Demand

by Lisa Renee Jones

  “We need to talk. Alone. Where are you?”

  “My tower.”

  “And Adriel and Marabella?”

  “Marabella’s in our kitchen, baking. That’s her way of coping with last night. And Adriel is holed up in his office upstairs. That’s his way of sparing us all his bad mood.”

  “Is his office in your tower, or the store?”

  “My tower, but I can come to you.”

  I punch the button to lift the door between our tower and the main lobby. “The walls have ears in this place,” I say, ducking under the door and entering the foyer. “Can we go out to lunch?” I glance up the central tower stairs, where the huge wooden door to the store is closed. “Or will Adriel not allow you to leave after last night?”

  “Why does he have to know?”

  That’s not the answer I want from her, but it’s a good opening for the information I need. “I thought all the doors pinged his phone.”

  “Not the garages or the store.”

  Bingo. I start walking across the foyer toward the central tower steps. “We aren’t going to piss everyone off more by sneaking out,” I say hypocritically, since that’s exactly what I’m about to do. “But we need to talk and eat.” As I start up the stairs, I remember Gallo’s threat and ask, “Did you send Detective Gallo any text messages?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “You know Matteo can hack your messages, right?”

  “There’s nothing to hack. What’s happening?”

  “We’ll talk over lunch,” I say. “How’s one o’clock?”

  “Great. Should I come to you?”

  “That’s not a good idea,” I say, hating that her suggestion makes me suspicious.

  “Because Kayden doesn’t want me in your tower.”

  “Let’s give him space to cool off,” I say. “How about we meet in the store?”

  “Fine. There are no text messages.”

  “Good. Keep it that way.”

  I end the call and jog my way up the stone steps to the store, where I’m forced to wait on the electronic door, wishing like heck we had one normal door I could just open and shut. Finally, though, I’m inside the store. The windows are shuttered, but the front door is not, and the lock flips easily. The process of resetting the lock isn’t as easy, though, and it takes me a few tries before I figure it out. When I finally step outside, successfully locking up behind me, I’m hit by the bitter February cold. And compared to the front of the castle, the street view here is like being on another planet. Back here there’s no plaza, just a wall smack in front of me, and narrow, grayish, uneven brick roads with no sidewalks.

  Aware that every moment standing here is one when Adriel could intercept my departure, I turn left and start walking, then after a few feet, I turn right down another tiny street, a cold wind lifting my hair, and freezing my scarf-less neck. While this one is just as narrow, it’s quieter, without retail stores and street vendors. Desperate to get away from another gust of wind, I slip into an alcove and pull out my phone. Sure enough, Gallo has indeed texted me the meeting details, and it appears that Caffè del Cinque has become Bar del Cinque. I’m not quite sure what to make of that, especially at this early hour, but whatever the case, I key the address into Google, and discover that it’s straight ahead and to the right.

  Pushing off the wall, I start walking again, but I’ve only taken a few steps when that same sense of being watched, which I felt in the castle hallway, returns. Glancing over my shoulder, I see a couple of women behind me that seem to be chatting it up, but no one else. Still, that feeling persists, and though I charge forward, I reach under my coat to unzip my purse, keeping my hand there for easy access to Charlie.

  Uneventfully, I turn the corner and arrive at “Bar del Cinque.” The door is standing open despite the cold, and Italian pop music drifts outside. I cross the threshold, pausing just inside the entryway to find what I’d consider a typical American hotspot with clusters of wooden tables and a few booths near the back. To my left, the half-moon-shaped bar has been transformed from a place to drink to a place to display a lineup of pastries and coffee cups, proving I have much to learn about how Rome operates. I wonder what it would feel like to know this place as home, the way Kayden does, and to do so with him. But if Kayden is one of the most powerful men in Europe, which surely he is, as is Niccolo, how can Kayden expect that I can stay long term, and never cross paths with him? Unless . . . he doesn’t expect me to stay?

  “Eleana!”

  At the sound of my fake name, I scan the mostly full tables and finally spot Gallo standing by a booth in the back of the room. I zip my purse up, stuff my phone into my pocket, and move in his direction. He watches my approach, transfixed it seems and not in a sexual way; more clinical, assessing. If he thought it’d make me uneasy, he’s failed. Instead, I have the sense that he’s trying to figure me out and doesn’t mind me knowing it, which is a bit unnerving yet also comforting. His gaze says he doesn’t have the full picture of who I am—yet. But he’s trying way too hard.

  And too soon, I am at the side of the table facing him and I see that his normally wrinkled suit is fairly well-pressed today, while the shadow on his jawline appears as perpetual as the sharpness of his gray eyes.

  “Eleana,” he greets me, the name sliding off his tongue much more comfortably than it meets my ears.

  “Detective.”

  He waves me to my seat. “Shall we?”

  I take a seat and when he joins me, sitting across from me, I note the red streaking the whites of his eyes. “You look tired,” I say. “Did you stay up all night, thinking about how to terrorize me today?”

  “I got up early to make a meeting,” he replies dryly, his eyes lighting with amusement, not irritation. “Nice of you to finally show up for it.”

  In this moment, with his mood slightly lighter, I’m reluctantly reminded that he’s rather handsome—a detail that doesn’t help me keep Giada away from him. “You said this place was a café,” I say, “but the sign says bar. That was very confusing.”

  “Bar means ‘coffee bar.’ ”

  I want to ask about Giada’s text messages, but jumping into that topic might indicate the severity of my concern, so I stick to small talk. “I’ve been to a bar here in Rome, and it was beer and wine.”

  “A bar can be many things,” he says, and pauses for obvious effect. “As can a person.”

  “It’s confusing,” I comment, pretending not to notice he’s talking about me, and has somehow managed to nail my fear that I am not who I think I am.

  “Not to Italians,” he replies, “but you, Eleana, are another story. You are one big question mark.”

  “I’m not even a small question mark to myself anymore. I know who I am and why I’m here—as do you, since I’ve shared the details with you.”

  “But that’s not the real picture, is it?”

  Alarm bells go off in my head, but I don’t react beyond a curious furrowed brow. “I’m confused by that comment. What does that mean?”

  “Ciao!”

  I silently curse the bad timing of the bald, middle-aged waiter with a short salt-and-pepper beard who’s just arrived at our table. “Would you like a coffee?”

  “Yes, please,” I say. “I’m American, so whatever is most popular here in Rome.”

  “Cappuccino is what Italy is famous for,” he supplies.

  “Then cappuccino it is.”

  The man gives me a smile and a nod before he turns to Gallo, who speaks to him in Italian. The man replies and gives me a curious look, then departs, leaving me frowning in his wake.

  “Why not take your coat off and stay awhile?” Gallo challenges.

  “I’m chilly.”

  “Nerves do that.”

  “I thought nerves made people warm and clammy?”

  He laces his fingers together on top of the table. “Have you remembered how you ended up in that alleyway?
”

  “Unfortunately, no,” I say, glad to have this start out with something I can answer honestly. “I remember basic things. The rest is still cloudy.”

  “What things are ‘basic’?”

  “That answer changes often,” I say. “For instance, I won’t remember a particular food I like or hate, until it’s presented to me. But when it is, it’s like a light switch being flipped. I’m a puzzle that is slowly filling in the pieces.”

  “And where does Kayden fit into that puzzle?”

  “If you have questions about Kayden, Detective, ask Kayden.”

  “I asked a question about you, not him. Where does he fit into your puzzle?”

  “At this point, I’m figuring out just about everything in my life.”

  “Including him?”

  “Of course,” I say, because it’s what he needs to hear, not because it’s what I feel. What I truly feel is connected to Kayden, right with him in ways this man cannot change.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Sure? How can someone with amnesia be sure of anything?” And yet, for reasons I can’t explain, sitting here with Kayden’s enemy, I find that nothing in me is unsure about Kayden. And with that feeling, any worry I had last night, that my memories could turn me against him, evaporates.

  He studies me for several awkwardly heavy moments. “And yet you can’t seem to understand that a casual stroll down memory lane in a bad neighborhood could be dangerous. Even deadly.”

  “I have no idea what that means, either. You’re talking in code. I’m a direct person, Detective. If you have something to say to me, please just say it.”

  “All right, then. Kayden wasn’t in that alleyway going to the damn supermarket, as he claimed. He was after something, and he ended up with you. So either he’s helping you hide something—”

  “Hide something?” I demand indignantly.

  “. . . or he’s after something he thinks you can give him,” he continues. “If the latter is true, what do you think will happen when he finally gets it?”

  I want to lean away, to withdraw, so I flatten my hands on the table and lean forward. “I know why you hate him.”

  “What happens when he gets what he wants?”

  “How do you know I’m not what he wants?” I challenge.

  “I have no doubt he wants you, but my question is why?”

  “Insulting me isn’t going to win you points here.”

  “I don’t want points,” he bites out. “I want justice.”

  “You want revenge,” I say. “And you want it to the point that it’s illogical and scary. Do you even care if you hurt other people to hurt him?”

  “I care if he hurts other people.”

  “And yet you’re hurting Giada by using her.”

  “You’re very hung up on Giada. She clearly worries you.”

  There’s an implication of more than sisterly worry that I decide is going no place good, so I sidestep it. “Why am I here, Detective?”

  He reaches down to his seat and sets a file on the table. “It’s time you understand who, and what, he is.” He opens the file and sets a picture in front of me, of a man in his mid-forties. “Do you know who this is?”

  “I do not.”

  “He’s my boss.” He slides the picture down the table but still facing me, setting another one in front of me. This one is of a younger man, mid-thirties maybe, with dark, curly hair. “What about this man? Do you know him?”

  “No,” I answer honestly.

  “His name is Raul Martinez, and he’s the leader of a Mexican cartel that’s in bed with the Italian mafia.”

  I don’t react to this information, but he’s too close for comfort. “Why are you telling me this?”

  His answer is to flip over another photo that turns my stomach—and it’s all I can do not to react. “What about him? Do you know him?”

  “No. I don’t know any of these people.”

  “Niccolo Bulgari,” he supplies. “The leader of the Italian mafia. And do you know what all of these men have in common?” His reply is to start turning over photos of Kayden with each of the men. “Kayden is what they have in common.”

  I glance at the photos and then at Gallo. “Do you know all of these men?”

  “It’s my job to know them.”

  “So those men all have you in common as well, right?”

  His jaw clenches and he turns over another photo. “This man,” he says, indicating a tall, thin man in an impressive suit, “is a politician believed to have killed his wife.” He shoves a photo of Kayden talking to the man in front of me. “That was taken right after she died,” he continues. “For all we know, Kayden killed her.”

  “Kayden didn’t kill her,” I snap, not sure what the explanation is for this and wishing I knew.

  “And you know this how?”

  “Because I know.”

  “Because he told you.”

  The waiter chooses that moment to set our coffees in front of us, and it’s all I can do to murmur a “thank you” and listen to Gallo do the same before we are left alone again. Gallo shoves aside his coffee and I do the same. “Because he told you,” he repeats, and it’s a statement, not a question.

  “No,” I say. “There was nothing to tell me.”

  “And you know this how?”

  “Because I’ve gotten to know Kayden,” I say, not even blinking before I reply.

  “Then you know that Kayden is a Treasure Hunter who will do anything for money.”

  “You forget the part where I said I’ve gotten to know him—so I know that statement is false. And murder is not just anything, nor is treasure hunting murder.”

  “I’m quite clear on the meaning of the word murder, as is Kayden, I assure you.” He narrows those shrewd eyes on me. “Just how involved in his definition of anything are you?”

  “Enough to know your accusations are completely misplaced, and driven by bitterness that’s eating you alive.”

  “Accusations are only misplaced if untrue, and mine are not.”

  “Accusations exist,” I countered, “because they’re without merit and fact, which you clearly don’t have or you’d have arrested him already.”

  “You are quick-witted for a woman with amnesia, Eleana.”

  The overuse and emphasis of my fake name doesn’t feel accidental, nor is the bite to my voice as I say, “Amnesia doesn’t mean stupid.”

  “Right. Just . . . absentminded. And as eager as you are to fill in your blank spaces, I’m surprised you haven’t asked about those activities that I mentioned on the phone.”

  “On cue to please you,” I say, steeling myself for a bullet. “What activities?”

  “Those that include a man who consorts with the mafia and a drug cartel. That, Eleana, means you are, as well. I’d have thought that would disturb you, yet you didn’t even blink when I mentioned it.”

  “My knowledge of the mafia and cartels comes from movies like The Godfather. And if anything I’ve seen is true, they’re terrifying. I’ve also seen enough of Kayden’s world to know the difference.”

  “Another of those amnesia anomalies. You remember The Godfather but not how you got to Italy.”

  “I told you—”

  “You have a selective memory. I get it. And since you have an apparently selective understanding of the English language, despite using it better than I do, let’s go back to visuals.” He grabs the picture he showed me of Kayden standing with Niccolo and points at Niccolo. “Mafia king.” He points at Kayden. “The man in your bed. They’re laughing. They’re friends.”

  “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer,” I say. “You, it seems, just throw daggers at yours.”

  “‘Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.’ Interesting concept there. Since you’ve gotten to see inside Kayden’s world, maybe you can enlighten me on how that saying applies to the people around him.” He sets the picture of Kayden with his boss in front of me. “Is he one of Kayden�
��s friends or his enemy?” He replaces the photo with the one of Kayden and Niccolo again. “What about him? Because to me, it’s hard to tell where his allegiances are. And you know why? Because his only real devotion is to himself. Kayden Wilkens is an opportunist.”

  “Says the man using a young, grieving girl to exact revenge.”

  He gathers the photos and stuffs them back inside the folder, then crosses his arms in front of him and levels me a hard stare. “I think you know a lot of things you aren’t telling me.” He leans forward again. “A good fuck does not make a good man.”

  Anger knifes through me. I stand, and seeming to anticipate my action, he stands as well, his folder in hand. “We’re done,” I say.

  He studies me several moments that feel eternal. I’m not sure what he wishes to find, or if he’s simply trying to intimidate me, but the result is a twist of his lips. “For now.” He slaps a few euros on the table and starts to walk away.

  “Wait,” I say quickly, and he backs up a step and gives me another arched brow. “Leave Giada alone.”

  “Not until she’s out of the castle. Same story with you, Eleana. Because what you can’t see for the blinders you’re wearing is that I care, and you need someone like me.”

  “Don’t try to make this about me and Giada, when it’s about you and Kayden. Leave us out of this.”

  “He hasn’t, so I can’t.”

  “So you’ll hurt us to hurt him? Is that really who you are?”

  “Maybe I don’t show it in the way you want me to, but I’m not a man of vengeance. I’m a man of the badge. I’m protecting you.”

  “By treating me like a criminal?”

  “I know people. I read them and I know how to get their attention. Had I pleasantly warned you that you were sleeping with the enemy, you would have dismissed me. But you aren’t dismissing me. You’re thinking about what I’ve told you now. I see it in your eyes, even if you don’t see it in yourself. I am protecting you. Call me when you figure that out. I will be here for you.” He starts walking again, and I don’t stop him, a memory of my father filling my mind.

  I’m standing at the window of our living room and there are two men in official Army uniforms, though my father is dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, home for a rare month. I watch as one of the men steps close to my father and they square off.