Chapter Forty-Three
Stefano
THE DOOR SWINGS OPEN and a masked member stands on the other side, an AR strapped across his chest. “Let’s go, Nine.”
What the hell’s this ‘Nine’ shit all about?
This is the third time someone’s called me that here.
Would be interesting to know, sure, but not enough to derail my focus right now.
All too happy to leave this white ass room, I follow the member out without questions or smart talk.
Even if it’s to my death, I’ll take it. Hell’s bound to have more color than this sterile white asylum.
After Pavlov dropped that bomb, along with a bloody nose yesterday, he stormed out. Masked members came in and escorted me to a medical room to have my bloodied nose treated, then forced me to eat a lavish meal before locking me back inside the room I’d woken up in. Door sealed tight.
Until about an hour ago, when someone brought in a fresh change of clothes with the tags still on.
My phones and jewelry are missing, so I’ve got no concept of time.
But going off a rough estimation, it’s been at least fifteen hours since my chat with Pavlov.
More than enough time for me to come to terms with the fact that Raya—Soraya, is not only with THE O, but is the daughter of the world boss.
Jhay Byrd.
How’s that even possible? How does the daughter of the most powerful people alive—who hates my guts—end up in my villa? In my life? In my bed?
Most importantly, why?
I’ve only ever seen JB once, years ago. On video while she issued me an “or else” warning for whatever shit I did at the time to piss her off. But her face is the kind you never forget. Lethally stunning. Stammeringly striking. Especially her eyes.
Knowing what I do now, it makes sense why Soraya seemed so familiar. She’s the perfect collision of her parents. Has JB’s striking features, but resembles Pavlov overall.
Yeah, that one fact answers a lot. Why she’s so skilled. Knows so much. Was steps ahead of us the entire time. Even so, there are still a shit ton more unanswered questions, if not more confusion.
Hopefully, wherever this masked fucker is taking me right now will get me more answers. If we ever fucking get there. This place is a goddamn stark-white maze. He leads me from one hall to another to another. Through one door…then another…then another...
No windows. No clocks. No glimpse of the outside.
At goddamn last, he opens a set of double doors out to what appears to be a sizable backyard. A large patio, green grass, a koi pond, and a mini golf course.
It all feels...off.
Takes me a moment to realize the sky above is artificial. As well as the virtual, hyper-realistic views of the rich green hills backdropped by gray mountains.
The fuck is this place?
Masked Dude nudges me toward the mini golf area at the south end of the yard, where Pavlov is lining up for a putt. “Go on.”
He turns and leaves.
Slipping my hands into my pockets, I move with unhurried steps down to the golfing area.
Pavlov takes his shot. The ball rolls in cleanly. Pleased, he rests the club across his shoulders and turns to me. “Slept well?”
“Like shit.”
“Good.” He nods, pleased at my misery. “Golf, or breakfast?”
I throw a glance over my shoulder to the patio where there’s a large table laden with food. The only thing I’ve got an appetite for right now is seeing Soraya. So I turn to the rack of golf clubs and pick one that suits me.
“Ah, I forgot, you’re a night-life man.” Pavlov shifts to the side as I line up my shot. “Do you think I hate you, Castello?”
“I’d be flattered if you thought about me enough to hate me,” I reply. “I’m merely a beneficiary of this organization, not a contributor. So I doubt you even remember I exist half the time.”
His chuckle is low and curt. “That is true of most beneficiaries, yes. You, on the other hand…”
“Oh?” I slide him a quick glance. “I mean, I’ve been told I’m incredible, unforgettable, inimitable. But Pavlov Niiveaux spends his precious, invaluable time being aware of my existence?”
“Tolerating your existence,” he corrects. “Whether you live or die means as much to me as whether the wind blows east or west. In my world, you’re a speck. A pesky lint on my Egyptian cotton.”
I take the shot. Sink the putt.
“The two most important women in my life, however...” Pavlov steps around me, setting up his next shot. “One despises you. The other...” He pauses, gives me a measured look. “Cares about you.”
No need to guess which is which. JB wants me dead. Soraya showed up to help.
Wait, have I unknowingly created a rift in their family?
“Hmm. Are you sure you’re indifferent to me? Because that sounds like a tough and uncomfortable place for you to be in,” I taunt. “Be honest, you resent me a little bit.”
Golf club an inch from the ball, he pauses in position, then swivels his head to give me a look that conveys his patience is thinning. “You really get off on people hating you, don’t you?”
I shrug. “I don’t trust people who have no enemies. If you’re loved by everyone, you’re betraying everyone.”
“Hm.” He straightens and gives me a solid once-over. “Maybe I should start paying more attention to your existence. No one gets this far or this high up in life by being a foolhardy idiot.”
He takes his shot, and misses.
With narrowed eyes and a tight frown, he turns to me and wags a finger. “You’re sneaky, Castello. Real sneaky.”
Yup, I threw him off on purpose. When I’m not the most powerful, skilled, or feared man in the room, I sneak into the mind. Mental manipulation is a silent weapon.
“Let’s go.” He throws down his club and walks off. “We’re having breakfast.”
Powerful figures are such sore losers.
Showing a little decorum, I pick up his club and return it to the rack along with mine before heading up to the patio.
My appetite is nonexistent, but if forcing breakfast on me makes him feel better…
I sit down and make a plate.
After a stretch of silence, he asks, almost conversationally, “Do you think you know my daughter?”
Not in the way you’d want to hear. “No.”
“Then what exactly is it that you ‘love’ about her?”
I think back on that night on the Ferris wheel. I can still smell her, feel her breath on me, the warmth of her body next to mine. That might very well be the moment I fell in love with her.
“I love that she makes me want to know her. I love her brilliance, her mind, the way she unerringly reads people and situations. That I can never tell what’s going on in her head—she keeps me on my toes.
” I take a drink of coffee to hide a smile.
“I love that she has a good balance of compassion and savagery. Most of all, I love that she never needed my strength, or protection, or... anything from me. I love that she always looks me directly in the eyes, that she sees all that’s there, and gives herself to me anyway—”
“Hey. That’s my daughter,” he curtails, waving his fork at me. “Jesus Christ. I didn’t need all that information. You could have stopped after the first sentence. Who are you, Sophocles?”
“Sophocles was a tragedian, actually.”
When he just scowls at me, I bite back a laugh and hold up my hands. “You asked.”
“The most important thing here is you know you don’t know her, but want to,” he says. “Because you need to know her to understand what you would be signing up for with her.”
Judging by his tone and the gravity in his expression, there are things he needs to get out, things that might provide answers to my unasked questions, so I take a sip of coffee and wait for him to go on.
He cuts into his eggs Benedict. “Did she tell you she’s a twin?”
“She did.”
“They were three when we realized something was wrong,” he tells me.
“Violent towards each other even at that age.” He pauses, then goes on, “We eventually got them evaluated early. Her brother, Sevyn, was diagnosed a psychopath—today’s medical term is ‘anti-social personality disorder’ or some shit like that. But we know what he is. He’s shown us.”
He sets down his knife. “Soraya’s came back normal, but for reasons I won’t get into, we had her evaluated every year until she turned eighteen.
Her last results were ‘unspecified personality disorder.’ All this to say, it’s difficult to ‘know’ Soraya.
She’s an emulator and an unreliable narrator.
Even as her father, and her best friend, I struggle. ”
I hide another smile behind my coffee mug.
Pavlov seems irritated by this. “What’s so amusing?”
“Tried to tell you that’s one of the reasons I love her, but you shut me up, so.
..” I spear a blueberry with my fork. “I spent a lot of time trying to know and understand her. Until I realized I never would, because she doesn’t want to be understood.
Deception, deflection, and distraction are her MO.
She’s a chameleon. So, I started reading her intentions instead, and that’s when everything changed.
If I could read her intentions, I could read her mind. And, ultimately, her heart.”
Pavlov lowers his fork and stares back at me in utter defeat. “Oh…so, you do know her, after all…” He looks like I just punched him in the gut. “Christ. My wife’s going hate this.”
“What, is there some kind of bet going on or something?”
“Or something,” he grumbles.
What’s going on with these people? “I have a question…”
He gestures for me to go ahead.
“In your world, I’m just a ‘speck,’ yeah? Gum under your shoe. Pesky lint on your Egyptian cotton. But your wife…she’s the chief. The boss of world leaders. As close to being a god as it gets. Incontestable. Indomitable. In—”
“Intolerable is what you are.” He radiates impatience. “Get on with it, you little shit.”