Page 11

For a moment I’m back there, in the sunlit meadow, my heart seizing with bittersweet joy as I watch Roman and Darya say their vows, Dimitry’s eyes blazing at me from where he stands at Roman’s side, his love for me written all over his face.

That was the day I knew I had to leave.

“Darya,” I say, grasping at the name like a lifeline, “told me I should come back here. She said that I had to at least try—that six years was too long.” I turn my nearly empty glass in my hand, staring at it. “I knew she was right. I’d known for a long time.”

I meet my mother’s eyes. “I’m sorry, Mum. I should have told you where I was, or at least that I was okay. I know it’s been hard on you and Dad.”

“Yes.” My mother’s head moves slowly up and down. “Yes, it was, Abby. It was very difficult for your father and me.”

“I know.” I’m battling tears. “I never meant—I never wanted to hurt you.”

For an excruciatingly long moment, the whirr of cicadas is the only sound disturbing the late afternoon. Then Mum takes another sip of wine.

“I seem to recall you having a good try.” She shoots me a rather dry look. “To hurt us, I mean. Or at least, to hurt me. I believe your final words to me were You can stick your farm and your stupid pearls up your arse, Mum .”

“Oh, God.” I bury my face in my hands, half laughing, half crying. “I did say that, didn’t I? ”

“I like my pearls,” she says loftily. “Even after that comment.”

“You should.” I squeeze her hand. “They suit you.”

We sit there for a while like that, my hand over my mother’s, and for the first time since I came home, I feel a kind of peace.

Then a cloud of dust rises in the distance, just a blur on the flat horizon.

“That’s your father,” Mum says, squinting at it. “Oh!” Her hand flies to her mouth. “I forgot to pick his beer up when I came to get you at the pub.”

“I can go back into town.” I stand up. “I’ve only had one glass,” I say when she looks worried.

“It’s not that.” She bites her lip uncomfortably. “I guess—well, the last time you took a car, you never came back.” The words come out in a rush.

I stare at her in amazement. “Is that why you and Dad haven’t let me drive since I’ve been here?”

“Well—it’s more your father than me—but yes.” She gives me a sheepish look. “I suppose that is why.”

“I can understand that, I guess.” I give a shaky laugh. “But if it helps, I promise I’ll bring the car back. With Dad’s beer.”

“Of course you will.” She makes a face. “Gosh, I sound ridiculous, don’t I? Go on, then.” She waves me away. “Before your father gets here and realizes there’s only two beers in the fridge.”

“If I hurry, I’ll be back before he gets through them,” I say, heading for the utility.

“No chance,” she calls after me, and I laugh as I start the engine.

As I drive into town, my head whirls with all the things I’d love to tell Mum.

Most of all, I wish I could tell her about Dimitry.

Malaga, Spain

Two years ago

Dimitry is bratva.

I knew it before that night at Pillars. I knew what he was the moment I saw him.

I just didn’t want to know.

I clean the café prior to closing with fierce efficiency, almost relishing the manual work.

What is wrong with me, that I only attract criminals?

Should I be doing some kind of self-improvement work, some inner transformation? Do I possess a subconscious urge which draws me to criminals, and them to me?

Is it my fault?

For days after Dimitry put me over his shoulder and dumped me in the car, I twisted on a rack of self-recrimination. Despite spending two years in a Bogotá prison and then running thousands of miles to a new country, somehow I’ve found myself back in the middle of a criminal organization.

That has to be on me. I have to take responsibility for that.

But up until Dimitry threw me into that car, I clung to the hope that maybe we could just have some kind of brief fling. No future, just fun.

And, God, I wanted that.

I still do. It isn’t just the fact that Dimitry is my own personal brand of sexual kryptonite.

It isn’t just his height and strength, the hard, slightly worn features that for some reason make my heart twist. It isn’t only his sloping gray eyes, which are deceptively lazy but miss nothing at all.

It’s not even his perpetual air of wariness, like he sees everything before it happens and is constantly prepared for anything he doesn’t.

It’s the way he makes me laugh. The edge of uncertainty I sense behind his undeniably tough exterior. The vulnerability I can feel in his touch, in the way he genuinely seems to crave a connection with me as much as I do with him.

And, yes, it’s also the savage arousal I feel every time he gets even close to touching me.

But then there are the Colombians I saw in Pillars. And not just any Colombians either. I didn’t spend two years selling drugs for the Cardenases without knowing cartel guys when I see them.

And whether these ones belong to Rodrigo or someone else, I need to be nowhere near them.

On top of that, Lance fucking Ryder has been taking Miguel’s photograph every chance he gets, which means he’s been taking mine, too. My face on the internet isn’t a risk I can afford to take.

Not ever.

The fact is that dangerous people are always going to be looking for me.

Which is why I absolutely have to cut ties with Dimitry.

If the Cardenas cartel finds me in Malaga, they will take me without a second’s thought. And if I allow myself to get involved with Dimitry, then the honor of the Stevanovsky clan will be at stake. That means war.

And there’s no chance I’m going to be the person who starts a war. Particularly not a war that will endanger Lucia, who I love like a sister. Or Dimitry, who I...

Who I really fucking like.

Whether I want to admit it or not.

My phone buzzes. It’s a message from Miguel: on my way to see you.

Fuck. I almost throw the phone back on the café counter.

Miguel still hasn’t accepted our breakup, despite me never answering his calls and making it extremely clear that we were done when I met him in Pillars. The more paranoid part of me thinks he’s just trying to do the Colombians’ work for them and give them a good look at me.

Barely moments after his text, he saunters through the door, smiling as though we never had a breakup at all.

“ Hola, guapa .” He gives me what a hundred paparazzi shots have no doubt taught him is his best smile. “Are you coming out to dance with me tonight?”

“No, Miguel, I’m not.” I deliberately answer in English, even though I speak fluent Spanish and know that he struggles with my language. “Like I told you last week, we’re over.”

He scowls. “This, it was not serious.”

I’d laugh if I wasn’t so exhausted. “Actually, I am fucking serious, Miguel. We’re done, and you need to leave.”

He gives me an ingratiating smile that sets my teeth on edge. “But tonight at Pillars, the paparazzi will be there. I need you, Abby. Please?” He speaks in a wheedling, babyish voice that gives me the worst ick of all time.

“I’m not going to Pillars with you.” I keep my tone polite with an effort. “Not now, not ever. I’m tired, and I have to be back here at seven a.m. to open. I’m sure you can find a dozen girls to pose at Pillars for you.”

“But the cameras, they love you, Abby—”

“Well, I don’t love them.” I’m starting to get annoyed. “Seriously, Miguel. You need to leave. I have to lock up.”

His smile fades. He switches back to Spanish. “You know my friend, Lance Ryder?” His eyes have a sly, mean cast. “He thinks he knows your face. He thinks maybe he’s seen it somewhere before.”

“Oh, really?” I meet his eyes directly, praying he can’t tell that my heart just skipped a dozen beats and the blood has drained from my face.

“ Si .” He reaches over the bar and pours himself a drink without asking.

I don’t try to stop him. I’ve learned the hard way that when Miguel doesn’t get what he wants, he can get very nasty, very quickly.

Last time he got nasty enough to threaten me physically, which is the primary reason I broke up with him—and why I’m being polite even now.

Lately, his pursuit has felt threatening. Especially given his closeness to Lance Ryder, the sleazy paparazzi who has snapped one too many pictures of me lately.

“Well,” I say, shrugging dismissively, “I was dating Rafael Hernandez when I first came to Spain. Paparazzi tried to snap us everywhere we went, so it’s no wonder your journalist friend recognizes me.”

His eyes narrow.

Mistake, Abby.

I shouldn’t have brought up Rafael. He’s an influencer with a platform of several million who gets more tabloid coverage than Miguel ever will.

For someone with an ego the size of Miguel’s, that is an unforgivable sin.

Of course, if I’d had any idea how popular Rafael was when I met him in Buenos Aires, I’d never have dated him, but at the time I was desperate to get out of South America.

Rafael promised to get me permanent residency in Spain.

He never followed through on his promise, which has left me stranded here.

And he neglected to mention that the Spanish press follow him everywhere.

Most of the reason Miguel dated me in the first place was simply in the hope the paps would follow us with as much interest as they do Rafael.

Since one of the many reasons I broke up with Rafael was to avoid that kind of attention, and that since then, I’ve meticulously avoided any public displays of affection with Miguel, or indeed anything at all that might attract paparazzi attention, that has never happened.

“Maybe Lance knows you for another reason.” All trace of humor has left Miguel’s expression. He just looks mean now. “You were in a hurry to get away from my Colombian friends in Pillars the other night. Why is that, Abby?”

A prickle of fear crawls over my skin .