37. Five Minutes of Freedom
FIVE MINUTES OF FREEDOM
“Why did you shoot Seamus?”
Lev switches lanes suddenly, prompting some honks of protest, then tells me, “He knew your new identity.”
“You mean, you were going to kill him all along?”
“Yes.”
“But he was—weren’t you guys … friends?”
“I have no friends, Carina. There are men who work for me and one I work for.”
“Your father?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think Seamus knew you would …”
“There are always risks.”
“He’d done other jobs for you before?”
“Yes. He was very good. Your documents will pass inspection.”
That should be what I’m concerned about. Instead, I’m fixated on the fact that Lev planned to kill someone who posed no threat. Who was helping him. I should be horrified; I’m not. I’m floored that he was willing to do that to protect me.
“He said he … he recognized me?”
“Yes.”
I shift in the seat, prompting a pleasurable twinge between my thighs. “What does that mean? Did he contact my father?”
“He said no.”
“Did you believe him?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t have time to interrogate him.”
“You shot him in the knee,” I remind Lev.
“That is not interrogating.”
I suppress a shudder. “I haven’t decided where I want to go,” I say, working hard to prevent any panic from seeping into my voice.
He’s handling everything else. I can manage not freaking out.
“You don’t have to fly straight there. It is better if you do not. Pick a flight departing soon, get on it, and then decide where to go next.”
“How am I supposed to pay—”
“There’s a card in the envelope. The account connected to it contains ten million dollars.”
I gape at him. “That’s a joke, right? You mean ten thousand or—”
“I told you, my job pays well.”
“That’s your money. I can’t accept—you’ve already done too much.”
Who gifts a former fuck buddy ten million dollars? That’s a staggering amount, even for someone wealthy.
“It is yours,” Lev says in that tone he uses when he’s decided a matter is settled.
He can decide; he can’t make me spend it.
I’ll use the card to buy a plane ticket and whatever else I urgently need, and then I’ll get a job.
Find a way to send him an envelope of cash or a cashier’s check—with interest—in an attempt to tell him how much his generosity meant.
How much all of this has meant. If I’d managed to remain hidden in Paris, I’d have limited prospects—no savings, no documents, no long-term plan.
And not only has Lev gone out of his way to help me, but he did so in direct conflict to his own interests.
A lump appears in my throat, expanding by the second.
I’m not sure how to speak past it, how to convey to Lev how much I appreciate him.
We pass a sign advertising Dublin Airport. We’re getting close, so I’m running out of time.
The invisible clock that always counts down our final moments? That I’ve struggled against so many times, fighting my heavy eyelids because I knew, once they closed, I’d wake up alone? It’s about to expire for the last time.
Practice is supposed to make you more skilled at something. Repetition until mastery is a musician’s primary tactic. Yet, over the course of the many times I’ve said goodbye to him, I fear I’ve only gotten worse at it.
I swallow hard, trying to clear the obstruction, then open my mouth. “Lev, I—”
He swears, eyes fixed on the rearview mirror.
We’re close to the airport now. A crowd of signs is displayed ahead, directing incoming traffic to different terminals. Past it, a long, low building is visible, much larger than the one in Shannon we arrived at.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, craning my neck to glance at the line of cars exiting the highway behind us.
“We have a tail.”
“Are you sure?” I look again, wondering how he’s possibly able to tell. The other vehicles all look innocuous to me.
Lev doesn’t answer. He takes a sudden left, switching to a lane below the sign for long-term parking. A silver sedan five cars behind us attempts the same maneuver, swerving around a minivan that was in the same lane we were.
He’s sure.
And now, so am I.
I shouldn’t have taken the fucking flash drive.
If I hadn’t, I doubt my family would be trying so hard to find me.
I should tell Lev about it—I should have already—but I haven’t had a chance to check its contents.
I’m furious with Salvatore, but I’m not certain I want to hand sensitive information over to one of his enemies.
Can I ask Lev to put my interests above his—again?
My seat belt locks, cutting into my chest, as Lev takes another abrupt turn. He brakes only long enough to grab a ticket from the machine. The gate lifts, and he accelerates ahead, straight up the ramp.
There’s no sign of the silver sedan, but I can’t relax. Dread hovers like a dark cloud overhead.
I know what’s coming next. Know what’s always inevitable whenever we’re reunited.
On level three, Lev slides into an open spot by an elevator bank.
As soon as he’s parked, he reaches into the back seat and grabs the backpack I tossed back there.
I thought it was strange he brought our bags back out to the car before heading to the meeting, but now I understand.
He was prepared for every possibility. Maybe he never expected to return to the hotel.
Lev grabs the envelope from Seamus, adding it to the backpack and rezipping it.
He sets it on my lap.
I stare like it’s a foreign object.
“Go, Carina.”
I turn my head to look at him, releasing an unsteady breath. “What about the tail?”
“I will take care of it. You want Terminal 1 for international flights.”
I nod, playing with the zipper of the front pocket. I’m down to seconds to make this decision.
He’s always left first, and I’ve always hated that. Now I’m realizing it was easier. It’s easier to be left than to leave.
One requires action. Is a choice.
“Go, Carina.”
I slip my hand inside the compartment, fingers closing around the piece of plastic I took from Enzo’s bedroom. Carefully withdraw it and offer the drive to Lev.
His forehead furrows as he takes it. “What is this?”
“I don’t know. I stole it. My brother had made it sound important, and I—I was mad. I also thought, if they found me, I could use it as leverage somehow. That they might let me go if I gave that back. Just … don’t use it unless you have to, okay? They suck, but they’re my family, you know?”
I unclick my seat belt. Pop the door open. Grip the backpack’s handle. Then sort of lunge across the center console, colliding our mouths in what might be the clumsiest kiss ever.
“Thank you,” I whisper fervently, hoping he can hear everything else I want to say crammed into those two words.
I love you, and I’ll miss you, and I wish everything were different. And the twelve years of times I wanted to tell him about a new book I’d read, or play him a new piece I’d learned, or emerge from a pool and find him waiting above the surface.
His response is in Russian, words he knows I won’t understand, so I can imagine he’s telling me exactly what I want to hear.
I climb out of the SUV, leaving the gun on the seat since I’ll have to go through security, hustling toward the elevators at a pace I hope comes across as I’m late for a flight and not I’m running for my life to any innocent bystanders.
There’s a stairwell next to one of the elevators, which I enter rather than waiting for the lift to arrive.
I’m buzzing with nervous energy, and it’s nice to have a physical outlet.
I emerge on the ground level, following the signs over to the nearest shuttle stop.
A bus arrives a couple of minutes later.
The driver gives me a friendly smile as I tap the card from Lev to pay the fare.
The shuttle is almost empty, an elderly couple the only other passengers on board.
It’s the middle of the night, not exactly prime travel time.
I’ll probably have to spend several hours in the airport before I can catch an early flight.
I mull over possible destinations as the bus heads toward the airport, pausing at a few other garages along the way.
Only one or two people climb aboard at each stop.
A middle-aged man in a suit takes the seat directly behind me, eating what smells like a panini.
The aroma of gooey cheese makes my stomach rumble.
The dinner of fish and chips I ate feels like an eternity ago.
Terminal 1 appears ahead, the first stop at the airport.
I’m about to stand and grab my backpack from the overhead storage compartment where I stashed it when the man behind me speaks.
The white-haired man and woman across the aisle glance over, likely curious about the flurry of Italian.
Me? I’m frozen, his threat—“Make a scene, and I’ll kill them all”—echoing in my ears.
It makes sense they sent men I wouldn’t recognize. I didn’t think Leo or Enzo would be the ones chasing me across Europe. But it’s so unfair—that the hungry, clean-shaven businessman behind me is who I should have been wary of.
Was there more than one car tailing us? What were the unfortunate odds he ended up on this same shuttle?
I’m scared. Angry. But mostly? Ashamed. It feels like I failed Lev.
Everything he did for me?
Gone.