23. Isabela
ISABELA
Demin's men are still filing out when I come down to the office, brushing past me in the hall without a word.
Judging by the looks on their faces, this was a serious meeting with a lot riding on it.
I wait until the last one is gone before I step through the door, timid but not afraid anymore.
They stopped locking my door days ago, and I've had free roam of the house, but the only place I come is here. Where he is.
It's late again. I gave up on sleep an hour ago. The bed's gotten strange to me when he isn't in it. It feels cold and empty, and I end up feeling alone. My pull toward this man is stronger than ever, and I'm finding myself missing him when he's delayed or absent.
Demin's behind the desk with his sleeves pushed up and a bottle in front of him. He looks up when I come in, but the hard expression of deep thought flits away when his eyes meet mine.
"You should be asleep," he says, but not gruffly. His tone is softer, more compassionate. Something changed between us when he possessed me after scaring that awful man away. I have a new respect for him, and he seems to have a stronger desire for me too.
"I couldn't." I stop in front of the desk.
"The house is loud when you've got men coming and going at this hour.
" I won't tell him the real reason, that I miss him and want to be held.
He may respond favorably to it, even be pleased by it, but if I do that, I'm not staying true to myself.
He probably expects me to be defiant and have a hard edge about me, but sometimes, being soft is all I can muster.
"Sit, then." He pulls a second glass from a drawer and pours two fingers into each. "Drink with me. It'll help you sleep when we go upstairs."
As I take the chair across from him he slides the glass over. There's a flicker of amusement as I take a sniff of it and scowl. "It's not tequila," I say.
"No. It's better."
"It's really not." I grin, and he chuckles as I sip it. The drink is disgusting, and it burns going down. But I'm sure the swirl of alcohol will suck me in and help me sleep just as he said.
He leans back in his chair with his own glass in hand and tired eyes studying me.
I've heard all the rumors and murmuring.
After the warehouse fire, he brushed me off, so I didn't probe, but I have questions now.
I'm not foolish enough to think one attack is all Javier Solano has planned.
And looking into Demin's eyes, I can tell he knows it too.
"Bad night?" I ask.
"Long month." He sips his drink and sighs, relaxing his shoulders. "The Cartel hasn't stopped, Isabela. They've decided I cost them a thing they can't replace, and now they're going to keep coming until one of us can't anymore."
I swallow hard around a lump forming, pushing away the feeling of guilt. My fight for freedom has gotten to the point it's costing others far more than I ever hoped for. My father is safer now, but not whole, and all of this fighting and attacking is the ripple effect.
"How bad is it getting?" I ask him, finishing the drink and then dropping my head to stare at the empty glass in my hand, nestled into my lap. If only there had been a way to get my father away from Solano without letting Solano know who did it. None of this would have to happen.
"It's not good…" He downs his drink too and then leans forward, making his chair squeak. It forces my eyes up to meet his. "It's quickly become war between our families and unless we put them in their place, they will always shadow us."
"Because of Papa?" I wince as I ask it, but I know the answer.
"Because of your father." Demin doesn't bother trying to assuage my guilt or soften his response.
I can appreciate that about him, that he's frank and direct.
I'm not a child. I don’t need coddled. "A chemist like him doesn't come along often, Milaya.
Solano knows what it means that I have him, and he's not the kind of man who lets a thing like that go quietly.
He'll burn half of Berlin if he has to, to stop me from having Octavio… even if he never gets the man back."
"And you'd rather burn the other half than give him back."
"I would." His instant response is comforting, but it scares me.
The conversation lulls as he gestures for my glass, which he refills alongside his, then pushes back to me.
I detest the Russian favorite, but it's working on my nerves, relaxing me the way only alcohol can.
I sip the new glass with a greater appreciation for vodka as the warmth spreads through my chest and cheeks.
Then I think of the reason for this war.
Papa needs me, and if I don’t work out something to make sure his future is a more pleasant one, I'm afraid they'll find him on the floor next to a batch of meth, his body having given up.
"And how is he? My father… Nobody tells me anything past 'he's working'." I get to visit him and I know his health has improved significantly with food. And now that he's not being beaten daily, his bruises are mostly healed. I just want it to stay that way.
"He's working." Demin blinks slowly and says, "The product coming off that bench is as strong as anything I bought out of Spain. He's comfortable—better than the cell Solano kept him in."
"But better isn't necessarily what he needs, Demin," I say softly, trying my hardest not to come across as weak or pleading. If this man wants me, then he has to respect that I have desires too, important ones. I won't just let myself be his while he abuses my father.
But my God, the way he'd own my heart, and not just my body, if he were to meet those needs. If Demin Roshin saw in my father what I see and he took care of my father the way I would—he would truly possess everything about me.
"He needs freedom." My words probably don't land how I want them to, but I can't look him in the eye to find out.
This is the most civil I've been when it comes to asking for my father's freedom.
The man seated across from me is far from civil, but I hope he can hear reason when I ask him for my father to be released.
Before I can even open my mouth, however, he speaks.
"Then let me tell you what I'm offering," he says. "Can you do that?"
I lift my eyes back to his, curious to see what he might say now. "I'm listening."
"Your father keeps working the way he's working now, proves to me he's in this and not waiting for a chance to run, and I will take care of him.
" He holds my gaze as I narrow my eyes in confusion.
"I'll give the two of you a home, a salary for him—gainful employment, of course—and enough money that you never count coins again as long as you live. "
I think I'm afraid to speak right now. What I'm hearing sounds too good to be true.
It sounds like Mr. Roshin is offering to elevate my father to a level no one has seen him at for decades.
To recognize his worth as more than just a cook for criminals and honor him by respecting my wishes.
It brings tears to my eyes that burn as I blink them back.
"Permanent protection," he goes on, "not guards to control him. The Roshin name will be stamped on both of you, which means nobody from Solano's world or any other ever touches either of you again, and personal security for your father wherever he goes."
"But Demin…" I start to protest, but he cuts me off continuing.
"They'd open doors and carry his bags…" His eyes bore into mine intensely as I finally lose the battle with my emotion and a tear streaks down my cheek. "Someone important I will keep safe…"
My lower lip trembles as more tears well up.
What is he saying? Why is he doing this?
The sudden change feels almost like a trap, like he's manipulating me instead of trying to outwardly control me.
I want so desperately to believe this, but my heart is so afraid, so battered and abused by my past, that I don't know how to feel.
"And it doesn't stop there," he says. "Your father's getting older. We all know it. We both know it might come sooner than he wants to admit."
My throat tightens, because it's the thing I don't let myself think about. Papa won't live forever, and he's barely had a chance to live. I want him to have adventures and a life in his old age that he can be happy with. Working 'til his deathbed is my greatest fear for him.
"So he builds a team," Demin says. "His own people, hand-picked by him, no one I force on him.
He trains them while his hands are still good, teaches them what he knows, and when the day comes that he can't stand at a bench anymore, the work goes on without him and the money keeps coming to him anyway.
He retires here in Berlin comfortably, with his daughter close and nothing left to fear. "
"You'd really let him stop. When he can't do it anymore." I'm in shock now, hands trembling, so I have to set the half-empty glass on his desk. My brain is telling my ears they're hearing things wrong.
"I'd have already gotten what I needed by then, his knowledge in other hands, the product still moving." He shrugs like it's just business. "A man who's trained my whole supply doesn't owe me anything once he's done it. I'm not Solano… I told you that from the beginning, Isabela."
"Here," I say, and it comes out in a weak, quavering tone. "You'd let him stay. Legally." My hand hovers over my mouth as a sob rumbles up, so happy it feels like I'm in a fairy tale, having all my wishes granted.
"Work visas to start. Citizenship after, for both of you, whatever paperwork it takes, and I have the people to make that paperwork move." He sets his glass down and says, "Anything he wants, Isabela. That's the offer, if he proves himself…"