34. Wes
I haver wanted to be anywhere less than I want to be in Monaco right now.
After finishing the brand shoot, I learned that marketing budgets and the cost of last-minute flight changes don’t mix when I attempted to re-route my flight to New York.
Why the travel agency the brand used wouldn’t let me pay for it, I do not know—something about the type of ticket and approvals and compliance that made no sense to me.
I was going to skip the return flight and book my own to New York, but then Adrien called me, said he heard I tried to change the flight, and chewed me out for being an ungrateful asshole.
So here I am, in Monaco, when the only place I want to be is New York City.
I thought it’d be an easy problem to solve. But it turns out flights from Nice to New York are completely booked for the next two days. And that just isn’t going to work for me.
Though I’ve never needed my own private plane or even a membership that get you access to one, I know several people who do.
I sent a desperate message in the driver group chat half an hour ago and my former teammate at Sterling has come through.
The only catch is that the flight leaves in two hours.
After throwing clothes and my always-packed toiletry bag into a suitcase, taking what must be the world’s fastest shower, and changing into a comfortable pair of track pants, a T-shirt, and a denim jacket since planes are always fucking freezing, I double-check that I have my phone, wallet, and passport, and open my front door.
Where I come face to face with Elio Rocca.
In his mint-green shirt, linen pants, and boat shoes, he looks like he just stepped off a yacht. Honestly, he probably did.
“Wes!” he crows. “Just the man I wanted to see!” His eyes barely crinkle in the corners of his surprisingly smooth face.
He always jokes that it’s all the olive oil and red wine in his diet, but I know that he regularly visits a “dermatologist” in South Korea.
That’s the problem with Elio: you can’t trust a thing that comes out of his mouth.
“I’m actually leaving,” I say, trying to shoulder past him. “I have a flight to catch.”
“To New York?” he asks, his voice nearly a purr. I want to punch him in his capped teeth. “I don’t think so.”
Alarm pulses through my nerves. But I don’t want him to have any idea that I’m worried about his presence here. “You have two minutes, and then I really have to go.”
“You won’t find Elizabeth Jacobs there,” he says coolly. “And I’m not going to tell you where you can find her until you and I have a little chat.”
He smiles wide, knowing he has me over a barrel. I don’t want to believe him—I don’t believe I can believe him. So I narrow my eyes and pull my phone out of my pocket.
“You can try calling her,” he says, anticipating my next move. “Her phone is off, though.”
I watch Elio carefully. I don’t think this is bravado. But I need to know for myself. I pull up her contact and hit call, a potent mix of hope and terror flooding my veins.
It goes straight to voicemail.
Fear grips my heart, my gut, my throat. “What do you want, Elio?”
“A lot of things, Wes. But right now, I want to go inside your apartment. I want to sit on your couch. I want you to bring me a bottle of Sanpellegrino. And I want to have a conversation.”
“Fine,” I grit out, opening the door, hoping I’m not making an enormous mistake.
He walks in as if he owns the place, and sits in the exact middle of my L-shaped couch, crossing his legs, and spreading his arms along the top of the backrest.
“I don’t have Sanpellegrino,” I say, pulling out a bottle of Badoit from the fridge. “Hope this works.”
Elio scoffs, but I don’t care. He makes a show of pouring a glass, holding it up to the light and examining the bubbles before he takes a long drink. He lets out a long “ahhhhhh,” so I guess French water is adequately refreshing.
“Alright, Wes,” Elio says, “I need a favor.”
“What kind?” I ask, doing my best to keep my voice and face neutral, the way Elizabeth always does.
“It’s simple, really,” he says. “You go to Druvia, attend the King’s birthday celebration, and hand him an envelope.”
“Oh, is that all?” I ask, laughing. I’ve never been to Druvia.
Sure, I’m friends with the Crown Prince, but the couple of times I’ve met étienne’s dad, he made his distaste for me—the uncouth American who partied too hard and never considered the consequences—very well known.
So even if I did go to Druvia, there’s no way I’d be allowed to deliver a message to the King.
“I hate to tell you this, but His Majesty is not a fan of mine.”
“That doesn’t matter,” Elio says. “You know étienne. And if you care about Elizabeth, you’ll do this. You do want her back, right?”
I swallow hard. “Excuse me?”
“I’ll make this very clear,” he says, looking perfectly comfortable on my couch. “You do this favor for me and Elizabeth will be returned to her apartment in New York safely.”
I grit my teeth.
“To sweeten the deal, I’ll have Stas returned to his place here in Monaco.”
Every ounce of calm I was clinging to vanishes. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Interesting,” Elio says. “My people swore that your girlfriend would be proper motivation on her own, but I wasn’t convinced. You’ve never been one to limit your options, after all. That’s why I have your boyfriend, too.”
I find myself unable to breathe as the full weight of what’s happening crashes down on me.
Elio isn’t just a rich asshole who isn’t to be trusted.
He’s a goddamn criminal mastermind. He’s been using Martine Racing as a cover for his dealings since, after all, it isn’t uncommon for government leaders and CEOs and billionaires to all be together in team garages or paddock club hospitality suites.
And if he has Stas’s uncle under his thumb, then who even knows how long he’s been manipulating Stas.
But now, he is blackmailing me into doing his dirty work.
This envelope won’t have a greeting card wishing the King well.
It’ll be a bribe or a threat or a diabolical promise of terrorism.
All because Elio Rocca is a power-hungry bastard.
I’m not stoic like Stas. I’m not unflappable like Elizabeth. My heart pounds so hard in my chest, I’m concerned it might crack a rib. I’m sure I look as absolutely terrified as I feel. But I force myself to think. To focus. To close every drawer in my mind except for the one that I need right now.
My voice is surprisingly steady as I say, “I need proof.” Elio picks up his phone, taps a couple of times, and then hands it to me.
There, on the screen, is a live video feed.
My eyes go immediately to Elizabeth—she’s in workout clothes and wearing my Red Sox hat, standing still in the middle of a room with crown molding, an enormous chandelier, and ornately carved furniture.
I know that being in a beautiful room does not necessarily mean she’s being treated well.
But at least she’s not in some dirty basement filled with medieval torture devices.
On the other side of the screen is Stas.
I haven’t seen him in months, and the part of me that’s been coiled tight since his arrest relaxes as I take in the angular panes of his face and his blond hair, longer than I’ve ever seen it.
He’s in a similarly decorated room, but unlike Elizabeth, who looks like she’s about to melt a wall with her mind, Stas is lounging on a divan.
“Now that we understand each other,” Elio says pleasantly as he takes his phone from my hands, severing my connection with the woman I love and my best friend. “Let’s discuss logistics.”
There’s nothing I can do but nod.