by Vivian Wood
“It’s complicated,” Callum sighed.
“Oh? I was kidding.”
Callum slumped a little in his seat. “Yeah, okay.”
“Dude, look at me.”
Callum peered his way.
“You’re gonna be okay. You know that? At least she’s still on this planet. At least she’s still breathing. If it gets too bad, go after her.”
“You’re forgetting, perhaps, that her father is Don Valetti?”
Dec shrugged. “And?”
“And if I so much as look at her the wrong way in front of him, I’m dead. Worse than dead, probably. I fucked the hell out of his daughter.”
“So find a private time to talk to her. We were SEALs, it’s not like we don’t know how.”
Callum stared at his friend.
“Are you suggesting I kidnap her?” Callum asked slowly.
“No, not exactly. Just invent a convenient reason for you two to be together.”
“And tell her what?”
“Tell her what? Dude, tell her everything that you’ve been saying to me and Cor the last three days.”
“What, that I’m a miserable bastard?”
Declan slammed his palms on the countertop.
“If that’s what it fucking takes, then so be it! Leave me and Cor high and dry, without a third, if that’s what you need!”
Callum sat back. “I wouldn’t do that.”
“Well, you’re no use to us like this. So just think about that, will you?”
Declan got up to leave, shaking his head.
“Maybe I will!” Callum said as the door closed on his friend.
He got up and headed to the bedroom. He lay down on his bed, which still smelled of her. He closed his eyes, unable to resist taking a lungful of her sweet scent.
It was comforting, and heart-wrenching, all at once.
He drifted off, wondering if maybe he should try to contact her.
A mortar shell brought Callum out of his drowse, hitting the building next door. It was a frequent target because it had been a constabulary once, though it had been empty and bombed out for months.
Callum rose in the darkness, looking out the open window. He was sleeping on the second floor of an abandoned apartment building in Walakan, Afghanistan. Waiting for the United Arab Emirates convoy to roll through.
Callum picked up a bottle of water and took a sip. He couldn’t wait to be out of here, couldn’t wait to not feel sand between his teeth, under his nails, in his boots.
“Callum.”
He turned to find Azara behind him, and instantly felt guilty for wanting to leave. She was tiny for her age, sixteen, with her dark hair covered and her dark eyes gleaming.
“I was wondering where you were,” he said in fluent Pashto. “I thought you might not come.”
“Of course I came,” she said, looking around the room. “This is not a very nice place to sleep, Callum.”
He glanced at the rubble-strewn room, then shrugged.
“It is what it is,” he said, shaking his head. “Did your father see you leave?”
Her mouth drew into a tight line. “He won’t tell anyone.”
Callum glanced away. They’d talked about this, her not telling her father that Americans might get her out in exchange for eyewitness testimony.
She moved closer, hugging her hijab closer to herself.
“He thinks if there is a chance for me to go to America, I must take it. I wish you could’ve met him, he is a good man.”
Callum hadn’t felt safe going into the village Azara was from to meet her father or her three sisters, though he’d heard much about them in the last three months. He had made the request to get her out once she’d testified, saying that she should be paid for her services.
“Pay her in afghanis,” his team leader had said. “Pay her like all the other informants. Don’t you think that everyone comes to me with requests like this?”
Callum had run it up the chain of command; still no ironclad answer. Something about if they had room on the chopper…
Callum noticed a dust trail, rising high into the night sky.
They were early. That was unusual.
“They’re coming,” he said. “Let’s go downstairs.”
Leaving his water bottles and protein bar wrappers on the floor, he picked up his AR-15 and his radio. As they went down to the main level, he called to Declan and Cormac.
“She’s here,” he said.
Silence. Then: “We see you coming down. Find a position out of the way.”
Callum and Azara hit the ground floor, working their way around pieces of broken concrete, an unfortunate fact of life in Walakan. It hid suicide bombs, protected lone gunmen.
Tonight, though, it would shield them from sight while Azara identified the Prince, who had killed her mother. Poor woman had seen too much, and the Prince had personally dispatched her.
That was Azara’s second form of payment, one Callum understood. She was willing to bleed, to die, as long as the Prince got his.
But it shouldn’t come to that. The unit was supposed to stop the convoy at a critical place, where they’d be pinned in, and remove them by force.
Azara would give Callum the nod from behind their secret hiding place, and Callum would give the go-ahead.
In theory, they were going to keep the Prince alive, but a theory was all it was.
“Convoy’s closing in,” crackled the radio.
Callum tensed, watching three silver SUVs drive into their midst. He glanced at Azara; she looked pale and sweaty, but determined.
“Countdown. One… two… three…” said the radio.
The cars slowed when they spotted the roadblocks, set up as removable rubble from one of the many bombings. They halted just where the SEALs expected them to.
The front passenger door opened, a guard ventured out. All according to plan…
And then everything went haywire. The SEAL team didn’t have time to release flashbangs, because there was an overwhelmingly bright white light and sound that filled the entire area, making Callum cover his ears and duck.
Callum dropped his radio as gunshots rang out, some so close he was sure he was going to die. Smoke filled the air, too thick for Callum to see.
“Azara!” he yelled. “Azara!”
The smoke started to dissipate, allowing Callum to move at last. He spotted his radio, picked it up. It squawked in his hand.
“Alive.” Cormac’s voice. “One injured.”
“Alive,” he called back.
The smoke faded away, and suddenly Callum saw Azara. She was slumped over a broken piece of rubble.
“Azara!” he cried, running for her.
He turned her over, saw the small trickle of blood from her mouth, and the glassy look in her eyes.
And the worst part was, her eyes were blue, twin pools of sapphire light…
Callum sat up, shaking and sweating. He threw off the covers, swinging his legs to the side of the bed, and put his head in his hands.
Breathe. Viola and Azara are not the same person. You cared about Azara, but you never loved her.
He went still. Did he love Viola? She fought him at every turn, and she seemed to hate the life he led… but still, for some reason, he felt that she was the only woman that really knew him.
Fuck. He loved her.
That was why he couldn’t shake her off. Why he couldn’t just sleep on it, and get over her, the way he had with others in the past?
He slowly stood and went to the mirror, staring at his own face.
Now the question was, what was he going to do about it?
26
Vi stood in the grand ballroom of The Ritz-Carlton in New York, trying not to cry. Her father’s men swirled around her, smiling and telling jokes. Vi wasn’t in much of a joke-telling mood, but then again no one cared.
She was the heir apparent to the mafia throne, and they were only interested in one thing: being the next Don. In this family, that went
by marriage, like the royals.
Or so her father said.
She raised her eyes and spotted Antonio Valetti across the room. He wore a pinstripe suit and the assured smile of someone who was getting what he wanted. Actually, in that, he looked the same as every other man in here.
She brushed her hands over the black, floor-length satin dress she’d been forced to don. It was her second débutante party, after all.
Her father made his way over to her, giving her a look that once would’ve sent her scurrying to do his bidding. She looked away instead, pretending to admire a glass sculpture.
“You’re not talking to anyone,” her father said.
“I don’t know what you want from me,” she said, raising her chin. “You made me come here. You don’t like me, that’s not my fault.”
Her father scowled. “You will be pleasant and biddable. What you do after you get home is none of my business.”
“Fat chance.”
He grabbed her arm, drawing her off to the side. His fingers dug in, painful.
“You’re hurting me,” she told him.
“I don’t care what you’ve been doing, who you’ve been seeing, all right?” he said, close to her face. “Forget about that. You’re going to do as I say, or your Irish boyfriend gets it.”
She blanched. “What do you even care about this for? Why extract me from a life where I’m happy, to shove me in whatever hole that you see fit?”
“Because you’re mine goddammit!” He leaned in, whispering. “Whatever your mother told you, her little escapade wasn’t worth it, because I got her in the end, didn’t I?”
Viola’s look of complete horror was met with nothing but a little laugh.
“What, you thought your mom could run around on me?” he said. “I took care of her. The way I’ll take care of you and your Cúram friends if you don’t listen to me. Now go talk to my guys, and be friendly.”
He gave her a little shove, pushed her right into the middle of a group of supporters. Most keen amongst them being Richie Vertucci, her father’s right-hand man.
Richie was almost forty, with slicked back dark hair and a creepy smile, like he was thinking about how he was going to kill you later. He’d risen to prominence while Vi had been gone, and was her father’s confidante.
Richie came over to Viola, his smile smugger than usual.
“Hey.”
She gave him a baleful look in return, not saying a word.
“You know, I think you should be nicer to me. I’m the only shot you got for a normal life.”
What about him is normal? Doesn’t he know he works for the mob?
“Well, it just so happens I don’t agree with any of this, so…”
“Life’s gonna be hard if you don’t have a partner.”
She stared at him. “My father’s forcing me to marry.”
“He’s just doing what he thinks is best.”
“For him. He’s doing what’s best for him. I’m just a way of passing on the crown.”
“I’m sure that’s not all there is to it.”
“Yeah, well. He just copped to murdering my mother to keep her from having an affair, so…” She felt another wave of tears coming on. It was impossible to stay in the ballroom. “Excuse me.”
She went through the lobby to grand golden elevators, taking one up to the top floor. Her room was the biggest of the suites up here, taking up half the floor. She swiped her card, went in, and sat down on the first thing she saw — a velveteen pouf.
She put her head in her hands. She was so far away from Savannah, so far from Callum and the whole disaster she’d left in her wake. No doubt, Callum was elbow deep in some stranger’s pussy by now.
The thought made her ache inside.
And yet, trouble followed her all the way to New York City. Trouble was sitting on her shoulder, waiting to come out and play.
I have to know, she told herself. I need to know, once and for all, that no part of him has made its home in me. Because that would be…
She shook herself, then got up. She moved through the suite, closing herself in the bathroom and locking the door.
She picked up the pregnancy test. She’d had it since the airport, but she’d been hoping that her period would come and she wouldn’t have to take it.
It’s just stress, she told herself as she peed on the stick. That’s why you haven’t had your period.
The wait to allow the urine to develop was forever. She did a little dance while she waited, born of nervousness.
Just getting it over with, she reminded herself. That’s the name of the game.
And then, the test was done. Two lines…
What does two lines mean?
She scrabbled for the box, which she’d already thrown away. She got it out of the trashcan, searching for the directions.
Two lines… two lines…
She lowered the box. She was… pregnant?
Holy shit.
She sat on the bed in her suite, looking at four positive pregnancy tests. Four different brands, nonetheless. She’d paid the maids a handsome fee each to get her the tests, and for their discretion.
At least she hoped that expectation for discretion had been communicated — she’d been a bit hysterical at the time.
She’d gone through the disbelief and feeling wretched and wondering if Callum would ever find out. She’d even forced herself to think about terminating the pregnancy.
After all, she believed in a woman’s right to choose.
But… she couldn’t do it. It was Callum’s baby, and hers. They’d made it together, made a life.
How could she just throw that away?
Now, she was just tired. She scooped all the tests up, depositing them in the trashcan. She’d stripped out of her dress an hour ago, and was now favoring pajamas with little elephants all over them.
There was a faint knocking from the door. She got up and went out into the main room, just as the door opened. Her father walked in, a smile on his face.
“You left the party early,” he said, coming in with one of his men that Viola didn’t know. He held an envelope, large and manila, but didn’t comment on it.
“I couldn’t— I wasn’t feeling well.”
“I see. Well, despite all your attempts to be as disagreeable as possible, I had six proposals tonight.”
Viola looked at him, then sat opposite. “Is that so?”
Her father pursed his lips.
“Yep. And since you’re so worried about it, here are the six.” He handed her the manila envelope. “You choose.”
She opened the envelope. It had briefs on each of the men who’d proposed, detailing everything from their position in the mob down to what each one liked for breakfast.
“Me?” she said, looking at up him with a shocked expression.
“I don’t want to hear that you complaining that you had no choice.”
She gaped at him. How in the world was she supposed choose without meeting them? Without knowing them well?
“All right. You can let me know tomorrow,” he said, standing up.
“Tomorrow?!”
“Yeah. And do it by noon — I gotta let the lucky guy know. You and him are on the first flight from here to Miami.”
Her look of complete bewilderment made him laugh.
“The new son-in-law promised to run Miami, until things settle down.”
“You mean until I settle down.”
He shrugged. “Whichever comes first. I’m gonna tell whichever one you pick that a grandchild seals the deal, as far as I’m concerned.”
She almost blurted, “Guess what? You’re in luck!” but knew there would major repercussions. Honestly, the grandchild news was the least of her worries.
“You look here,” he said. “You’re gonna go where I tell you to go, do what I tell you to do. From here on out, it’s a whole new world for you.”
“You know when I get married, I’ll no longer belong to you.”
/> He sucked his teeth. “What I know is that you’re gonna get your slutty ass in a wedding gown and marry this guy, and you’re not gonna give me any more lip about it. Otherwise, my boys are gonna make a call on… what’s his name again?”
She glared at him, furious but silent. When she didn’t say any more, he just nodded, and left the suite.
She was left alone, to stew over his list of names and their short files.
Getting up, she took the manila file into her bedroom and spread out the briefs. For a minute, she worked at organizing them by age and relative goodness. There were a couple who were objectively too old. There were also the ones who had serious criminal pasts.
Sergio Valucci, at thirty-three years of age, had already been booked with three counts of criminal manslaughter. It never stuck, but his rap sheet was a mile long.
Imagine trying to raise a child around that, she thought. Then, imagine trying to raise a child around any of these guys. These guys have no valor!
The thought drove her to tears. She wanted nothing more than to call Callum, to apologize for leaving the way the way she had. To ask for him to come save her from this self-imposed hell she was in.
Foolishly, she checked her messages on her brand-new phone. But it was ridiculous — he wouldn’t even have the number.
She knew he was probably getting some huge pair of fake tits waved in his face right now, not thinking of her at all. Still, she hoped he thought of her sometimes, thought of how good they were together.
Not that we were even official…
She cleared the bed off with a single sweep, nestling down in the blankets.
Savannah was far away. This was her new reality, one she really needed to deal with. One she would be forced to deal with, eventually.
But not tonight.
27
Callum landed at JFK, unsure how to proceed.
He walked out of the terminal, putting on a pair of sunglasses, and waved down a taxi.
He might not know anything about Viola or where she was, but he knew where the mafia hung out, where they liked to be seen. It was old information, but it was a start.
Heading into the city, he gave the driver the address of a casual Italian restaurant, somewhere guys too lame to be made men hung out. They wouldn’t know anything of course, but if they were anything like the Irish’s castoffs, it would be easy getting them to talk.