Epilogue Part 2
Tatiana
" Drive around the block, please, Georg."
"Yes, Ms. Juric."
I am not my father's daughter; I am my mother's daughter. That said, I was still half-raised by the man, despite my mother's best efforts, which means I'm always alert and aware, constantly scanning my surroundings, which is how I pick up the blacked-out Mercedes SUV that's been following us for the last several miles.
As Georg, my driver, makes a right-hand turn on Vukovara, I remain twisted in my seat, watching the G-Wagen as it slides out into traffic behind us, three cars back. It’s a pimped-out ride, as the Americans would say, with oversized spinning chrome rims, thin tires, blacked-out windows, and after-market LED light bars.
I sigh. "Idiots."
"Problem, Ms. Juric?" Georg asks, glancing at me in the rear-view mirror.
"Yes," I snap, annoyed at this ridiculous delay to my tight schedule. "We have a tail. G-Wagen three cars back."
Georg's eyes flick away from mine, scanning our backtrail; his brow furrows as he spots them. He cuts aggressively across traffic and makes a sharp, tire-squealing left turn against the light, eliciting a chorus of honks. He guns the engine at the last second, and the powerful motor sends my BMW 8 series rocketing forward. Another left, weaving around slower-moving cars, and then a sharp, fishtailing right, and then a sudden tap of the brakes and stomach-churning slide puts us underground in a parking garage. Georg slows, then, winding down to the bottom of the garage, backing into a space in the farthest corner.
We sit in silence for ten minutes or so, waiting.
"I believe we are clear, Ms. Juric,” Georg says.
"Very well. I have a meeting with Draga and Tomas..." I check my Bulova watch. "Ten minutes ago. Dammit."
I slide my phone out of my crocodile Birkin and ring Draga. She answers on the third ring. "Draga, yes, it's me. I've been delayed—my apologies."
"Not at all, Ms. Juric. Tomas and I have been reviewing the numbers. If you wish, we could have the meeting now. Your physical presence is not strictly necessary."
"Excellent—I have another meeting across town in an hour. Put Tomas on speaker, please."
"Yes, Ms. Juric...here we are." A pause and the rustle of papers as Draga gets situated. "Now. Our numbers this quarter have been excellent..."
I put the tail out of my mind and focus on Draga's and Tomas's reports, digging into the details of my company's latest quarterly reports.
I’m immensely proud of what I've built—I took a quarter-million Euro loan from my father when I was twenty, and over the last eight years, I’ve grown my business into ten million Euros per year, with year-on-year growth of twenty-seven percent. Not bad for a girl without a university degree. I did poach my father’s second-favorite business advisor—Martin has been indispensable to the process, teaching me much of the fine details of running and growing a profitable business
When Tata first heard my pitch, he called it silly—the grasping of a bored little girl with too much time and not enough business sense.
My company buys top-shelf couture from around the world a season or two post-trend and resells it in pop-up boutiques, utilizing flash-sales strategies and aggressive pricing to move products, prioritizing stock movement over price tag; we utilize social media as the driver of our primary sales—most of my inner circle executives are social media, marketing gurus. We push heavily on IG, TikTok, and YouTube, resulting in a young clientele with lots of money and huge followings—our growth is as much due to social media word of mouth from our loyal followers as any traditional advertisements. Our pop-up boutiques last for seventy-two hours, with the specific location only revealed via our official socials posts at the last second—the lead-up to the reveal is a bread-crumb trail of hints and clues that eagle-eyed followers can decipher, share, and discuss.
We host clusters of pop-ups in a specific area of a specific city over the course of a month and then move to different cities and start all over again. This has developed a devoted cadre of fans who follow our zigzagging across Europe, following clues and competing to be among the first thousand clients who receive a bonus gift bag filled with collectible pop-up specific swag.
My mind is racing as we shift from numbers to the details of our next pop-up campaign, back here in our hometown of Zagreb, where we began.
Georg glances at me. "Shall we head to your next meeting, Ms. Juric?"
I nod, covering the mouthpiece. “Yes, Georg, thank you. Just keep an eye out. Probably someone connected to Tata thinking they can use me to get to him."
Georg snorts. "You think they'd know better by now. Your father's methods of dealing with such antics are well known at this point, I should think."
"You would think, yet every year, there's at least one attempt. After Tata took care of the last one so publicly, I had imagined I'd get at least a few months off before the next one."
"Shall I call him, ma'am?"
I shake my head. “Not yet. Perhaps it was simply an opportunistic attempt."
"Perhaps, ma'am."
Georg exits the garage and sets us on a course back across town to my next meeting—a location-scouting endeavor with my advance team.
There's no sign of the tail, so I let myself put it out of my mind, trusting Georg to keep watch as I go over the specs and details of the location we're touring today.
It's an old church in Low Town that's been remodeled into different businesses multiple times over the years; the latest endeavor fell apart when Covid hit, and now it’s been sitting empty. It’s at the heart of an up-and-coming neighborhood, so a pop-up there now is ideal. We just have to hope it’s in good enough shape that we can flip it without excessive overhead—that’s part of my business model: we rent in the more expensive areas, but when we do a cluster in an area with lower real estate values, we buy a property, flip it, host the pop-up, and then lease it out, so we make money on the actual pop-up and then again on the property lease; it was tough to get that aspect off the ground, requiring me to put a ton of my capital back into purchasing real estate, which was a huge gamble. Tata advised against it, but it’s paid off, as I now own several million euros worth of real estate throughout Europe.
Georg pulls the BMW to a stop in front of the prospective location. It's quiet, a mostly residential area with narrow, winding streets. The church is from the nineteenth century, red brick with twin spires at the front and lovely stained-glass windows that have somehow survived the last hundred-and-some years. There's a decent amount of parking in the area, and a vacant lot next to the church has been fenced off with a chain link, a weather-faded sign advertising that it’s been for sale for a very long time.
Ana and Katya, my location-scouting team, are already here, walking around the exterior of the church with their tablets and headsets, styluses scribbling notes, and taking photos.
Georg, also my bodyguard, follows me at a precise distance, gaze restlessly roving the area.
Ana and Katya spot my approach and bustle toward me. "So, ladies. What do we think?" I ask, reaching for Ana's tablet. I scan her notes and photos, and then head for the entrance—the agent gave me the code for the lockbox, which I open and let us inside.
"It's prime, Tati," Ana says, taking her table back. "Our research indicates this neighborhood will see a boom over the next few years—the median age of the residents has gone down significantly over the last five years, and early investors are already seeing growth. I think we should snap it up while we can—the agent has offers in, but they're all low-ball. We can come in high and still turn a profit."
"Do you have any initial thoughts on what we'll do with the space?” I ask.
It's open, with exposed brick walls and newly redone floors. The roof was redone in the latest remodel in 2019, along with the plumbing and electrical. It has a ton of natural light, and several back rooms as well as a sizeable basement.
Katya answers my questions. "We were thinking a restaurant. There aren't many in this immediate area. We've been in preliminary talks with a potential restaurateur who might be interested in the space after we're done.
"It seems like it's in pretty good shape,” I say, scanning the ceiling for water spots, checking the walls and flooring, testing light switches, and peeking into the back rooms and basement.
"We'll have Jakov do a thorough inspection before we put in an offer, but it looks great to us," Ana says.
"Excellent," I say. "Let's move on it. Pending a green light from Jakov, put in an offer ten percent over the highest current bid, and see if you can nail down the restaurateur. I'd like to have a lease in place the moment the pop-up is over."
We all exit together and I lock the key back in the lockbox. Georg is in the corner of my eye by the BMW, so I address him without looking.
"Well, we're ahead of schedule, Georg, so perhaps we'll have time to grab some lunch before my next meeting. Fancy anything in particular?"
I finish locking the box and give it a tug, and then spin the tumblers. Georg doesn't answer.
Ana and Katya are conspicuously silent—usually, they chatter my ear off in unison every moment I’m within ten feet of them.
"Georg? Did you hear—"
Ana's face is pale and shocked, her lips trembling. Katya looks as if she's about to puke.
"Girls? What’s—?”
Georg is slumped over the hood of my car, blood sprayed across the white hood and streaming down, dripping onto the concrete.
There's no one in sight, however—no cars. No threatening male figures waiting to snatch me.
I step in front of Katya and Ana, pushing them together behind me. I reach into my purse and withdraw the little Sig Sauer Tata gave me for my last birthday and forced me to practice with at the range until he felt I was proficient.
I edge the three of us into the corner of the covered entry of the church and instruct the AI voice assistant of my cell phone to call my father. He answers on the first ring.
"Tati, darling. How are you?"
"Georg is dead, Tata."
"What? How ?"
"I'm in Low Town scouting a location. I went in to look and when I came out he was dead. Someone shot him. I didn't hear anything. There was a car following us earlier, but Georg lost them."
"Stay where you are. I have someone in Low Town right now. Send me a pin." He waits until he receives the pin I send him. "Stay on the line, darling. I'll be right back."
I keep the phone to my ear with my left hand and clutch the pistol with my right, finger outside the trigger guard as I was taught.
A few moments later, he comes back on the line. "Someone is on the way," he says. "He'll be there in a minute or two. Do you see anyone?”
"No. No one. Nothing. I didn't hear anything, Tata."
A low growl. "The bastards won't give up, will they?" He sighs. "Stay right where you are. My man is driving a black Range Rover. You know him—it's Filip."
My heart is pounding—I'm too scared to be upset, yet, but later I'll mourn. Georg has been my driver and bodyguard since I was in primary school.
A squeal of tires announces Filip’s arrival—a black Range Rover screeches to a halt in the road; the driver’s door flies open and Filip jogs toward us.
Filip is one of my favorites of Tata's men. He’s young, handsome, and nice, plus he's well-groomed and doesn't smoke. He rounds the hood of the Rover and trots up the steps, reaching for my arm.
"I've got you, Ms. Juric. Come with me, please."
I tug my arm away. "Ana and Katya first, Filip."
"My orders are—"
"I don't give a damn!" I snap. "They're my employees and I will not leave without them."
Filip sighs. "Very well." He gestures toward the car. "Ladies—please."
Huddling together, my girls shuffle down the steps, trying to hide their eyes from the gruesome sight of Georg's body and the gallons of blood.
Filip glances back at me, an odd, sad look in his eyes. "I'm sorry, Ms. Juric.”
"Sorry?"
I don't get anything else out—before I can utter another word, Filip draws his pistol from the shoulder holster and fires two shots— BANG-BANG! Ana and Katya topple forward, red holes blasted through the front of their skulls.
Shocked, I forget my own pistol for a second too long. Filip snatches it from my hand and then puts the hot round barrel of his against my temple. "Let's go, Tatiana. Now."
Tears streaming down my face, I look at him, unmoving. "Filip? What...? I—I don't understand."
"Your father isn't the highest bidder anymore." Filip grabs my arm and shoves me down the steps. My three-inch heel catches on the top step and I go tumbling down, scraping my elbows and palms bloody. I lose both shoes in the process, as well as my purse. Filip grabs my phone and flings it into the vacant lot, and then hauls me to my feet, shoving me toward his car.
He yanks open the rear door. "Get in."
I climb in, looking back at Ana and Katya, face down on the sidewalk, their blood mingling with Georg's.
Filip's dark eyes find mine in the rearview mirror. "No funny shit, Tatiana. The money is for you alive, but it doesn't say anything about hurt. Get me, Princess?"
I nod, fighting to stuff my emotions down so I can find a way out of this. I'm barefoot, without my phone and gun, and now I have no clue who to trust. I thought Filip was loyal. Clearly, so did my father.
We take a long, circuitous route out of the city to the airport, where a guard opens a gate and lets us through to a restricted section, where the private jets are hangared. We pull into one of the smaller hangars, where the hulking, shadowy shapes of small jets and private prop planes stand in a row. The Rover’s headlights flic on automatically in the gloom, illuminating a small folding table at which is a man wearing glasses tapping at a laptop. Beside the table, a man is handcuffed to a chair; his head is hanging, so I can’t make out his face, but his hair is long and black, and I see a hint of a long beard.
"What's going on, Filip?" I ask. "Who are they?"
Filip twists in the seat. "Shut up. No questions, no talking."
"This isn't worth it, Filip. You know what Tata does to people who mess with me."
His face contorts into a rage-filled rictus. "Oh yes, I know. His precious princess. Well, Tati ,” he sneers my father's nickname for me, "what my new benefactor is paying me does make it worth it."
"Filip, please. This won't end well."
He grins, an ugly sneer. How did I miss the evil in him all this time? "Shut up , Tatiana. Remember what I said. The money is for you, alive. Which means I can do whatever I want to you as long as you're still breathing when I turn you over.”
I clench my jaw shut—I believe him. When he sees that I’m shutting up, he nods and exits the SUV. Rounding the hood, he opens my door and yanks me out, shoving me toward the table.
"Wait here. Don't fucking move, you snobby bitch." Filip wiggles his gun at me. "I'll shoot you in the knee if you so much as twitch wrong. Get me?"
I nod once.
He vanishes between the airplanes and returns with another folding chair, which he jerks open and sets down next to the bound man.
"Sit."
I sit, and Filip handcuffs my hands and feet to the legs of the chair; with a horrible grin, he rips open my blouse, baring my braless chest.
His grin widens into a greedy leer. "Better than I imagined, princess."
I lift my chin and glare at him. "Get a good look, Filip. Better enjoy it while you can."
"Thinking your father is coming to rescue you, eh?" He smirks. “Well, we have plans for that."
He tosses the gun onto the folding table; the man at the laptop stops typing, withdraws a pair of rubber gloves from his pocket and a disinfectant wipe from a package on the table, and thoroughly wipes down the weapon. When it’s clean, he stands up and crouches in front of the man handcuffed to the chair beside me, who seems to be either unconscious or drugged, as he doesn’t resist when Filip’s companion presses the pistol into his hand, carefully ensuring his prints are all over the handle. He even ejects the magazine and makes sure his prints are on the slide and hammer as well.
That done, he goes back to his laptop and resumes typing.
A few minutes later, he looks up at Filip. "The package is ready to upload."
"Show me."
The be-spectacled man turns the laptop so Filip can see it and taps the spacebar to play the video. It shows a person, who I assume is the man beside me, shooting Georg, Ana, and Katya, and then shoving me into the Range Rover. If I hadn't experienced the incident myself, I would believe it's real—it's that good of a deepfake.
The man in the video is Roma, unless I'm mistaken. He's broad-shouldered, heavily muscled, and devastatingly beautiful.
Filip nods. "It's perfect, Ivan. Good work. Send it to Stjepan."
A moment later. "Done."
Filip grins at me. "No going back now, princess. Your father dearest thinks he ," here Filip points at the man beside me, "has kidnapped you." Just then, his phone rings, and he answers it, pretending to be out of breath and upset. "I...I lost her, sir. He came out of nowhere, just bam-bam-bam. I don't know where he got a gun, sir. One second, he was under control, the next, he was gone. You sent me to get Tatiana, and…” he fakes a choked-up pause. “I’m sorry, sir. I let you down—” he listens. “Yes, sir, I understand. I’ll find her. No, you don’t need to worry, sir. Everyone—yes, sir. We're on it, sir."
He listens a bit longer and then hangs up, grinning at me. "There. That's bought us some time. Now we wait."
He crouches in front of me. "I'm really not supposed to—the new boss wants you for himself. But I figure I can have a little fun with you first. He won’t know the difference, will he, whore?"
He fondles my breast with a rough hand and then viciously pinches my nipple, causing me to cry out; my cry of pain only makes him grin more.
"Filip!" Ivan barks. "Enough. Mercado was very clear—he wants her alive. No bullshit. You heard him."
"He won’t know, Ivan. She’s a loose little slut. Fucks anything that moves, as long he has enough money.” He sneers at me, rage-filled. “Not so much as a glance my way, though. I’m just her precious Tata’s henchman. She would never dare sully herself with the likes of me."
Oh, the irony. I would have. I liked him. I thought he was cute and kind. It was my father who categorically refused to let me date his men. That was the one no-no he never wavered on.
I don't bother saying anything though—I know well enough that it won’t make a difference, now.
Fighting to remain calm, I breathe in slowly and evenly through my nose and exhale the same way through my mouth, ignoring my fear, panic, and humiliation.
Ivan leaves the table to confront Filip. "It's not worth it. We get millions when this is over, Filip. Millions . You can have anyone you want, then. Just not her. I know how you feel about her, brother, but she's not worth it. If you soil his prize, Mercado will cut you into tiny little pieces and feed you to his pet fish. So, keep your dick in your pants and your hands off of her, finish the op, get paid, and we can go hunt down some prime pussy. Okay? I know a guy, Filip.” Ivan’s voice drops to a murmur. “He works for the Syndicate—he can get us into a Syndicate brothel. That shit is exclusive , Filip. Like, only the highest rollers get in there. I’m talking the hottest bitches on the planet will be gagging on your cock in..." he looks at his watch. "Forty-eight hours. If you play your cards right."
Filip looks at me over his shoulder. "She needs to be taught a lesson."
"She will. Just not by you. You know what they say about Mercado, right? The shit he likes? I promise you, she'll get what's coming to her."
My blood runs cold at the implications.
Filip growls in frustration. "Fuck. No one will know, Ivan."
Ivan shoves Filip toward the exit. " He will. You know he will. And I know how you like to play, Filip. I've seen what's left of them when you're done."
Filip laughs—a dry, horrible little chuckle. "I wouldn't do that to her. I just want a little taste."
Ivan pulls a baggie of white powder from his back pocket. “I’ve got something else you can taste. Pure Colombian coke. We each get a whole fucking key of this shit if we pull this off, Filip."
They go outside, huddling together just outside the hangar. Ivan dips into the bag and snorts a hit, tips his head back, and then whoops loudly, handing the bag to Filip.
"Psst." A soft hiss gets my attention, and my head whips around; the man must've been playing possum. "Get ready."
I ever so gently rattle one handcuff. "For what? Unless you have a key?"
His eyes glint in the gloom, and his teeth flash white. "I do not need a key."
I hear rattling, a soft breath as he does something that makes him strain, and then I hear a crack of a joint dislocating. Seconds later, he's crouching behind me.
His voice is hot against my ear. "Do you have any bobby pins in your hair?"
“Yes, quite a few," I whisper.
My hair, black and quite long, is done up in an elaborate updo, courtesy of my glam squad.
I realize belatedly that the man spoke to me in English, whereas I'd been speaking Croatian with Filip.
"Do you know what they were saying?" I hiss as the man runs his fingers over my hair, finding a bobby pin and withdrawing it.
"Yes," he answers.
"Who is this Mercado?"
"A very, very, very bad man. I'll explain later. For now, we must go." His English is excellent if accented—Croatian is not his first language, nor is English.
My English is good but not as good as his, so I revert to Croatian—I'm too freaked out and confused to have the brain space to translate my thoughts on the fly right now.
"Can you understand me?"
He snorts. "I speak a dozen languages fluently, Tatiana Juric," he says in flawless if accented Croatian.
"How do we get out of here?" I ask. "There's only one exit."
"Think carefully. Did he leave the keys in the car or did he remove them?"
I close my eyes and focus. "I don’t know. I didn't see him take them, but they could be in his pocket. It's a key fob. I don't know."
"Can't risk it, then."
This whole time, he's been quickly and quietly using the bobby pin to unlock my handcuffs. When the last one is unlocked, he grabs my wrist and tugs me off the chair and into the shadows deeper in the hangar. Since he seems to know what he's doing, and since he's a victim of this whole convoluted scheme as much as I am, I opt to go with him. It's my best shot at the moment. He shoves me ahead of him, and we duck underneath a jet; he puts me behind the front wheel assembly.
“Wait here. If you are squeamish, do not watch."
"I'm not."
"Suit yourself."
I grab his wrist. "Wait—-who are you?"
He drops to a knee in front of me, and I can just barely make out his dark eyes and white teeth in the dim light of the hangar—it's past sunset now, the light of day fading.
"My name is Lash, Tatiana Juric."
"You know me?"
"I knew you when you were a gangly, beautiful, coltish teenage girl. I worked for your father."
"I don't recognize you."
He shrugs. "You wouldn't. You never knew I existed."
"But you know me."
"Yes, I do. Only from afar, but I know you."
"What's happening, Lash?"
"A very complicated bit of business, Lovely One." Somehow, he makes the endearment sound like a nickname. "A double cross, among other things."
"My father is going to think you kidnapped me." I keep hold of his wrist—which is thick and dense with muscle.
"I know. I will keep you safe and return you to him. You have my solemn vow." He twists his hand so now he has my hand in his and kisses the back of my palm. "You will be safe as long as you are with me." "My father will be very angry. And so will this Mercado person." My heart pounds—not from fear, now, but something else. Something to do with this man, his touch, his kiss on my hand. "They'll kill you."
He kisses my hand again, making my skin tingle and tighten; his grin is a flash of white in the darkness. "They will try, and they will fail." He lets go of my hand, creeping backward into the shadows, melting out of sight. "Remain here, and remain silent."
"Okay."
"Tatiana?"
I frown. "Yes?"
Something soft and warm lands on my face and shoulder, smelling of male sweat and cologne. "To cover yourself. Filip will die first for his sins against you, and he will die screaming."
I shrug out of my blazer and then the ruined blouse, and shrug into the shirt. It's huge on me, hanging past my hips, the sleeves around my forearms, even though I get the impression that this Lash isn't much taller than me.
“Thank you," I whisper.
There's no answer.
I peer into the gloom; Filip and Ivan are now smoking cigarettes and passing a flask back and forth.
A patch of shadows shifts.
I can't make out what happens, but Filip's body contorts backward, and he screams as he's hauled into the shadows, kicking. Ivan pulls his gun and fires, the noise deafening and the muzzle flash blinding, but he curses floridly in Croatian.
A second later, there is another long, gurgling scream from Filip, one that trails off slowly.
"Filip?" Ivan calls, his voice shaky.
Silence.
I can just make out Ivan, turning in circles, gun extended, shifting this way and that.
A shadow passes between Ivan and the light from beyond the hangar.
I hear the crack of a bone snapping, and Ivan screams.
"Delete the video," Lash growls.
“I—I can't. I mean, I can delete it, but it won't stop Stjepan from seeing it. He already has. It's too late."
"Then it's too late for you." BANG!
Thud.
"You can come out," Lash says in a normal pitch.
I emerge from beneath the airplane and join Lash. Ivan is at his feet, staring sightlessly at the ceiling, a pool of blood spreading beneath his skull. "Now what?"
A phone chimes and Lash bends to retrieve the device from Ivan's pocket; he holds the phone over Ivan's face, and it unlocks.
"Dammit," Lash hisses. "Damn them to hell."
"What?"
"Your father has my friends. This is even more complicated than I thought. Mercado is a very crafty and duplicitous man." Lash pockets the phone. "Come. We must leave this place before their co-conspirators discover their deaths. We will make plans on the way."
He stops to rifle through Filip’s pockets, coming up with the key fob for the Range Rover. I climb into the front passenger seat as Lash takes the wheel. The dome lights illuminate him.
He's even more absurdly, devilishly gorgeous in person than in the AI deepfake. His beard is long and shiny and braided to a point at his chest, with elegant, curving mustaches. His hair is bound back in a low ponytail, and his eyes are deep and dark and wise and kind. At least, they're kind as he regards me.
And my god, his body.
Massive, bulging, rounded shoulders, arms nearly the size of my thighs, a heavy, hard chest, and flat, rippling abs. He's scarred all over, as well, speaking of a life of violence.
For a moment, we merely stare at each other.
"You have truly blossomed into a beautiful woman, Tatiana. Given a thousand years, I could not a find the words in any of the languages I know to adequately capture your beauty,” he says in English and then switches to Croatian. "You can trust me, Lovely One. I will not rest until you are safe once more."
He makes my pulse race. “I…I…” And, apparently, leaves me tongue-tied. "I trust you, Lash. Perhaps I shouldn't, but I do."
He takes my hand and kisses the back of it, his glittering black eyes never leaving mine. "Your faith in me is a priceless gift, Lovely One." Croatian again. Then back to English. " We must go. Time is short, especially for my friends."
He whips the SUV in a tight circle and nails the accelerator to the floor, and we're off into the purple light of a dusky Zagreb sunset.
And for some reason, I am not afraid, despite the dangerous, deadly game we're caught up in.
Lash will protect me.