by James, E L
* * *
“Our final border crossing, carissima,” Anatoli says. “Back to your home country. Shame on you for leaving it and skulking away like a thief and dishonoring your family. When we return, you can apologize to your parents for the worry you have caused them.”
Alessia averts her eyes, inwardly cursing him for making her feel guilty for running away. She was running from him! She knows that many Albanian men leave their country to work abroad—for women it’s not so easy.
“This is the last time you have to go in the trunk. But wait, I need to retrieve something first.” She stands back and looks west to where the sun has finally disappeared behind the hills. The chill in the air reaches through her clothes and entwines around her heart. And she knows it’s because she’s pining for the only man she’ll ever love. Tears rise unexpectedly into her eyes, and she blinks them back.
Not now.
She doesn’t want to give Anatoli the satisfaction.
She will cry tonight.
With her mother.
She inhales deeply. This is what freedom smells like—chilly, foreign. When she next takes a deep breath, she’ll be in her homeland, and her adventures will become a…what did Maxim call it? A folly from the past.
“Get in. It will be night soon,” Anatoli snaps as he holds open the lid.
The night belongs to the djinn.
And she’s staring at one now. That’s what he is. The djinn personified. She climbs in without complaint and without touching him. She’s getting closer to home, and for the first time, she’s looking forward to seeing her mother.
“Soon, carissima,” he says, and there’s a troubling glint in his eye.
“Shut the trunk,” she responds as she clutches the flashlight.
His lips lift in a sardonic smile, and he slams the lid down, leaving her in darkness.
* * *
Mrs. Demachi gasps, and with another quick and anxious glance past me, she steps aside. “Come in.”
“Wait in the car,” I say to Thanas, and I follow her into a confined vestibule, where she points to a shoe rack.
Oh. Quickly I slip off my boots, relieved that I’m wearing matching socks.
And that would be because of Alessia….
The hall is painted white, its shiny tiled floor topped by a brightly colored kilim rug. She waves me on into an adjoining room, where two old sofas covered in bold and colorful patterned blankets face each other across a small table that’s also covered in a rich printed cloth. Beyond is a fireplace, its mantelpiece peppered with old photographs. I squint, hoping to see one of Alessia. There’s one of a young girl with large, serious eyes, seated at a piano.
My girl!
The grate is piled with logs, but they remain unlit in spite of the cold, and I suspect that this is the drawing room used to receive company. Pride of place is given to the old upright piano that sits against the wall. It’s plain and shabby, but I bet it’s tuned to perfection. This is where she plays.
My talented girl.
Beside the piano is a tall shelf stacked with well-thumbed books.
Alessia’s mother has not asked me to remove my coat. I don’t think I’m going to be here for long.
“Please. Sit,” she instructs.
I take a seat on one of the sofas, and she perches on the edge of the one opposite, radiating tension. Clasping her hands together, she stares at me expectantly. Her eyes are the same dark shade as Alessia’s—but whereas Alessia’s are full of mystery, her mother’s hold only sadness. I guess it’s because she’s anxious about her daughter. But from her lined face and the sprinkling of gray in her hair, it’s obvious she’s not led an easy life.
Life in Kukës is hard for some women.
Alessia’s quietly spoken words come back to me.
Her mother blinks a couple of times. I suspect I’m making her nervous or uncomfortable, and for that I feel a little guilty.
“My friend Magda, she writes to me about a man who helps my Alessia and also Magda herself. Is that you?” Her voice is hesitant and soft.
“Yes.”
“How is my daughter?” she whispers. She’s studying me intensely, clearly desperate for news of Alessia.
“When I last saw her, she was fine. More than fine, she was happy. I met her when she worked for me. She came to my house to clean.” I simplify my English, hoping Alessia’s mother can keep up.
“You have come all the way from England?”
“Yes.”
“For Alessia?”
“Yes. I’ve fallen in love with your daughter, and I believe she loves me, too.”
Her eyes widen. “She does?” She looks alarmed.
Okay…this is not the reaction I’d been expecting.
“Yes. She told me she does.”
“And you want to marry her?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know that she wants to marry you?”
Ah!
“In truth, Mrs. Demachi, I don’t know. I haven’t had the chance to ask her. I believe that she’s been kidnapped and is being brought to Albania against her will.”
She leans her head back, her eyes intense, assessing me.
Shit.
“My friend Magda speaks well of you,” she says. “But I don’t know you. Why would my husband let you marry our daughter?”
“Well, I know she doesn’t want to marry the man her father has chosen for her.”
“She says this to you?”
“She’s told me everything. And what’s more, I listened. I love her.”
Mrs. Demachi bites her upper lip, and the mannerism is so reminiscent of her daughter that I have to hide my smile. “My husband will return soon. And it is for him to decide what will become of Alessia. His mind is set on her betrothed. He has given his word.” She looks down at her clasped hands. “I let her go once, and it broke my heart. I don’t think I can let her go again.”
“Do you want her to be trapped in a violent, abusive marriage?”
Her eyes whip to mine, and in them I see a glimpse of her pain and her insight, swiftly followed by her shock that I know—this is her life.
Everything that Alessia ever said about her father comes back to me.
Mrs. Demachi whispers, “You must go. Go now.” She stands up.
Fuck.
I’ve offended her.
“I’m sorry,” I say as I stand, too.
She frowns, looking momentarily confused and undecided. Then, suddenly, she blurts out, “Alessia will return here at eight o’clock this evening, with her betrothed.” She averts her eyes from mine for a moment, probably wondering if it was a good idea to impart this state secret.
Reaching out, I want to squeeze her clasped hands in gratitude, but I stop myself, as my touch may not be welcome. Instead I give her my most sincere and grateful smile. “Thank you. Your daughter means the world to me.”
She thaws briefly, rewarding me with a hesitant smile of her own, and again I see a little of Alessia in her.
She shows me to the door, where I slip on my boots and she ushers me out. “Good-bye,” she says.
“Are you going to tell your husband that I’ve been here?”
“No.”
“Okay. I understand.” I offer what I hope is a reassuring smile, and I head back to the car.
* * *
Back at the hotel, I’m restless. We’ve tried watching TV. Neither Tom nor I understand what we’re watching. We’ve tried reading, and now we’re in the bar. It’s on the roof and would offer an impressive daytime view of Kukës, the lake, and the surrounding mountains. But it’s dark and the dimly lit vista offers no solace for me.
She’s on her way home.
With him.
I hope she’s okay.
“Sit down. Maybe h
ave a drink,” Tom says. I give him a sideways look. It’s at times like this that I wish I smoked. The anticipation and the tension are almost unbearable. After one slug of whiskey, I can bear no more.
“We’re going.”
“It’s too early!”
“I don’t care. I can’t stay cooped up here waiting. I’d rather wait with her folks.”
* * *
At 7:40 we return to the Demachi house.
Time to be a grown-up.
Tom waits in the car once more with Drita while Thanas and I walk down the driveway. “And remember, I’ve not been here before. I don’t want to get Mrs. Demachi into trouble?” I say to Thanas.
“Trouble?”
“With her husband.”
“Oh. I understand.” Thanas rolls his eyes.
“You understand?”
“Yes. Life is different in Tiranë. Here it’s much more traditional. Men. Women.” He grimaces.
I wipe my sweaty palms on my coat. I haven’t felt this nervous since my interview for Eton. I have to make a favorable impression on Alessia’s father. I need to persuade him that I’m a better option for his daughter than the arsehole he’s chosen.
That’s if she wants me.
Shit.
I knock on the door and wait.
Mrs. Demachi answers the door. Her eyes flit from Thanas to me.
“Mrs. Demachi?” I ask.
And she nods.
“Is your husband at home?”
She nods once more, and in case we’re overheard, I replay the introduction I made to her earlier in the day as if it hadn’t happened. “Come in,” she says. “You must speak to my husband.” Once we’ve removed our shoes, she takes our coats and hangs them in the hall.
Mr. Demachi stands when we enter a larger room at the back of the house. It’s an airy, spotless kitchen–cum–living room, the two areas separated by an arch. A pump-action shotgun hangs ominously on the wall above Mr. Demachi’s head. I note that it’s within easy reach.
Demachi is older than his wife; his face is weather-beaten, his hair more gray than black. He wears a somber dark suit that lends him the air of a Mafia don. His eyes give nothing away. I’m glad he’s half a head shorter than me.
As Mrs. Demachi quietly explains who we are, his expression becomes more and more mistrustful.
Shit. What is she saying?
Thanas whispers a running commentary. “She’s telling him that you wish to speak to him about his daughter.”
“Okay.”
Demachi gives us both an uncertain smile as he shakes our hands in turn, then waves at an old pine couch, inviting us to sit. He appraises me with shrewd eyes the same shade as Alessia’s, while Mrs. Demachi wanders through the arch into the kitchen.
Demachi looks from me to Thanas and starts to speak. His voice has a rich, deep timbre that’s almost soothing to listen to. Thanas immediately starts to translate for both of us.
“My wife tells me you are here because of my daughter.”
“Yes, Mr. Demachi. Alessia worked for me, back in London.”
“London?” He looks impressed for a moment, but the shutters come down quickly. “What did she do, exactly?”
“She was my cleaner.”
He closes his eyes for a moment, as if this news is too painful to hear, which surprises me. Or perhaps he thinks this is beneath her…or maybe he misses her, I don’t know. I take a deep breath to calm my spiraling nerves and continue. “I have come to ask for her hand in marriage.”
His eyes pop open in surprise, and he scowls. It’s an exaggerated expression. But I don’t know to what end. “She’s already promised to another,” he says.
“She does not wish to marry that man. He is the reason that she left here.”
Demachi’s eyes widen at my outspoken candor, and I hear a small gasp from the kitchen.
“Did she tell you this?”
“Yes.”
Demachi’s expression is inscrutable.
What the hell is he thinking?
The creases in her father’s forehead deepen. “Why do you wish to marry her?” He seems perplexed.
“Because I love her.”
* * *
Kukës is achingly familiar. Even in the dark. Alessia is both excited and apprehensive about seeing her parents. Her father will beat her. Her mother will hold her in her arms, and they will cry together.
Like they always do.
Anatoli drives over the bridge to the Kukës peninsula and turns left. Alessia sits up, straining to catch a first glimpse of home. Less than a minute later, she sees the lights of her parents’ house and frowns. There’s a car parked near the end of the drive with two people leaning against it, facing the river and smoking. Alessia thinks it’s odd but dismisses the thought, too preoccupied by her imminent reunion with her parents. Anatoli steers the Mercedes around the parked car and down the driveway.
Before the car has come to a complete stop, Alessia flings open the passenger door and flies up the path and through the front door. Without taking off her shoes, she races down the main hallway.
“Mama!” she calls, and she bursts into the living room, expecting to see her mother.
Maxim and another man she barely notices stand. They had been sitting with her father, who is now staring up at her.
Alessia’s world stops, and she freezes as she tries to process what she’s seeing.
She blinks a couple of times as her empty, aching heart kick-starts back into life. She has eyes for only one man.
He’s here.
Chapter Thirty-One
My heart is beating a frantic tattoo. Alessia stands in the middle of the room. Astounded.
She’s here.
She’s finally here. Dark, dark wide eyes stare back at me in disbelief.
Yes. I came to get you.
I’ve got you. Always.
She looks stunning. Slender. Sweet. Her hair wild. But her skin is pale. Paler than I’ve ever seen her before, and she has a graze on one cheek and a bruise on the other. There are dark circles beneath her eyes that are shining with unshed tears.
A lump forms in my throat.
What have you been through, sweetheart?
“Hello,” I whisper. “You left without saying good-bye.”
* * *
Maxim is here. For her. Everyone else in the room disappears. She can see only him. His hair is tousled. He looks pale and tired, but relieved. His startling green eyes drink her in, and his words touch her soul. The same words he used when he came to find her in Brentford. But there’s a question on his face, beseeching her. It’s asking why she left. He doesn’t know how she feels about him. But he came anyway.
He’s here.
He’s not with Caroline.
How could she doubt him? How could he doubt her?
She lets out a small, sharp cry and races into his waiting arms. Maxim cradles her against his chest, holding her tightly. She inhales his scent. It’s clean and warm and familiar.
Maxim.
Never let me go.
A movement at the periphery of her vision catches her attention. Her father has risen from his seat, and he’s gaping at the two of them. He opens his mouth to say something—
“We’re home!” calls Anatoli from the hall, and he swaggers into the room carrying her duffel bag, expecting a hero’s welcome.
“Trust me,” Alessia whispers to Maxim.
He stares into her eyes, his face full of love, and he kisses the top of her head. “Always.”
Anatoli halts at the doorway. Stunned into silence.
* * *
Alessia turns to her father, who’s looking from us to the arsehole who kidnapped her. Anthony? Antonio? I don’t remember his name, but he’s a good-looking bastard. His glacial blue eyes a
re wide with bewilderment at first, but they narrow, coolly assessing me and the woman in my arms. I tuck Alessia under my arm, protecting her from him and her father.
“Babë,” Alessia says to her dad, “më duket se jam shtatzënë dhe ai është i ati.”
There is a collective gasp of shock that rattles through the room.
What the fuck did she say?
“What?” roars the arsehole in English, and he drops her bag as his face contorts with anger.
Her father glowers dumbfounded at her and me, his complexion becoming more florid.
Thanas leans toward me and whispers. “She’s just told her father she thinks she’s pregnant and that you’re the father.”
“What?”
I feel a little dizzy. But wait…She can’t possibly…We only…We used…
She’s lying.
Her father reaches for his shotgun.
Fuck.
* * *
“You told me you were bleeding!” Anatoli screams at Alessia, and a vein in his forehead pulses with wrath.
Mama starts crying.
“I lied! I didn’t want you to touch me!” She turns to her father. “Babë, please. Don’t make me marry him. He is an angry, violent man. He will kill me.”
Baba stares at her, both bemused and angry, while beside Maxim a man Alessia doesn’t know quietly translates everything she’s just said into English. But she has no time for this stranger now. “See,” she says to Baba, and opening her coat, she yanks down the neck of her sweater, revealing the dark bruises around her throat.
Mama sobs out loud.
“What the fuck!” Maxim bellows, and he lunges at Anatoli, grabbing him by the neck and throwing them both onto the floor.
* * *
He’s fucking dead.
Adrenaline coursing through my body, I take the fucker by surprise, knocking the breath out of him as he hits the floor with me on top of him.