6. Alexei #3
I enter the downstairs restaurant part of the venue with a healthy degree of trepidation, despite the slight defrosting of relations with Ofelia’s friends.
It’s been a long time since I walked into a venue I didn’t either own or was doing business in.
Even longer since I’ve had to concern myself with moderating my behavior.
That’s the thing about being the head of a criminal organization notorious for egregious violence: one’s reputation tends to supersede the need to master social niceties.
And there I am using the objective third person like I was fucking born to it.
I smile inwardly as we take the narrow staircase up to the bar, partly at my own inner monologue and in part from an affectionate humor at the peculiarities of European cities.
The staircase opens to a French Revolution–style salon, with a painted ceiling, modern-meets-classical furnishings, and comfortable seating around low tables.
A bar like this would be derided in Miami as the worst kind of poky dive.
Here, it feels not only chic but fabulously illicit.
I like it. Not as much as the rough, jovial bars in the Spanish villages near my sister’s house, but definitely better than I do Miami’s neon and glitz.
To my intense relief, two tall figures at the end by the window stand as we enter, their bow ties already loosened. “Hey, motherfucker,” Lars calls across the room, waving enthusiastically.
“It’s fantasy time, Benny,” comes Lourdes’s giggling aside from behind me.
I’m too relieved to pay her much attention.
I cross the bar and embrace my oldest friend. “No trouble?” I murmur.
“Nope.” Under the guise of enthusiastically pounding my back, Lars puts his mouth close to my ear.
“I told the Finns that you were supposed to meet me in Helsinki but ditched me for some deal in South America. They bought it, so hopefully they’ll spread the word.
The Quantum Drift is on its way to Marseilles with the crew you requested.
And Mickey worked all night on your identity. ”
Thank Christ for that, I think as he steps back, grinning loosely around at the group.
His open, easy, puppy-dog style affection is entirely at odds with his cool delivery of a minute ago.
Mastering our respective facades is how we’ve made our partnership work over the years.
Lars is the quirky tech genius who loves to party; I’m the deadly muscle who finances him.
The truth is that neither of us is quite what we seem. It works to our advantage that very few people ever see beneath the surface.
And it’s not all a facade: going by Lars and Mickey’s rumpled tuxedos and bloodshot eyes, they’ve clearly drunk their way from Finland to here.
Seeing Lourdes and Benny watching our exchange curiously, I do my best to remain the lighthearted pirate they met in the limo.
“I told the family your flight was delayed,” I say, fixing Lars with a mock stern expression, “so straighten your ties, fuckers, and act like you weren’t partying in some random bar in Finland until whatever o’clock this morning.
” I give Benny and Lourdes a warning look.
“And not a word out of you two about why these two are late, either. Especially to Mickey’s sister. ”
Lourdes, smirking, mimics zipping her lips. Benny is too busy staring at Lars like he’s the second coming to answer.
Mickey greets them both with warm hugs, but his smile fades as he turns to me.
“Thanks,” I say in an undertone, gripping his hand as the others talk among themselves. “I’m sorry you got mixed up in this, Mickey. I owe you one.”
He dismisses my thanks with a brief tilt of his head, but there’s little warmth in the deep blue eyes that meet mine. “I wouldn’t tell Roman why you’re here, if I were you,” he says flatly. “And I’d get the fuck out of town before he finds out.”
I swallow another familiar urge, this time the desire to knock Mickey on his ass and remind him that I was handling business long before he could handle a keyboard, let alone a gun.
“I wasn’t planning on sticking around.” I match his tone and manage to sound like I mean it.
My relationship with Ofelia’s brother is just as complicated as the one I have with her father.
It hasn’t gotten any easier since Mickey’s been working with Lars, who has been my closest friend since we were two geek teenagers sharing a room at boarding school, dreaming of the tech company we would one day create.
But the Orlovs stole that future. After their coup, it was Lars who put his name to our company and became known as a boy genius.
Only he and I know that many of Andersson Technologies’ world-leading ideas came to Lars from my family compound, via an outdated gaming console I managed to reconfigure.
There’s nothing like being strapped to a table and repeatedly cut open to make a man find an escape for the mind. And I was given a hell of a lot of reasons to escape.
By the time I’d defeated the Orlovs, wrestled their allies into submission, and was ready to start thinking about Andersson Technologies again, Mickey and Lars were already a team, two tech geniuses beloved by the tabloids.
There’s no place on magazine covers for a third face. Especially one as scarred and brutal as mine.
And besides, the last thing I need is publicity.
It’s better for everyone if I stay in the background, financing the projects rather than fronting them. I escape in private these days. When I do share an idea with Lars, I’m more than happy for him to take credit for it. I don’t like being the public face of anything.
I don’t like the public, full stop.
Which is exactly why I should make my excuses and get the fuck out of here. ASAP.
“You have to try one of these cocktails.” Lars waves the menu at me as if I’d spoken my thoughts aloud.
He’s always possessed an uncanny ability to understand what I’m thinking before I put it into words.
“These drinks might look like a fucking science experiment, but they’re smoother than Mickey’s coding.
Which, let’s face it,” he adds, beaming in the infectious way that is impossible to resist, “isn’t that big a boast.”
Benny and Lourdes both erupt into laughter.
“Don’t start with the geek speak,” I say, taking the cocktail menu out of his hand.
“And the two of you better go to the bathroom and tidy yourselves up before Roman arrives. At least try to look like you didn’t drink the plane dry and your tuxes haven’t already had twenty-four hours’ solid workout. ”
“Listen to you, acting like a responsible adult,” Lars says, “not to mention talking about geek speak like you weren’t coding in third grade.
He’s the original nerd,” he adds to Benny and Lourdes over his shoulder as he and Mickey head for the bathrooms. “Even if he likes to look like a big bad criminal.”
At least that gets the ghost of a smile out of Mickey’s stony face. Mickey knows more than anyone else about my role in Andersson Technologies.
He’s also smart enough not to ask awkward questions.
“That man is a fucking god,” Benny says, his eyes glued to Lars’s ass until the bathroom door swings shut.
“There’s a drink on this menu called a passion dévorante.” I shoot him a sly glance. “It means consuming passion, if my French serves. Sounds like it might be right up your alley, if you’ll excuse the pun.”
“Oh, fuck you, Jack Sparrow.” He throws a fluffy pink cushion at me. “And you’re paying,” he says, pointing the menu in my direction. “Since we’re covering for your lies and giving you inside information on musicians.”
I order a Scotch, listening to Benny and Lourdes order drinks with titles that sound like the fantasy section of a bookstore, and try not to think about what happens after tonight.
Then I remember the way Ofelia looked in that black dress and think I’d do better focusing on getting through tonight, rather than about what comes after it.
It’s definitely better for everyone if I fuck off.
I sense the new arrivals coming up the steps long before they enter, probably because waiting for Ofelia has me wired tighter than one of her piano strings. When her profile finally comes into view, I stare at the entrance like a dumbstruck kid, my every sense having flown straight out of my brain.
Ofelia is wearing the same dress she did on stage.
It’s cut simply, barely skimming her figure as it falls to the floor, but it’s made of some kind of floaty material that moves around her in a way that gives tantalizing hints of the body beneath.
Her hair is swept into an elegant updo that my fingers ache to pull loose, and she’s wearing the necklace my father chose for her from our vault.
I remember how that neck felt cradled in my hand, and for a sudden, savage moment, I remember the taste of her skin so vividly it takes my breath away.
I stand, and her eyes meet mine the moment she enters the bar. I watch her cross the room, oblivious to the blur of faces behind her as she approaches.
“Darling!” Lars reappears, enveloping Ofelia from behind, making her squeal in surprise. He spins her around and deposits her on the other side of him, effectively shielding her from my view. “I can’t believe we missed your grand debut. I hear you were utterly spectacular, of course.”
Ofelia’s head is hidden in his shoulder, so I don’t hear her reply. She turns to greet Mickey, waving off his apologies with easy affection. I hang back as Lourdes and Benny rush over, swamping her in a group hug and a torrent of compliments.
Roman has his head bent toward Mickey, listening to his godson as he shakes Lars’s hand. He nods briefly, clapping Mickey on the shoulder and turning back toward the room with a smile that says he’s swallowed whatever bullshit excuse Mickey has fed him.
Thank fuck for that.