Chapter Eight
Palma
Mallorca, Spain
Maximilian Kross turned on his phone, which instantly buzzed with a flood of notifications.
“Someone important?” the woman seated across from him asked, glancing up from the breakfast she was enjoying on the balcony of their luxurious hotel suite.
She spoke in English with a pronounced Spanish accent that Kross had found irresistible the moment he had first heard it the night before.
He raised an eyebrow.
“Jealous already, Mia? We’ve barely known each other twelve hours.”
She laughed softly as she used her fork to cut a delicate bite of her omelet.
“After everything you saw last night and again this morning, twice, do you really think jealousy is something I’d feel?” she asked, her warm eyes brimming with mischief.
Now it was Kross’s turn to laugh, genuinely entertained.
He liked her. She was confident, bright, and stunningly beautiful.
She had thick waves of dark chestnut hair cascading down her back, and her skin had a golden tone that he knew didn’t come from a bottle but from a life spent under the Andalusian sun.
But it was her eyes that he’d found impossible to ignore.
They were a rich hazel green, the kind that seemed to shift in shade depending on the light.
He took a sip of his coffee. It was strong, black, and just a touch bitter. Exactly the way he liked it. As the flavor settled on his tongue, he wondered, not for the first time, why anyone would want to ruin something so honest with milk, or God forbid, honey. Kross winced at the thought.
Coffee should taste like coffee.
As the warm liquid slid down his throat, he took a moment to enjoy the scenery.
From the suite’s veranda, they had a spectacular view of the Mediterranean Sea and of the turquoise waves that broke gently against the golden sand three stories below.
To their left, they had a side view of Palma’s skyline, crowned by the majestic Gothic spires of the Cathedral of Santa Maria of Palma.
The warm breeze coming from the ocean drifted gently through the balcony, carrying with it the scent of sea salt mingled with hints of the fresh lavender plants he’d seen the day before in one corner of the hotel’s lush garden.
“This is lovely, Max,” Mia said. “My room is nice, but it isn’t facing the sea. This is so much better.”
He smiled at her.
Despite her undeniable beauty, it was Mia’s performance at the piano the night before at the lobby bar that had truly enchanted him.
She hadn’t just played; she had commanded the room with every note, her fingers gliding over the keys like she’d been born to do it.
Watching her play had felt magical, as if he’d been caught in a spell.
But it wasn’t just the music that had drawn him in.
More than once, Mia had looked up from the keys and found his eyes with hers.
Never long enough to be obvious, but just enough to make him wonder if it was intentional.
Each glance had felt like an invitation, a dare for him to cross the room and to introduce himself.
Something he knew he shouldn’t do. Not when he was working, but in the end, it had been an invitation he hadn’t been able to resist. He had found her after her last set, near the bar, nursing a glass of white wine.
As he watched Mia take another bite of her omelet, he replayed their conversation in his mind.
“You play like you’re hiding something,” he had said to her in Spanish.
“Maybe I am,” she replied in the same language.
“You kept looking at me,” he said.
“Did I?” she asked, taking another sip. “Then maybe I wasn’t subtle enough.”
“You’re talented. I mean you no disrespect, but if you ask me, you’re too good for hotel lobbies.”
“It’s a hard business to be in, you know? But I’ve played bigger venues. Smaller ones too. Touring Europe mostly. I play classical, but I can do the occasional jazz set if the mood’s right,” she told him with a smile.
“So . . . this is what you do?”
“No. It’s who I am.”
“Right. Well, you don’t seem like the type who stays in one place for too long,” Kross said.
“Neither do you. And let me guess, you’re not here on vacation.”
The silence that had followed had stretched for a minute or two, but not in an awkward way. It was she who had broken it.
“You’re not going to tell me your name, are you?” she asked him, her fingers tracing the rim of her wineglass.
“I was wondering the same about you.”
She laughed at that. “Mia,” she said, offering her hand.
He kissed the top of her hand, and said, “Max.”
“Mister Max,” she said, testing the sound of it as if it was a note on the piano. “Let me guess . . . you’re not a reporter, and your shoes tell me you’re not a banker either.”
“What’s wrong with my shoes?”
“Make my day, Mister Max. Tell me you’re a talent agent that will help me fill the biggest auditoriums.”
He smirked at that. “Sorry to disappoint. I just drink whiskey and watch beautiful women play piano.”
“Oh? And that’s a full-time job?”
“Lately, yeah.”
She laughed again. “I hope you’ve enjoyed tonight’s assignment?”
“How could I not?”
“Do you always flirt this much with women you’ve just met?”
“Only the ones who make it impossible not to.”
Mia’s eyes narrowed slightly. “And what happens when the music stops?”
“Honestly, it’s up to you,” he replied. “I’m headed up.”
She’d held his gaze for a moment, then picked up her wineglass and took the last sip before she’d stepped away from the bar and followed him to the elevator.
The elegant dress she’d been wearing the night before, which Kross had removed hurriedly, almost violently, as they had undressed each other, had been replaced by one of his white dress shirts, the sleeves casually rolled up to her elbows and the top three buttons left undone.
He could see a gold necklace glisten as it caught the sunlight each time she moved.
Since neither of them had felt like leaving the room, Kross had ordered an impossibly large breakfast, selecting pretty much the entire menu.
Another notification appeared on his phone.
“Seriously, who is it?” Mia asked again, dipping a piece of avocado into Greek yogurt.
Kross looked at his screen, then said, “My parents.”
As soon as the words left his mouth, Kross wondered why he had told Mia, a woman he barely knew, the truth. Lying should have come easily to him; it always had before. Yet something about Mia disarmed him and made him want to be truthful. The realization unsettled him.
Mia leaned in and asked, “Then why the death stare at your phone?”
Kross considered the question. The truth was, though he loved his parents very much, he regretted sharing his personal phone number with them.
Every time he turned it on—no more than once a week for operational security—there were at least half a dozen messages from them.
He had made them promise they would contact him only in case of emergency.
But it was now clear to him that his definition of what consisted of a strict emergency wasn’t the same as it was for his parents, who had both turned seventy in the last six months.
“How often do you check in with your folks?” he asked, curious but uncomfortable with the idea that he genuinely wanted to know the answer.
“Coffee every other morning, dinner every Sunday,” she replied. “When I’m not traveling, of course.”
He studied her face, waiting for a playful smirk that never came.
She’s serious.
“Wow. You’re like a family-values propaganda poster, aren’t you?”
She laughed, then turned serious. “They probably miss you, that’s all. You have any siblings?”
Not willing to share any more personal details with Mia, he scrolled through a few messages, then said, “Apparently, my father thinks Monday’s meal-kit potatoes were fifty grams short.”
“Meal kit? I will never understand Americans,” Mia said, shaking her head. “It doesn’t make sense to me. Going to the market for fresh produce is half the pleasure of cooking.”
Kross didn’t disagree with her, but before he could reply, his work phone buzzed twice, signaling the reception of a text message. He reached for the device and checked the screen.
49234. An urgent code that meant he had to call back his employer. Immediately.
Kross got up, a dark pulse of anticipation running through him.
Mia gave him an annoyed look.
“Am I boring you?” she asked.
“Far from it. But this is work, and it pays for all this luxury,” he said, gesturing to their breakfast and the ocean view.
“I thought your job was to drink whiskey and watch beautiful women play piano?”
“Just give me a minute,” Kross said, shaking his head.
He stepped inside the hotel suite and closed the patio door behind him.
The interior was as luxurious as the balcony view.
It had hardwood floors, plush furniture in tones of beige and gray, and a massive bed draped in Egyptian cotton sheets.
Kross allowed himself a smile as he looked at the bed, which was unmade with its sheets tangled, the sight reminding him of the several passionate lovemaking sessions he had enjoyed with Mia.
He’d been in Palma for almost a week, and it was the first time his employer had tried to contact him, which was fine by him.
He had needed the rest. They had put him to good use in Manchester the month before, and he had started to believe they had sent him to Palma as a reward for his performance in England.
Kross recalled the fate of the British forensic accountant who had been a little too diligent in scrutinizing his employer’s financial records. The man’s frantic pleas—when Kross had secured the electric clamps to the accountant’s nipples—were still vivid in his mind.
The accountant had spilled the beans even before Kross had turned on the power.
Of course, Kross had to inflict some pain to confirm the man had been telling the truth.
The accountant had received an anonymous tip, letting him know exactly what to look for in his employer’s financial statements.
Though the accountant didn’t know the name of the person who had reached out to him, he had provided Kross with the email address from which the tip had originated.
Information Kross had then shared with his employer.
Kross was a top performer when it came to making people talk.
It was one of his specialties. After serving two tours in Iraq and one in Afghanistan as a Green Beret, he had left the army to start working as a freelance contractor for the CIA, where he’d become an enhanced interrogation expert.
He had enjoyed the work a bit too much, apparently, because he’d been let go after two years.
Thankfully, he’d quickly found another organization that needed his skill set. One that paid a lot more than the United States government. Kross dialed the number he was to call back.
Someone picked up on the first ring. “I’m listening.”
He recognized the voice instantly. Verena Kaine.
Kross had met her twice and found her to be a bit weird, but she hadn’t tried to micromanage him, so she had that going for her.
“What can I do for you?” he asked, looking at Mia who was gazing at the ocean with a cup of coffee in hand.
“Sorry to cut short what I’m sure was starting to feel like a vacation,” Verena said, not sounding sorry at all. “I need you to kill someone for me.”
“Who’s the target?”
“Not sure yet, but I suggest you start making your way to Port de Sóller.”