had expected.

  I dialed Emilia’s number from the lobby payphone. She answered after the third ring. Hearing her voice brought tears to my eyes.

  “Em, it’s me,” I choked.

  “Vera! Holy shit! He was here.” The few simple words froze my blood. “You told him about me and Yuri,” she continued, a hint of censure in her voice.

  My hand flew to my forehead. I had forgotten I had told him. “How was he?”

  “He was out of his mind! A fucking maniac! Screaming, threatening us. There was an army of police with him. It scared the shit out of Yuri and nothing scares Yuri––except his mother.”

  I bit my lower lip as it trembled, licked the salty tear off the corner of my mouth. “I don’t know how he found my apartment.”

  “They tracked your iPhone.”

  “I didn’t know they could do that.”

  “Have you been living under a rock? Everybody knows that.”

  I have no criminal instincts!! Unlike some people whom are routinely exposed to illegal activities…The words were on the tip of my tongue but I refrained.

  “Yuri said the club is being watched. I’m sure the apartment is, too. You can’t come here.”

  “I need to get out of the country, back to Milan. He has my Italian passport.”

  “Shit,” she mumbled then sighed deeply. “Let me speak to Yuri, he may have a package traveling there this weekend.”

  A package? Drugs, or something even more unsavory.

  “Is it safe, Em?”

  “I’ll make sure it is. Call me in three days.”

  “Wait, there’s something else––but it has to remain between us.”

  “What is it?”

  “I’m pregnant.”

  “Holy shit…holy shit…holy shit. Does he know?”

  “No.”

  “He looked ready to torture us for information yesterday. I only felt safe because the police was with him. I can’t imagine if he’d known. Why are you running?”

  “I have to…to protect him. I can’t explain now. Make sure it’s safe.”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  “Thanks, Em…I…” My voice cracked, fear and despair clogging my throat.

  “Call me in three days,” she repeated and hung up.

  * * *

  The three longest days of my life. I stayed close to the hostel. I wasn’t certain what lengths Sebastian would go to to find me, what kind of power he could wield. So I stayed out of sight, made myself small, faded into the background.

  On the third day, I walked by a cyber café and looked through the glass window for a long time before finding the courage to step inside. I bought a cup of tea and fifteen minutes of time on their computer. My hands shaking violently, I typed in the password to my email account. Two hundred and eleven emails from him.

  A sharp, stabbing sensation in my stomach made me grimace and hunch over. I suddenly felt nauseous, though nothing short of death could have stopped me from opening and reading the last one.

  ‘What ever I did for you to leave me, I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. Please give me a chance to fix it. I’m begging you. I’ll do anything to have you back. Anything. I love you. I’m nothing without you.’

  I wiped the tears off my face but it was useless, there were plenty more where those came from. The boy working on his laptop next to me kept glancing over with a mixed expression. I could tell he wanted to say something, and felt awkward. My fingers were numb as I typed. ‘I will love you forever. Don’t ever forget. You promised.’ I hit the send button. It was a dangerous move but I couldn’t tolerate him thinking he did anything wrong. I just couldn’t allow that.

  * * *r />
  “I had to beg, but I got you a ride to Milan.”

  I exhaled a deep sigh of relief at her words. My eyes roamed the lobby. A group of Irish students stood in line, waiting to be checked in. They were laughing about something. Their carefree expressions sparked a bud of resentment that made me ashamed of myself.

  “Tonight at 10 p.m., meet them in front of L’Usine on Place des Volontaires. They will be in a silver 3 series BMW.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Sergio and Etienne. They work for Yuri. You can’t miss Sergio, he has a pink mohawk.”

  “Is it safe, Em?”

  “As safe as it can be. Call me when you get to Milan. I love you.”

  “I love you too.”

  At exactly ten, I watched the silver BMW drive up. I pulled the hood of my sweatshirt over my head, dug my hands in the pockets, and walked towards the car. I had timed it perfectly. The last thing I wanted to do was stand around waiting on a street corner in the middle of the night. I was nervous about leaving so late, but I was in no position to make demands.

  The passenger side window rolled down and techno music, pumping loudly, hit me like a blast of hot air. A boy, no older than eighteen and sporting a pink mohawk, bobbed his head to the music. He turned it down and treated me to a thorough inspection.

  “You must be Sergio,” I stated.

  “Che figa,” Sergio announced, a crass Italian slang word for ‘beautiful’.

  The driver bent over Sergio to get a better look, and raked me head to toe with bloodshot eyes. “I’m Etienne, get in.”

  Etienne was older, around early thirties. He was extremely thin with a crooked nose and pale blonde hair. As soon as I shut the door, he drove off swiftly and rounded a corner without taking his foot off the gas peddle, the torque sending my body slamming into the door. Then he shifted gears roughly, jarring my teeth loose. I buckled my seat belt, double checking that it was securely fastened, and gazed out the window. The lights from restaurants and street lamps turned into a smear as we sped away.