33. Ofelia
Ofelia
“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.” Shaking his head, Alexei stares out of the chopper at The Singularity, Lars’s yacht, a patch of white on the glittering sea several miles off the Sicilian coast.
“I can’t believe you thought you’d come here without me. Oh, don’t,” I say when he targets me with a hard eye. “You know your scary face doesn’t work on me.”
“My scary face?” Alexei shakes his head in amazement, but I’m relieved to see his mouth curve in the rare smile that makes my heart twist. He’s been unusually grim over the past week. “Please,” he says, “never, ever tell Dima you call it my scary face.”
“I’m going to tell him. And Lars.”
“Definitely don’t tell Lars.” His smile fades as the chopper begins its descent.
“Christ. I told Lars not to come to me because it was too dangerous, and now we’re both going to him.
I’m not sure what’s worse. Hold on to your wig when we get out.
” He casts a critical eye over my new head of cascading brown curls.
“And make sure you keep those sunglasses on.”
“I know.” I touch his hand, rigid with tension. “You make a very passable Italian,” I say, adjusting his own wig of thick black curls. The dye he used in France has long grown out, and the wig is far more effective anyway. “The aviator sunglasses are very Cosa Nostra.”
“I certainly hope so, given that we’re arriving in a chopper belonging to the Bellini family.”
“Who are friends of yours, right?”
“I’ve worked with Jack Bellini, from the New Orleans branch of the family, in the past. He’s also an ex-special forces operator who contracts for Mak, so he understands the need for discretion. His cousin Luca is head of the Sicilian family.”
“From organized crime to the military—to Mak.” I give him a quizzical look. “Your friend Jack has had quite the career trajectory.”
Alexei lifts a shoulder. “Luke Macarthur, anyone?”
“Fair.”
“Truth is,” he says as the chopper settles into place, “the distance between crime, military, and contracting is less than you might think. Usually the three are working in the same place. Often on the same things. But today,” he says, adjusting my wig again and stroking my cheek in a way that makes my heart leap, “we’re Bellinis from Sicily, coming out to party with Lars, the Swedish billionaire playboy.
So get your Gucci on and make like a celebrity who doesn’t want to be seen.
Jack said he’s swept the entire bay, and the paps generally steer clear of the Bellinis—but be careful anyway, just in case there’s a paparazzo on the Sicilian coastline with a powerful telephoto lens. ”
He grips my hand, his lone eye roaming the water below critically.
“The Bellinis own Sicily,” he says, “and Jack is running security for us personally, so he’ll be on the water watching at all times.
But we still need to be careful. Don’t lift those sunglasses and hide your face as much as possible. ”
I squeeze his hand. “I know,” I say quietly.
There’s a gritty quality to his tension lately that worries me, a shadow behind his eye that not even the prospect of seeing Lars has lessened.
More than once I’ve woken late at night to find him either grim faced and pale at his laptop or gripping the railing, staring into the distance with a dark, almost haunted expression that makes my heart ache.
Going by the almost unsettling way he masks his emotions the moment he realizes I’m looking at him, he clearly doesn’t want to share whatever is bothering him with me.
Maybe he can talk to Lars.
I’ve seen Alexei in many moods since we’ve been together. But not since we were in that cell with the Orlovs have I seen him so clearly burdened—nor so determined to hide it.
He kisses me once, hard. “Now.” He gives me a wry half smile that doesn’t quite reach his eye. “Time to face that fucking brother of yours.”
The door opens, and we run across the landing pad of Lars’s yacht, surrounded by several very solid men in black suits and dark glasses.
Very Cosa Nostra indeed, I think, unable to suppress a smile at the thought of Benny surrounded by so much beefcake.
And then we’re inside, and I no longer have to imagine it, because Benny literally crashes into me the moment we’re through the glass doors, closely followed by Lourdes, and suddenly all three of us are laughing, crying, and spinning in a slightly chaotic circle that winds up collapsing on the vast sofa that hugs the curve of one wall.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” Benny is saying for the tenth time.
“And I can’t believe you’re here.” I clutch Lourdes’s hand, beaming through very misty eyes. “What an amazing surprise.”
I take Benny’s hand and turn my smile to him. “Thank you for bringing her here to see me. You’re the best.”
“Oh,” he says, shooting Lourdes an extremely mischievous grin. “Believe me when I say she was very happy to come.”
For some reason, Lars, Alexei, and Benny all seem to find this remark absolutely hilarious.
Lourdes, who seems to have already caught a dose of sun, going by the rosy hue to her skin, leaps up and puts her hand out to me.
“Come with me,” she says, tugging me toward the stairs. “I want to hear everything.”
“I should probably wait to say hi to Mickey,” I protest weakly, looking over my shoulder.
“Oh, I wouldn’t, if I were you,” Lars calls, waving me away with a shit-eating grin to rival Benny’s. “I’m still not sure his and Alexei’s first encounter won’t end in pistols at dawn.”
“Engaged?” Lourdes’s eyes are wide as saucers.
She exchanges a long glance with Benny. “You’re engaged,” she says again, more quietly this time.
Her eyes cut to the closed door as if she’s worried somebody is listening.
“Are you going to tell—that is, what I meant to ask is, who knows?” Her eyes cut to Benny again, who is grinning like a maniac.
“Come here, girl!” He pulls me into a huge bear hug, kissing me roundly on the cheek.
“Epic news.” He squeezes my hand, then gets up and pulls a bottle of Veuve from the fridge in the corner of a bedroom I assume is Lourdes’s, although it looks entirely unused.
“Best excuse ever for day drinking,” he says as the cork shoots into the corner.
“And as soon as I pour, I want to see the ring.”
I reach for my pendant. Lourdes and Benny look at it in confusion.
“The ring is inside,” I explain. “I didn’t want to wear it when we arrived in case Mickey saw it before we’ve had a chance to explain.”
“Oh, sweetheart.” Benny hands us both glasses. “I’d let your pirate do the talking there and keep your fingers crossed that it doesn’t come down to cutlasses in the rigging.”
“Lars said pistols at dawn,” I say wryly, taking the glass he offers.
“I’d put money on both. Congratulations, darling.” He raises his glass. “To you and your pirate.”
“To you and Alexei,” Lourdes says, but despite her best efforts, her smile doesn’t quite mask the worry in her eyes. She’s also definitely caught a lot of sun. Her limbs are bronzed, and her cheeks are flaming.
“You should be careful in the sun,” I say, smiling as I touch her shoulder. “You look like you’ve caught a lot for someone who’s only just arrived.”
Benny almost chokes on his Veuve. “Sorry,” he says, not looking it at all. “Inhaled bubbles. Now show me that ring.”
I release the clasp and slip the ring onto my finger, then hold my hand out for them to see.
“Oh my lord!” Benny’s eyes widen in genuine awe as he grabs my hand and stares at it. “Girl. That ring is fucking divine.” His eyes rise to the pendant and widen even further. “Wait,” he says, his voice almost failing him. “Is that pendant a genuine Fabergé?”
“Yes.” I lean forward to give him a closer look. “It’s a family piece, made for Deda Sergei’s sister Anya, but she never got a chance to wear it.” I tell them the story, which then prompts Benny to ask for details of Alexei’s proposal. Some time later, he’s on his third glass and wiping away tears.
Lourdes, however, is still wearing a rather strained smile and looks oddly distracted.
“Hey.” I take her hand. “Say it, whatever you’re thinking. I know this has all happened quickly. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before—”
But Lourdes is no longer looking at me. Her eyes are fixed over my shoulder at the door, her face such a picture of dismay that I turn around, then immediately understand.
Mickey is standing in the doorway.
Only the man glaring at me now isn’t Mickey the tech geek, nor Mickey my little brother.
It’s not even Mickey Stevanovsky, entrepreneur and occasional party boy.
This is Mikhail Stevanovsky-Borovsky. Son of a murdered bratva soldier, godson of Spain’s most powerful pakhan, and the man who picked up a machine gun when he was only fourteen years old and shot the men chasing Masha and me.
And by the way his eyes are blazing now, there’s a very good chance he might be about to repeat the exercise.
“Get the fuck out,” he snarls. He’s glaring at me, but it’s clear his words are intended for my friends. Benny leaps up with alacrity, staring avidly between us as he heads for the door. I’d put money on it that he’s going to have his ear pressed hard against it the moment he leaves.
Lourdes, somewhat to my surprise, hasn’t moved from the bed. “Mickey,” she says quietly.
“Don’t, Lourdes.” His eyes cut to her. “I mean it,” he says grimly. “Go.”
Surprised and rather touched that she’d come to my defense, I touch her hand. “It’s okay. Just do as he says.”
She gives me a tight smile, but her eyes on Mickey are shadowed with a touch of fear.
“Hey,” I say, smiling reassuringly at her. “It’s fine, Lourdes. Really.”
“Claro.” Still looking far more worried than her usual smiling self, Lourdes walks reluctantly to the door.
Mickey’s eyes dart to her as she passes, and I hear her murmur something that sounds like “cuidado.” Why she would be telling my brother to be careful is a mystery, however, so I must have misheard.