42. Alessio
FORTY-TWO
ALESSIO
Alessio
Leo’s in his room, not talking to me, not wanting to see me, refusing to have anything to do with me. Why? Because this morning, when we sat down for breakfast, he asked me if we could keep Lake after her contract is over. I promised him that Lake would stay with us forever because I intended to ask her to marry me.
Leo couldn’t have been any happier. He suggested we bribe her with donuts, so that’s what we did.
If I weren’t sure Lake would have said yes, I wouldn’t have told Leo about my proposal. I wouldn’t have put him through the ordeal of the rejection. But I would have asked her to marry me sooner or later, with or without him present, because I wanted her as my wife, and I knew there was no way she could remain in my employ.
I don’t mind rejections. They don’t bother me as much as the profound loss of not being around a woman I thought I could grow old with. I’ll have to live without her for the rest of my life, when I was certain, goddamn it, I was certain she was mine.
I have always trusted my judgment, and when my intuition fails me like this, it feels like I’ve been blindsided. I don’t know what to think. Part of me wants to call her and ask her why.
But I have rules when it comes to self-worth. Rules that I tried to tell my dead baby sister about. I used to tell her she should never beg a man for scraps of his attention, his money, his anything. I apply that rule to myself. I will not beg. I stand by my principles that tell me my partner in life will choose me without reservation. She will have me just the way I am, or we aren’t meant for each other.
Still, I was sure. I don’t mind rejection, but hers still hurts, and my misjudging her threw me off my axis.
It’s half past noon. I chug from the miniature bottle of whiskey until it’s empty and toss it into the garbage, then grab whatever I get my hands on next. It’s something clear. Maybe vodka. I don’t care. I uncap the tiny bottle and am putting it to my lips when my phone rings.
I don’t pick up.
Leo is with me and everyone else can kindly fuck off and take care of themselves for a change. In fact, as the clear liquid burns down my throat, I consider buying another island where only Leo and I will live. We’ll fish all day and make sandcastles. Yeah, that sounds great.
I’ll park a couple of naval destroyers in the waters near the island and secure the warhead that the military leaders of the world failed to protect and now somehow think I’m the one who should serve them in rescuing it out of the goodness of my heart. I wouldn’t build an airport, because I want nobody on my island, but I would buy at least three fighter jets for various visitors tried to approach us from the air.
I pick up another small, clear bottle and sip it. This is vodka, which reminds me of Lake.
I aim for the wall, but at the last minute, I throw the bottle into the garbage. It shatters, so it’s a little satisfying. After taking all the bottles from the mini fridge, I uncap each and every one and start drinking, then smash the glass into the can. The vase is next. The bowl from the counter in the kitchenette. I swipe my hand over the counter. Wine bottles crash to the floor, red wine spilling across the marble.
The door clicks and someone walks in on quiet feet. He’s tall, wears black on black, has short, dark hair, and dark eyes.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
Niksha gives me a once-over. “The cops got called because someone threw burned woman’s clothing off the terrace.”
“And you thought it was me?”
“Leo called Valerina. Valerina called me. The hotel is unhappy about the clothes.”
“They can sue me. How long have you been in Paris?”
“Long enough to know the crisis you’re dealing with shouldn’t attract the attention of the local police.”
“Unless you’re taking over the crisis, you can see yourself outside.”
“I’m not here about business.” Niksha steps closer, crushing the glass under his boot. “You’re a mess.” He moves toward Leo’s bedroom, but I pounce on him. I grab the back of his throat and force him against the counter. “Am I not allowed to be a mess? Are you my mother now? Or maybe my father, who would say, Hey son, you left a towel hanging over the chair when you got back from the gym. Show me your hands . Then he would take the crop he used on his horses and whack my palms until they showed welts. All I could think about was how I was glad this time was my palms and not the soles of my feet. Those really hurt. He taught me to be grateful for a beating because I left a small mess.” Niksha says nothing, and I let him go.
His phone rings, and while he answers, I go toward Leo’s room. I open it to check on him and find him bundled up on the bed.
I close the door and head to my room, but Niksha steps in front of me. “We have a situation.”
I ignore him and move toward the exit to tell security to call housekeeping for the spill in the kitchenette. When I return, Niksha traps me in the hallway. We’re about the same build.
“Get out of my way,” I warn.
“We have a situation,” he repeats.
“I heard. Handle it.”
“It’s about your woman.”
“Ha!” I spread my arms. “I have no woman. I’m alone. Always alone. An island in a man.” In my bedroom that smells like Lake, or, more precisely, a well-fucked Lake, I shrug off my suit jacket, release my tie, and throw it on the bed. I’ll swim a few laps. Did Rosalba pack Leo’s bathing suit?
“Alessio.” Niksha clears his throat as he stands by the door. “Miro has your woman.”
I stop yanking my shirt out of the waistband, lean in with my head tilted to the side, my fingers angling my ear toward Niksha as if that’ll make me hear better. “Pardon?”
“Miro handled the situation, and your woman is involved.”
There’s only one way Miro would “handle” a situation. “What are you saying?” I go to the closet, where I open the safe and gather more ammunition. On my way out, I stop to face Niksha. “What are you saying?” My voice rises, and I wince, hoping my nephew will stay mad at me and in his room.
“Your woman was the mole,” Niksha says. “The foreign nationals you had me look into? The three who were on your island? They converted her, and she has been feeding them information ever since.”
I press my gun under his chin. “Say that again. I dare you.”
Niksha swallows. “Alessio, you’re compromised and not thinking clearly. Let Miro do what he does best.”
I nudge his chin with the gun, my finger twitching over the trigger. “Where is he holding her?” Niksha says nothing. He won’t tell me. He believes I’m compromised, and he’s looking at the big picture and saving the world and me. This means he’ll have cleared Lake for execution. This means she really is a mole. And yet, I can’t imagine a world without her in it.
“I’ll do it myself,” I say. “Tell me where she is.”
Niksha remains silent.
The door to Leo’s bedroom opens. I grab Niksha by his collar and press him against the wall inside my bedroom. I nudge his chin again. “I’m not bluffing. Three. Two. One.”
“Downstairs. Room 502. I’m taking Leo to Val.”