11. Ofelia #2
My smile falters. “Why not?”
“Mickey and I are in Greece, darling, and then we’re headed for France. The yacht is booked up for the next two months at least.”
Which means Alexei is probably there too. I imagine him, suntanned and unsmiling, a half-naked girl on his knee, and have the familiar, sharp, visceral urge to kill something.
Preferably the fucking girl.
“Oh” is all I manage.
“But hey.” Lars’s voice lowers, and he’s clearly moved away from the crowd, because the background noise fades. “I’ve got friends with a yacht in the area. Why don’t I give them a call and see what they can do?”
But that yacht won’t have Alexei on it, I think dully. That was the only reason I wanted to take Lars up on his invitation. Not because I cared about having some party week on a yacht in the Mediterranean, but because I hoped, vainly as it turns out, that it might be an excuse to see Alexei again.
Only Alexei is clearly otherwise occupied. And just as clearly not interested in talking to me, if Lars is carrying the phone away from the party.
It’s the same as it ever was.
I’m just a kid. Mickey’s sister, Roman’s daughter. Not someone to be trusted with whatever is really going on with Alexei. And certainly not important enough to pull him away from Lars’s yacht and whatever wild party is going on there.
“Sure,” I say, trying to sound grateful. “That’s nice of you, Lars.”
“Yeah.” His laugh has an oddly sharp edge to it. “I’m a stand-up guy, huh. I’ll get back to you, okay?” He takes the phone away from his ear for a moment, then returns to the line. “Mickey says hi, by the way. Oh, and your friend Benny sends his love.”
Benny?
I’m about to ask what the hell, but Lars has already ended the call.
I text Benny immediately. WTF???? You didn’t tell me you’re in Greece!!
A few moments later, Benny’s response pings my phone. Just happened last night. The Viking sent a car for me, and next thing I knew, I was in Athens. Now we’re moored on the island of Paxos and gurrrrrllll . . . it’s WILD. In more ways than one.
Corrosive jealousy twists in my belly. It only gets worse when, a moment later, he sends a link to the Darkside.
My heart thudding, I click on it and see a batch of photographs of Lars’s yacht, thronging with beautiful people.
I can see Mickey grinning in the background, some leggy blonde sprawled over his lap.
But it isn’t my brother I’m looking at. Nor at the picture of Lars with his arm slung around Benny’s shoulders, grinning openly into the camera.
It’s another photo, at the bottom of the batch. Of a tall man in a dark T-shirt, leaning up against the railing in the background. He’s only shown in profile, like he’s hiding from the camera—but his eye patch is unmistakable.
Alexei.
I stare at the photograph, my heart thudding.
Slowly I enlarge it, devouring every detail as if I could touch him.
He’s turned away from the camera, toward the sea.
I wish I could see his face, his expression, but all I have to go by is the hand gripping the railing.
I zoom in on it, then suddenly freeze, holding my breath.
That isn’t Alexei’s hand.
I know it the same way I can recall every touch of his fingers on my skin. I know the shape of Alexei’s hands almost as well as my own. They’ve haunted my dreams for years now, and barely two weeks ago they touched places on my body nobody else ever has.
I enlarge the photo again, staring at the hand until my eyes water. It might not be Alexei’s, but there’s something familiar about the long fingers, the loose grip on the railing.
Loose.
And suddenly, I get it. I zoom in on the profile, but even up close, it’s grainy and indistinct. Not that it matters. I know those hands, and I know who is wearing that eye patch.
Lars.
Hastily I flick through the most recent articles on the Darkside.
There’s a batch of Alexei in Cuba. Again, he’s shown in grainy profile, as if he’s trying to hide from the cameras.
Sitting with a girl on his knee, shielding his face from view.
Leaning against the yacht railing, his back to the camera.
At least a dozen photos, none of which ever show his face clearly, but which all offer glimpses of his eye patch, enough to fool most observers. The captions all hint at a secret romance with a recently divorced actress, one I happen to know is a close friend of Lars.
Only I know the person in those photos isn’t Alexei.
Even surrounded by a phalanx of security, his face shielded from the cameras, I just know.
I’ve seen him and Lars side by side enough times to notice the tiny differences others might miss.
And even if they look uncannily similar, there’s just something unmistakable about the way Alexei holds himself, a certain grim tension that can’t be feigned.
These photos might be enough to fool the public, and probably anyone looking for him, but I know the person in them is Lars.
The first tremors of excitement trip my heart.
Lars is pretending to be Alexei, and he’s using the Darkside to give credence to his story.
Which means that Alexei is somewhere else entirely.
My phone vibrates again, with another message from Benny. Lars’s friends will be in touch, it reads. Have fun at your yacht party. Look out for ?.
I stare at the skull and crossbones emoji, heat rushing through me.
Pirates.
Alexei isn’t just somewhere else.
He’s close by.
On the yacht Lars mentioned?
Hugging myself, I spin tightly on the spot, a half scream stuck in my throat.
I’m awake, but I’m not in Granada.
I’m back in the concrete cell beneath the Miami compound, woken in the middle of the night by a noise I can’t place.
I know it’s night because the harsh fluorescent lights in our room are dimmed.
I hate not knowing what time it is exactly.
The only way I can measure it is by how much I feel like I’ve slept.
I also know that Alexei usually leaves us at some point during the night, replaced by Dima, the same man who drove the limousine the day we arrived, whom Alexei clearly trusts.
It’s usually only for a short time, while Alexei showers and changes, and, I assume, tries to sleep for an hour or so.
At first, I think that is what I’m hearing, just the change of guards.
Then I realize that Alexei and Dima are talking.
It’s a low, hushed whisper, barely audible, and they clearly think I’m asleep.
“How many?” Alexei asks.
“All of Dom’s crew. And Krasky’s. Your own crew, of course. At least sixty, all told.”
“It will go down sometime in the next few days. Tell them all to be ready, Dima. This place needs to be disarmed the minute Roman Borovsky breaches it, or they’ll all be blown sky-high.”
“We know. We’ll be ready, Lex.”
“I don’t like the way Orlov is looking at Ofelia,” Alexei mutters. “He might come for her before it goes down.”
I shiver inside.
“Surely he wouldn’t be that stupid?” Dima makes a disgusted sound. “Borovsky will fucking slaughter him.”
“Borovsky will slaughter him regardless.” Alexei’s voice is cold and dispassionate.
“Either way, it makes little difference to Orlov. If Borovsky’s dead, he can’t hurt Orlov anyway.
If he lives, he might murder Orlov with his bare hands, but he will still be too late to undo the damage Orlov has done to his girls.
I know Orlov. I know how the sick fuck thinks. ”
“Jesus.” Dima sounds appalled. “What are you going to do?”
“There’s nothing I can do. We have to ride this to the end, or we’re dead men and it’s all been for nothing.” In the dim light, I see Alexei’s grim expression. “I’m likely dead either way. I can’t see Borovsky forgiving the man who took a knife to his only child.”
Dima clicks his tongue. “If it wasn’t for you, she’d have been raped on day one, and you know it. The only reason Orlov’s kept his hands off that girl is because he gets even more of a thrill out of making you cut her.”
“Well, I can’t hold him off much longer. Even his men are starting to eyeball her.” Alexei shakes his head abruptly. “Look, Dima. If this goes down and I take a bullet—”
“You won’t.”
“I fucking might. You know it as well as I do.” Even as a whisper, I can hear the hard note of realism in his voice. “If I do, I need to know you’ll get those girls to safety. Promise me.”
“You know I will, Alexei. You have my word.” The man’s answer comes immediately.
There’s a pause. I barely dare breathe for fear they realize I’m listening. Finally Dima breaks the silence.
“About Ofelia. What will you do if Orlov orders you to . . .” He leaves the sentence hanging, but I don’t need him to finish it.
“I don’t know.” Alexei’s head drops into his hands, the butt of his rifle rubbing tiredly over his head. “I have no goddamn idea, Dima. I just hope he doesn’t.”