27. Clara
Chapter 27
Clara
J esus fucking Christ.
I press the heels of my hands against my eyes, watching bright lights twinkle and die behind their lids. There’s a searing pain in my left leg, hip, and my entire fucking side, accompanied by the feeling that I’ve been buried alive every time I breathe.
If I wasn’t absolutely certain that Konstantin’s people would much rather kill than kidnap me, I’d be a lot more worried about my whereabouts. But there’s a soft bed beneath me—neither mine nor Deniz’s—and a warm blanket draped over my body. It’s not impossible someone else found me half dead and ferried me off to be tortured for information, but it’s improbable. Plus, I’m pretty sure I remember Deniz’s voice murmuring to me in Arabic, or maybe Turkish.
I finally manage to open my eyes and…fuck, that was a mistake.
It will pass. This wave of nausea, the pain, my inability to breathe. At some point in the near future, it will all be a memory. I remind myself as bile surges at the back of my throat and lightning flashes up my side and down through my toes.
Temporary. Everything, including pain, is temporary.
When I’ve finally adjusted to this new level of discomfort, I try to sit up. Another mistake. Even if the binding around my hip would allow me to bend like that, I wouldn’t be able to bear it. It’s so intense, like little rivers of fire being lit throughout my body. I swallow a cry as I trail my fingers over the epicenter of the agony, feeling layers and layers of gauze under the bandage.
Okay, so I was shot. My mind’s done a pretty good job of blocking out that memory, but I fish for the remnants. Weaving through containers stacked high into the sky, peeking into windows of darkened offices, looking for a sedan and white-blonde hair.
Then it all gets fuzzy. I wanted to take him alive. I was so focused on my goal, so disoriented by exhaustion and fear, that I failed to adhere to a crucial rule of our work. Kill alone. Kidnap together.
I should be dead.
And yet here I am, momentarily safe and comfortable. I shift the blankets off my body and do my best to examine my injuries. There are superficial wounds to my right knuckles, but the majority of the unpleasant sensation emanates from my leg. The bandage is hidden by oversized sweatpants, and despite the wide layers of fabric, angry yellow and black splotches creep from the waistband, reaching for my ribs. There’s no blood though, so someone cleaned me up.
Not someone. Deniz. I remember the gentle feeling of his hands brushing against me, the tenderness a sharp contrast to the splitting pain. There were other voices around him, but they swim in and out of my memories, likely because I wasn’t maintaining consciousness.
There was so much agony and fear in his eyes, I can’t stomach thinking about it. I distract myself by rolling against my good hip to relieve the pressure, swallowing down the pain as the bed creaks, and catalog the room I’m in.
The first thing I notice are marble floors, bright white and laced with gold. There’s not a rug to be found, only a massive expanse of cold stone. The bed I’m in is a four-poster, probably an Alaskan King, the frame made of dark wood, with posts sculpted like Greek columns and a headboard with carved fig leaves. Light pours from the adjoining bathroom, illuminating somehow more marble, including a giant glass shower with white and gold tiles and a jet-black toilet.
Okay, so I’m in a man’s house.
There are two doors on the opposite side of the room, but just one has light shining from underneath, so I assume that’s the hallway. I wish I could sit up, slide out of bed and open the curtains so I can figure out what time of day it is, but I can barely keep myself sitting straight.
Fear slices through me again. My memories of Deniz better not be some pathetic comfort hallucination, because if I’m in enemy territory right now, I’m no use in a fight.
There’s a slight commotion outside the door to the hallway, and I instinctively reach out my right hand toward my nightstand for my gun that isn’t there, gasping in agony from the movement.
I don’t have time for anything more, because the door opens a crack, and three heads peek into the room, stacked on top of each other like cartoon characters.
“See! I told you she’s awake!” The middle one says, pushing the door completely open and turning on the lights. He’s fairly pale and bald, his nose, ears, and head all covered in a brutal sunburn. There’s a faint outline of where his sunglasses must have been, and he’s sporting an awful goatee. He smiles widely at me over his shoulder as he throws open the curtains, letting even more light into the room. I try not to cringe at the way the sun magnifies my migraine.
“Chase,” a taller Black man cuts in, grasping his friend’s shoulder. “She needs to rest.”
“I’m not asking her to run a fucking marathon,” Chase scoffs, brushing off the other guy’s hand and plopping himself at the foot of my bed. “I just want to get to know our guest.”
“I apologize for him,” Not-Chase says, a faint east African accent lacing his words. He moves closer to my side than I feel completely comfortable with. “I’m Tafika Rakoto, and this is Chase Kraja. This is his home.”
There’s something familiar about Tafika. Not his face. He’s very tall and very lean, with dark umber skin and close-cropped hair. His clothes are clean-pressed and his posture is distant, like he’s restraining himself. Even though I can’t place his face, I know I’ve heard his voice before.
“You were here before,” I say, tilting my head at him and letting his calming, professional smile soothe me. “You were here when Deniz brought me.”
“Doctor Taf fixed you right up, didn’t he?” Chase laughs. I turn between the two of them, trying to figure out why they look vaguely familiar, before the doctor puts his hand on my shoulder.
“Avoid pushing yourself too hard while you recover,” he says quietly, removing his hand as soon as I comply with his recommendation. “But yes, I sutured the bullet wound in your left thigh. You’re incredibly lucky it didn’t nick anything important, or Deniz would have had to take you to a hospital.”
“Is he okay? Where is he?” I ask, suddenly realizing I might not be the only one injured. My leg screams as I move, instinct begging me to search for him despite my condition. He brought me here, saved my life, and this is the first time I’ve even considered his well being. Guilt, more agonizing than any wound, lances through me.
“You sit still and stop pulling at your stitches, and we’ll tell you whatever you want to know,” Tafika says, his voice more firm this time. My body aches to ignore the pain and find Deniz, but I don’t even think it’s physically possible to get out of this bed right now. So I comply.
“Deniz is fine. Well, as close to fine as he’s been since he met you.”
I had almost forgotten about the third man. He leans against the door frame, his long, dark hair pulled into a bun on top of his head. His eyes are shadowed, but I can see the judgment in them. All of a sudden, the image in front of me clicks into place, and I would smack myself for not seeing it earlier if I wasn’t already in so much pain.
“You’re Bashir,” I say, tilting my head toward the man in the doorway. “Bashir, Taf, and Chase. You’re Deniz’s best friends.”
“We’re Deniz’s only friends,” Chase interjects, a slightly skeevy smile still on his face. Maybe it’s not his smile that seems a little douchey, but the way he’s popped the collar of his white polo.
“And we’re in your house,” I repeat, trying to make sense of what’s happening. “And Deniz brought me to you instead of a hospital because he knew I wouldn’t want a criminal investigation.”
Taf is nodding like he’s about to clarify, but Bashir steps farther into the room, drawing all of our attention. His frustration is obvious on his face, raising my hackles.
“Maybe you’d like to explain that to us, Clara. Why exactly don’t you want an investigation when you were just shot? Wouldn’t you want someone to catch whoever tried to kill you?”
“Enough Bashir,” Taf commands. They stare at each other, having some silent argument, both clearly angry. The tense silence is broken, of course, by Chase.
“Man, I’m fucking hungry,” he complains, rolling so he’s laying on his back near my feet. “You guys want sushi? I think the chef went home, but we could order in.”
Maybe this is a normal occurrence and Chase is used to ignoring whatever is happening between his friends. Otherwise, he’s oblivious as hell. But after a few beats of silent communication, Taf and Bashir break their intense stare. The latter refuses to look at me as he turns to his friend.
“I’m not eating sushi in the middle of a desert,” Bashir scoffs, turning back toward the door. “I’ll call the bar down the street and order pizza.”
Chase begins to follow, and I’m worried that they’ll all leave and I’ll end up with no answers about Deniz or otherwise. But Tafika stays by my side.
“I’m going to change her bandages and check her stitches—I’ll be down in a few.”
Bashir shrugs, not even turning, but Chase shoots finger guns our way.
“No eating in bed. Those sheets cost more than your apartment.”
Tafika sighs loudly as they stomp down the stairs, sharing a slight grimace with me.
“I apologize for both of them. Chase has never really had any manners, and well, Bashir…” he trails off, obviously unwilling to explain his friend’s animosity toward me. But I can’t focus on that right now.
“Deniz. Where is he? Is he injured?” I aim to keep my voice calm, to infuse some sense of Costa authority, but the fearful wavering isn’t subtle.
“We’re going to make another agreement. You will let me check your wound and change your dressings, and until I’m done, I’ll answer any question you want. Yes?” Tafika’s tone brokers no argument, but I’ve never been one to acquiesce.
“You’ll answer my questions, or you’ll answer them honestly?” I press, and a grin spreads across his face in response.
“I should expect as much from a Costa,” the doctor laughs, pulling a bag I didn’t notice off the floor and setting it on the empty nightstand. “I will be as honest as I can be without betraying any confidences, how about that?”
He gives me time to consider as he removes fresh gauze and shears from his bag. But I agree immediately—it’s better than being trapped in this room alone. Plus, I didn’t promise to tell him anything in return.
“Good,” he says simply, holding four blue capsules out to me. “Take these. It’s over-the-counter pain medication. I assumed you wouldn’t want opioids.”
I’m really throwing caution to the wind here, but I suppose if he wanted to kill me with fake ibuprofen, it would be an easier death than trying to defend myself while injured. I also have no idea how he knows I wouldn’t want prescription painkillers, but he’s right. I want to be lucid for this. I take the pills from his hand and pop them in my mouth, struggling to dry swallow. I didn’t realize how dehydrated I was.
“Deniz showed up here with you about thirty-six hours ago. He wasn’t injured, but he was obviously concerned about you. Lean back against the pillows and roll to your uninjured side.”
I follow Tafika’s directions, breathing through the pain as he helps me shift my weight.
“And where is he now?” I hiss. Tafika is being as gentle as he can as he adjusts the borrowed sweatpants lower on my hip. I have to bite down on my tongue until it’s bloody to avoid crying out. I’m not wearing underwear, but I’m too overwhelmed by the feeling of him removing the pressure wrapping to even care. He’s a doctor. He’s seen worse.
“Handling the half-dead Russian in his trunk. I also believe he mentioned coordinating some things with your brother.”
Lev is alive. Thank god this wasn’t all for nothing. And if Charlie’s involved, hopefully he sent someone out to clean up my mess at the docks.
“How long has it been since I was shot? How bad was it?”
Tafika reviews how Deniz called him from his car right after the incident, and it took him under an hour and a half to arrive. And when he laid me out on Chase’s kitchen table, Taf had done his best to stitch together any damage left by the bullet.
“Bashir had to physically restrain him so he wouldn’t hold on to you while I worked,” he recalls, peeling back the sticky edge of the final bandage. The cool air hits my wound, making it prickle with pain. I force myself to look down at it, mostly to avoid reacting to Tafika’s words.
“You did a good job, all things considered,” I compliment as he soaks the stitches with saline and dries the area. A dab of thick ointment and a clean, neatly folded stack of gauze go back on top, and he has me hold the cloth in place while he unrolls a new bandage.
“The dressing is only for today, to reduce swelling. After that, we’ll air it out.” His voice is calm and soothing, like a good doctor’s should be. Maybe The Syndicate should hire him. “Unfortunately, I didn’t have dissolving stitches here, so you’ll have to have these removed in about ten days.”
“You’ll do that for me?” I ask. He raises his eyebrow at me while he wraps the stretchy fabric around my hip.
“Oh, I think you’ve likely got a family doctor on retainer you can see.”
The tone with which he says family doctor is implication enough, even without the small, knowing smile he gives me.
“Deniz told you,” I sigh, leaning back against the pillows as Tafika sanitizes his hands, his task complete.
“He didn’t, actually. But the Costas are well known among certain families in East Africa, as you can imagine.” His smile is genuine now, not reserved.
“Tafika Rakoto. That Rakoto family?” I haven’t met a member of Rariny, the Malgasay family that operates similar to ours in Madagascar and other areas of East Africa. Their reach is smaller, but they do more for their local region than The Syndicate could ever hope for. While we take a broad, if shallow, approach to our operations, Rariny does the opposite, focusing on a limited geographic region and digging deep.
“No, no, it’s a common last name,” he shrugs, dropping the bag back down on the floor next to the nightstand. “But my family have been medical practitioners in one form or another for generations, and we’ve offered our services where needed.”
Despite the lingering sting and soreness, this is the most relaxed I’ve felt since I woke up. It’s nice to find kinship in another who understands our mission. The thought gives me pause, and Tafika doesn’t seem to be leaving, so I stretch our agreement a little longer.
“Deniz doesn’t know about your involvement with Rariny?” I ask, adjusting myself further to get more comfortable. Doctor Rakoto bites the inside of his cheek before answering.
“He doesn’t. None of my friends do. I met them in college, after I had already known my path in life. They provide me an outlet separate from this world, a normality I imagine we all crave.” Tafika tilts his head at me, like he’s trying to read something in my eyes. “Besides Bashir, Deniz is the one I least expected to get involved in a world like ours. He told us a little about your shared history, but I wonder how you found one another.”
He poses it as a general musing, not a direct question, so I keep my mouth shut. Whatever he sees, he must approve of, because his little smile returns.
“In any case, I imagine neither of our lines of work will be secrets in this household for long, especially knowing how The Syndicate of Fate handles attacks against their own.”
I’m glad our global reputation continues to instill respect and fear. It’s part of the reason we’ve kept my mother’s attack hidden for so long; if we are unable to announce the swift and brutal execution of its perpetrator, we can’t let the world see our weakness.
“Oh, by the way,” I start, changing the subject as smoothly as I can. “What’s Bashir’s problem with me?”
Tafika laughs, leaning his hip against the nightstand.
“Unfortunately, Bashir associates your presence in Deniz’s life with his change in demeanor. But he forgets that Deniz has been this new version of himself long before your windswept love story.”
“Change in demeanor?” I ask. Deniz has always been this person to me—intense, demanding, thoughtful, terrifying. Even though I’ve known him for such a short time, it’s odd to think there’s a version of him I’ve never seen.
“Deniz used to be much more relaxed. He was an academic, always hunting for something new to understand. Controlling, yes, but in a curious way. He became much more intense after Kerem’s death.”
My heart pinches as I watch the grief pass over Tafika’s expression. Deniz wasn’t alone in suffering from the loss of his brother.
“You knew him well?” I ask, my voice quiet, as though trying not to interrupt his heartache.
“We all did. Chase’s siblings are all over the world, Bashir is an only child, and my sister is deeply embedded in Rariny. But Kerem was always by our sides. When we were all out of school, and Kerem was a kid, we would spend the entire summer together, letting him run with the grown-ups. It terrified their mother,” Tafika laughs, his gaze distant and his smile sad. “We all lost a brother that day.”
I open my mouth to say something, anything, to empathize with his grief. But we’re interrupted by the sound of Chase’s voice announcing the delivery of pizza.
“He’s really not going to let you eat in this bed,” Tafika promises, his concerned physician face back in place. “I can help you down the stairs, if you’d like.
“Is there a toothbrush I can use first?” I ask, offering my arm. He rotates me on the bed as he scoffs.
“There’s more likely to be liquor in that medicine cabinet than toothpaste, but we can check.” I brace myself against his arm as he pulls me to my feet as gently as he can. The movement is excruciating, and I breathe hard through my nose until my heels touch the floor. Once I’m on solid ground, I chant in my head again that this pain is temporary, and I can survive it.
“Thank you, Doctor Tafika,” I say, genuinely grateful for both his surgical skills and his honesty. He leans my uninjured side against his frame and helps me take my first steps forward.
“Taf is fine, for friends.”
Downstairs is significantly brighter. Unsurprisingly, more marble covers the floors, this time broken up by mismatched, yet incredibly expensive, Persian rugs. Someone has wrapped caution tape around the dining room table— someone meaning Chase, who commented that either Deniz or I owe him a new table, seeing as this one is a crime scene. Taf settles me in at one corner of the couch, my left side supported by an army of pillows.
Chase puts four slices of pizza on a paper plate and fills a red Solo cup to the brim with an unidentifiable and strong-smelling liquor before handing both to me. I place the cup that I would rather die than drink on the side table and start in on my pizza.
It would be delicious, if not for the glare I feel penetrating the center of my forehead. When I look up, my mouth stuffed with Meat Lover’s Supreme, I’m not shocked to see Bashir staring daggers at me.
“So Clara, how’s work been?” Chase asks, already laughing at his own joke before he finishes it. Taf’s in the kitchen getting water for me, so there’s no one to cut the weird dynamic between me, Chase, and Bashir.
“Oh, you know, just another day at the office,” I reply, shoveling another bite into my mouth. Bashir doesn’t crack a smile. I don’t even think he blinks. I’m not usually easily intimidated, but most people don’t feel comfortable staring at me this long. Likely because they know it could be the last thing they do.
“Our boy Deniz seems very taken with you,” Chase continues, his mouth full of food. He takes a long drink from his cup, washing down the pizza before starting again. “I love the Ninety Day Fiancé thing you guys are doing.”
Taf returns, handing me a much less lethal looking glass as I cringe at Chase’s joke. I take it gratefully, realizing I must have sweat out every last drop of water from my body while I was nearly dying.
“Don’t give her a hard time, Chase,” Taf scolds, picking up his own slice of pizza.
“Don’t give her a hard time?” Bashir asks, harsh and demanding. “With everything she’s done to Deniz…”
“I didn’t do anything to him,” I argue, flinching at how badly even raising my voice hurts. Why does a gunshot wound to the fucking leg hurt in my chest?
“Fuck that—don’t lie,” Bashir sneers, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back in his seat. His hair is coming out of its tie, falling over his forehead and making him look even more disheveled. His dark skin glows with the heat of rage, coloring his cheeks and neck.
“I’m not lying.” I am lying, but it doesn’t seem like Taf knew about our little blackmail situation, nor Deniz’s surveillance habits, so I don’t feel compelled to share. “Whatever change you think I made to Deniz, I had no hand in it.”
“Bashir, don’t do this,” Taf says, looking at Chase for backup. For the first time, Chase seems to drop his ultimate party bro persona and levels Bashir with a completely genuine look.
“Taf’s right. I know you hate seeing Deniz like this, but he changed when Kerem died, man. We all did.” I don’t know any of them well, but this distress seems out of character for Chase.
“It’s more than that, and you two refuse to see it. He’s our best friend, and you’re ignoring whatever’s happening to him, too blinded by your own grief,” Bashir says to his friends, but he looks straight at me. “Something happened when you met that changed him. He wasn’t sad or missing his brother. He’d lost his mind.”
I think back to the first night in the surveillance room and the way Deniz’s demeanor shifted from the person I knew him to be, however na?ve the idea seems now. Maybe Bashir isn’t wrong. Maybe he really is so loyal to the people he loves, that he saw the way Deniz’s own actions drove him insane.
“You’d be driven mad, too, if your own blood died like that,” Taf says under his breath, his gaze imploring. “And so far away, having to ask your friends to ship his body halfway around the world? It would be unbearable.”
My body goes still, the pain I was feeling growing numb as my mind races. Halfway across the world? Kerem died in a car accident in Los Angeles. I have the death certificate buried in my email somewhere, one of the hundred of innocuous ?imsek family records Emily sent me that I never looked at twice. Why would Deniz need to fly to retrieve his body, when he’s lived in LA for most of his life?
“Kerem died overseas?” I ask, blood pounding in my ears as the three men turn toward me. Chase and Taf have empathetic expressions, but Bashir’s glare only intensifies.
“He doesn't really talk about the details, does he?” Chase mutters, propping his elbows on his knees and hanging his head. “Yeah, almost two years ago in Istanbul. Kerem was on a trip to visit where his parents grew up and there was this restaurant fire. He died trying to get everyone else to evacuate.”
Everything around me comes into sharp focus, the connections I haven't been able to make for months finally coming together, solidifying the web of lies and truths between us. A cold sweat breaks out over my whole body as every one of Deniz’s actions suddenly makes sense.
Stalking my family for the past year and more. Inserting himself into my path. Sabotaging my search for a spouse. Wanting to be involved in the operations of The Syndicate.
The same people who attempted to take my mother’s life took Kerem’s. And while he might simply want to use the resources and rage of our family’s anguish to seek his own justice, I imagine he might also hold us responsible. Konstantin and his mole weren’t targeting Kerem, they were targeting us . And his brother, his baby brother, was collateral damage in the battle we wage against the worst of the world.
If the roles were reversed, and it was Charlie under all that ash, I wouldn’t hesitate to do the same.
Deniz’s friends continue arguing, but I can’t force myself to listen. Bashir eventually leaves in a huff, and Chase throws me a compassionate grimace as he follows.
Taf says something about having me sleep downstairs so I don’t have to move up and down the floors. I must agree, because he brings blankets and pillows and situates me as comfortably as possible on the couch, even refilling my water before turning out the lights, leaving me alone in Chase’s living room.
I fall asleep to the pieces of Deniz’s and my chess board moving, aligning so the checkmate is clear.