Chapter 6 #4
“I do.” He leaned forward. Lowered his voice. Offered her a smile. “But I’m not sure you’re going to like it.”
She raised an eyebrow.
Here went nothing. “We go in as a married couple on our honeymoon.”
She blinked. “Honeymoon?”
“Think about it. Luxury resort, medical conference happening in the background—what better cover than newlyweds who booked the place for a romantic getaway and don’t care about whatever boring medical stuff is going on?
We can move around freely, ask innocent questions, maybe even charm our way into restricted areas. ”
“And if we get caught?”
“We’re just honeymooners who got lost looking for the spa.”
For the first time all evening, she laughed, her whole face lighting up. “A fake marriage. After everything we’ve been through, that’s your master plan?”
“You have a better idea?”
“No. It’s brilliant in its simplicity.” She grinned at him across the table. “Though I should warn you—I’ll make a terrible wife.”
“Good thing this is pretend.”
Silence as the words hung between them, thick, full.
The waiter picked right then to bring dessert—mango sticky rice arranged on a white plate, golden mango slices fanned beside purple-tinted rice, drizzled with coconut cream.
“Yes,” she said finally as she picked up her fork. “Good thing.”
CATANIA, SICILY, 2014
Alan lost himself in the scent of garlic and marinara sauce that drifted from the kitchen as he came into the casetta. Evening light slanted through the open windows—painting everything a warm amber. Red-checkered tablecloths dotted the small dining room.
He took his corner table. Same spot every night for over a year now.
Francesca approached with her signature smile. The one that crinkled her dark eyes and made her look younger than her twenty-eight years. He used to feel ancient next to her, but five years older didn’t seem so much anymore.
Not since life had simplified.
Not since he’d started over, begun to see something new for himself.
Francesca carried steaming linguine alle vongole in one hand, a bottle of local Nero d’Avola in the other.
“Ecco, Alfonzo.” She set the plate down in front of him. “Mama says you’re too skinny. She added extra clams tonight.”
Yes, Alfonzo. The name settled around him like a comfortable coat—months of careful hiding wrapped up in those three syllables.
“Your mama thinks everyone’s too skinny,” he said as she poured the wine into his glass. “Tell her I appreciate the maternal tyranny.”
Francesca laughed. Wind chimes in a Mediterranean breeze.
“Tyranny? You wound her heart.” She darted a look around the casetta.
No demanding patrons, so she slid into the chair across from him, stole a piece of bread from his basket.
“She just wants to feed you properly. Sicilian mothers have one setting—suffocate with love.”
“I’m not complaining.”
The words came out softer, a little more intimate, than he intended. Francesca’s expression shifted, a slight smile finding her beautiful face.
Okay, maybe he did intend it.
She reached across the table, then, “Will you wait for me tonight? After the casetta closes? We could take a walk to the shore . . .”
He considered her hand, drew a breath. Eighteen months of this gentle dance. Dinners that became conversations. And yes, an evening stroll along the coastline, where she’d pointed out fishing boats and he’d pretended this was his only life.
Maybe it was. Maybe he’d left everything else behind.
Maybe he could be Alfonzo forever.
He took her hand, rubbed his thumb across hers. “Yes,” he said. “I will wait.”
“And then you will tell me what haunts you sometimes?” She raised an eyebrow.
Oh. But he supposed she could see the shadows in his eyes.
“Not tonight,” he said. “Someday.”
She squeezed his hand. “I guess that’s what makes you interesting, no? The mystery.”
Her words twisted something deep in his chest. If she only knew what kind of mystery she was flirting with.
A shadow fell across their table.
“Mind if I join you?”
Alan looked up. What— He froze.
Francesca leaned away, her grip on his hand loosening.
Damien Gustov. Dressed in a pair of khakis, his dark hair swept back, very European, wearing a linen shirt and a half smile. Cocky, and why not? The assassin had clearly found Alan when no one else had.
Alan crossed his arms. Narrowed his eyes.
Francesca frowned as she glanced between them. “Would you like a table, signuri? The kitchen is still—”
“Actually, I was hoping to catch up with my old friend here.” Damien’s smile broadened as if they were indeed old friends and not handler and informant, once upon a time.
Alan had recruited Damien. Helped turn him into what he was today.
“Alex, you look well. Sicily agrees with you.”
Alex. The name felt ancient from disuse.
“It’s Alfonzo,” he said, glancing at Francesca. She had gotten up, wrapped her arms around her waist. His gut twisted as he said, “And Francesca, this is Damien. An old . . . business associate.”
She extended her hand with typical Sicilian warmth. “Piaciri. Any friend of Alfonzo’s is welcome here.”
Damien took her hand, bent slightly at the waist—a gesture from another era that somehow managed to be both charming and slightly mocking. “The pleasure is entirely mine, signorina. And please, don’t let me interrupt your evening. I just need to borrow Alfonzo for a few minutes.”
Francesca glanced at Alan, worry in her expression.
“It’s fine.” He gave her a smile. He wouldn’t bring trouble to her family’s casetta. “Could you bring him a glass of the Nero d’Avola?”
“Of course.” She shot Damien one more assessing look, then headed toward the bar.
Damien settled into her vacated chair, crossed one leg over the other, and leaned back. “Charming girl.”
“What do you want, Damien?”
He cocked his head, studying Alan. “You look good. Rested. The Mediterranean lifestyle suits you.”
“Cut the small talk.”
“Fair enough.” Damien reached into his jacket. Pulled out a manila envelope. Set it on the table between them. “I brought you something.”
Alfonzo stared at the envelope without touching it. “I’m retired.”
“Are you?” Damien’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Because from where I sit, you look like a man hiding. And we both know you can’t hide forever.”
Francesca returned with the wine and a bright smile that didn’t quite mask the concern in her eyes. “Anything else I can bring you, gentlemen?” She spoke in English.
“We’re perfect, thank you.” Damien lifted his glass in a mock toast. “To old friends and new beginnings.”
Alan didn’t touch his wine.
Francesca hesitated. “I’ll be at the bar if you need anything.”
When she was gone, Damien leaned forward. Tapped the envelope. “Open it.”
“No.”
“Alan—”
“I said no.” Alan pushed his plate away. “Whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying. I’ve got a life here. Simple. Quiet. Nothing explodes, nobody dies.”
“Including . . . Francesca?” He glanced at the woman.
Alan just stared at him. Then, “Don’t.” His voice came out rough. Dangerous. “Don’t you dare.”
“Poor Timea is dead, and you’ve moved on.”
His mouth tightened.
“She still haunts you. Still makes you wake up screaming in the middle of the night, doesn’t she?” Damien’s tone was conversational, almost gentle.
Damien gestured toward Francesca, now polishing glasses behind the bar with slightly more force than necessary. “You can play house with a sweet Sicilian girl, pretending you’re someone else, but you haven’t moved on. You’ve run away.”
“Sometimes running away is the smart choice.”
“Not when the people who killed your wife are still out there.”
He shook his head. “I’m not . . . I’m not going back to that life.”
“You may reconsider.” Damien tapped the envelope with one manicured finger. “You might be surprised.”
Don’t ask. But the words came out anyway. “What are you talking about?”
Damien’s smile turned razor thin. “Open the envelope, Alan. See for yourself.”
A beat. Another. Fine. His fingers trembled as he broke the seal. Pulled out a stack of photographs and documents.
The first photo made his stomach drop.
Senator Isaac White, from Montana. Shaking hands with a man in an expensive suit outside what looked like a government building. The time stamp showed a date three weeks before Timea’s death.
“Keep going,” Damien said quietly.
Second photo. The same man—now identified in the attached document as Viktor Petrov—entering a restaurant in Prague. The date was two days before the bombing of his boat. The one that killed Timea.
Third photo, a receipt of a bank transfer. Seven figures. From an account registered to White’s campaign fund to a shell company in the Cayman Islands.
“This is . . .” Alan started. “What is this?”
“Keep reading.” Damien sipped his wine.
Alan flipped through more documents. Email chains. Meeting schedules. Financial records that painted a picture so clear, so terrible, that it made his vision blur around the edges.
“Senator Isaac White needed you eliminated,” Damien continued, voice barely above a whisper. “You were getting too close to some very sensitive operations he was running with Petrov’s organization. He couldn’t have a former CIA operative poking around his Russian connections.”
“What connections?”
Damien cocked his head. Smiled.
“You?”
“Among others.”
Alan didn’t have a clue about the others, but the pieces clicked together in Alan’s mind with sickening clarity. “He ordered the hit.”
“Precisely. What better way than to make it look like Russian terrorists acting on their own? One dead CIA operative, and all suspicion dies with you.” Damien gathered some of the papers, arranging them in a neat stack. “White paid for the hit that killed your wife.”
“But the intelligence committee . . . his reputation . . .”
“A perfect cover. The senator investigating Russian threats while secretly funding them. He didn’t count on you surviving. Didn’t count on Timea being there.”
“You’re lying.”
“You forget . . . I was there when those meetings occurred. Senator White is on the campaign trail right now, working hard on his reelection while your wife’s blood is on his hands.
” Damien gathered the papers with efficient movements.
“The man who murdered Timea and your unborn child is preparing for a long term in the senate.”
Alan couldn’t breathe. Eighteen months of careful peace, of telling himself he could start over, crumbling to dust in his hands.
“He used his position on the intelligence committee to feed information to Petrov. Used his campaign funds to pay for operations. Used you and Timea as collateral damage when you wanted to leave and take his secrets with you.”
And maybe he shouldn’t care, but—“What about York?”
“York Newgate is very much alive. In fact, he’s been quite busy since Moscow.”
“Doing what?”
“That’s not my story to tell.” Damien finished his wine, set the glass down. “But let’s just say he hasn’t forgotten who he saw that day on the train.”
Alan’s throat tightened.
Damien’s voice dropped to barely above a whisper. “There’s someone who’d like to meet you. Someone who might have answers to questions you didn’t even know you should be asking.”
“I’m not interested in your recruitment pitch.”
“It’s not recruitment,” Damien said. “It’s an opportunity. For answers. For closure. For justice.” His voice fell. “It’s time for vengeance, Alan.”
Francesca appeared at his elbow, refilling his water glass. Her dark eyes flickered between them with growing concern.
“Everything okay, Alfonzo?”
Alan looked up at her and his chest burned. This woman who’d shown him nothing but kindness, who’d only asked for his presence at her family’s dinner table.
She deserved better than the wreckage he carried.
“We’re fine,” he managed. “Just some old business to sort out.”
Her gaze on him flickered, something of hurt in her eyes. Because, yeah, they both knew he was lying.
Damien stood smoothly, dropping enough euros on the table to cover the tab and a generous tip. “Think about what I showed you tonight.” He nodded once to Francesca. “Signorina, your hospitality has been exceptional. Alfonzo is fortunate to have found such a sanctuary.”
So much for sanctuary. Alan looked down at his untouched pasta, cooling now in its ceramic bowl.
He’d liked this life.
But the people who’d killed Timea and his child were still walking free.
“I need some air.”
He stood abruptly, chair scraping against worn wooden floors. Francesca started to follow, but he held up a hand. “Just give me a minute.”
The casetta’s small terrace overlooked the Mediterranean, where the last rays of sunlight painted the water in shades of gold and crimson. Fishing boats dotted the horizon—small, peaceful—people going about their ancient business of feeding their families.
A normal life. The kind he’d been pretending he could have.
His phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.
Unknown number
When you’re ready to learn the truth about Senator White, about York, about what really happened that day, call me. The choice is yours.
Alan turned off the phone. Then he looked out over the water again, where the sun was sinking toward the horizon in a blaze of orange and red.
Beautiful. Peaceful. A perfect ending to what should have been a perfect day.
Behind him, the sounds of the casetta continued—families sharing meals, friends catching up over wine, Francesca’s mother calling out orders from the kitchen in rapid-fire Sicilian. Life going on, just as it should.
Just as it would continue to go on after he left.
Because he was going to leave. The knowledge settled in his chest like a stone. Damien’s visit had been a door opening, and Alan had never been good at not walking through.
Not when it might lead to answers.
Not when it might lead to justice.
Not when it might lead to the people who’d killed Timea and destroyed everything good he’d ever tried to build.
The sun slipped below the horizon, and Sicily’s warm evening air wrapped around him like a farewell embrace.
Alan Martin was back.