CHAPTER 8

Scarlet

The fire roars in the stone fireplace, and I inch closer, letting the heat penetrate my clothes and mitigate the chill. For the thousandth time, I question my plan.

A caval donato non si guarda in bocca.

Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.

Trust him or not, Nikolai is a gift from above. When I agreed to be an information source for MI6 and INTCEN, the EU Intelligence and Situation Centre, a group comparable to the American CIA, I expected them to deliver retribution. But there were flaws in my expectations. First, they move slowly, and I learned too late they are more interested in information than in actually doing anything to crack down on organized crime. They had more interest in my uncle’s meeting agenda than in how Titan Shipping conducted business.

Given how many are on the Lupi Grigi’s payroll, I proceeded with caution. Ironically, Willow’s death delivered the means to an end. A man who decidedly is not on their payroll and won’t be bribed into giving up a source.

Yet there are limits to Nikolai’s trustworthiness. Handsome, magnetic men are accustomed to the world bending to their will. Physical attributes are a veneer that gets them far in life. What lies beneath the veneer? Powerful men have gray morals. There’s no way he got to where he is in life without stabbing some along the way.

Am I placing too much trust in a stranger?

Willow, did you trust him? You didn’t, did you? But if he’d been a concern, you would’ve shared, right?

I’m in the man’s home, yet it whispers none of his secrets. This room, the one they call the billiard room, is the first space I’ve been in that feels like Nikolai, or Nick, as he supposedly prefers to be called. Instead of portraits of ghosts, hunting scenes, or ancient maps, monochrome abstract art adorns the walls. The leather sofas and chairs feature modern shapes. The thick wool sable rugs are positioned for comfort, not design. There are no window treatments on the windows, but with the press of a button, shades fall from the ceiling, closing us in and blocking the draft.

A pool table resides in one corner, giving the room its name. A widescreen television hangs over the fireplace, high enough above the flames that the heat won’t damage the screen, and a round high-top table with comfortable leather stools sits opposite the pool table. We ate lunch there, and I suspect Lina and Nick eat most meals in this room. This is such a formal manor, yet they aren’t formal people.

After watching Lina and Amir board the helicopter that was parked in the pasture while horses milled about, we returned to Nick’s office, and I provided him with the promised information. Wise or not, he’s got everything now. My life is literally in his hands.

The flames lick the wooden logs, and I inhale the pleasant, smoky aroma. I’ve stared into the flame so long that when I close my eyes, bursts of red and yellow color my eyelids.

“Are you cold?”

I flinch and turn, arms raised, defensive.

As if my thoughts summoned him, he’s there, watching me. Why didn’t I hear him approach?

My gaze roves over his relaxed denims and his zippered sweater with the sleeves pushed up his forearms, showing off a bespoke wristwatch and a thick silver bracelet atop sinewy forearms. His attire is relaxed, but his expression is unsettling: intense and purposeful.

If he tries anything, I’m ready. I’ve trained. I’m skilled. With an exhale, I calm myself. Expect the worst, prepare for the worst, and move forward.

“Did you… Is it done?” I ask.

“No.”

“But… What are you waiting on?”

This last step in my plan scares me, and in my life, I’ve found that when something is scary, it’s best to charge into it. Shadows grow into demons if left unchallenged.

“It pays to be cautious. I aim to ensure it doesn’t track back to you.”

I study Nick’s deep-set, intelligent eyes and confident posture. Poised. Strategic. I am not this stranger’s concern. “You don’t want it to track to you.”

“True.”

At least the man doesn’t deny the truth.

“Can I get you something to drink?” He moves to the bar cart that’s against the wall. “The chef will deliver dinner shortly.”

I decline with a shake of my head. “What were you doing up in your office?”

It’s nearly eight. If he wasn’t disseminating the information I gave him, was he squired away in his office avoiding me?

“Tracking Lina.”

He pours himself a golden drink in a high-ball glass and joins me on the sofa.

“Tracking her?” Is he that controlling?

“I have a security detail meeting up with Lina. It’s not her cup of tea.”

“Why does she require security?”

“Well, to most of London, she’s a well-to-do heiress. If it wasn’t for her blasted attempt at being an influencer, she could travel around anonymously. But, in her quest for followers, she highlighted her wealth.”

“You worry someone will target her? For ransom?”

“Better safe than sorry, no?”

“She doesn’t see it that way.” It’s an observation that I say more to myself than to him. I assumed the worst about him, but his worry sounds logical.

Back home, my uncle maintains security around the estate. There have been times when relations between other families soured and the security detail increased, but there’s a minimum level he maintains, as the world knows him to be a shipping magnate. He shared the same concerns about ransom threats.

“Are you cold? I can turn up the heat.”

Why does he keep asking me that?

“The fire is plenty warm.”

An older man dressed for barn duty, with knee-high scuffed boots and a flannel shirt, stoked the fire earlier.

“Is that your warmest outfit?”

I glance down at my linen dress. “In Italy, our weather is quite different.”

He stands rather abruptly, moves across the room, picks up a device, and taps into it.

When he returns, he carries over a throw and lays it over the back of the sofa. “Are you sure I can’t get you something to drink?”

“Gin and tonic?”

“Coming right up.”

The clink of ice combines with the crackling fire.

Our fingers touch when he delivers the cocktail. The point of contact stings, drawing my attention to the sensitive skin. Yellow and red spots light my vision because, once again, I’ve stared too long into the flames. He hovers near, so close I inhale cedar and clove, a scent I assume is his cologne. It’s the same as what I’d smelled on the barn jacket. Quite different from the cloying perfume he wore earlier.

“Your hair is ravishing in the firelight.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s lovely. You’re lovely.”

I shake my glass, knocking the ice about.

“Your skin. Smooth and unblemished. It nearly glows.”

“What are you on about?” He’s full of it. But why?

“I can’t be the first to tell you.”

“You’re lying. I have scars.” Annoyed, I lift the glass to my lips and drink. I’m not looking for sympathy, but I won’t endure lies.

His fingers lift a strand of hair from my shoulder. My muscles tense, and a prickly sensation trails from the point of contact down my spine.

He twirls the strands between his fingers, and tingling sensations leap from my spine to my scalp.

I force myself to swallow. To breathe. A log crackles and falls, and the flames leap.

His index finger strokes my cheek. I freeze.

I’m caught between pleasure and terror.

Breathe.

Dr. Rosenthal’s voice, the American therapist I secretly met with for years, comes to me.

You’re stronger than you know. Believe in your strength .

Cold air envelops my side. I blink and am met with red and yellow bursts of light.

The sofa leather squeaks beneath him as he sits.

“You don’t like me near you.”

“I don’t like any man near me.”

“Tell me about it.” He lifts the throw, gesturing for me to move closer. “I won’t touch you. Tell me what he did.”

Swallow. Inhale.

“I’ve been told talking helps.”

Dr. Rosenthal said the same.

“You can talk to me.”

“Nikolai, you’re a stranger.”

“Nick. Call me Nick. And am I a stranger? You’re entrusting me with your life. And I’m trusting you with mine. Surely that means something.”

“How is your life dependent on me?”

“The secrets I’ve shared with you could get me killed.”

“What secrets?”

“I’m unleashing the authorities on an Italian mafia family.”

“As a syndicate member, don’t you have that right?”

The right side of his lip twitches, and his fingers drum the back of the sofa.

“I’m not sure what you’ve been told about the syndicate, but it’s not a good idea to break rules you’ve agreed to follow.”

“And they would kill you if I let on you’re involved? Someone would come after Nikolai Ivanov?”

He answers with a steely gaze. I can’t deny strength infuses my limbs with this perspective. It hadn’t occurred to me before, probably because I assumed, as a syndicate member, he was untouchable.

With the throw pulled over my legs, the glass in my hand, and enough distance, his cologne doesn’t invade my senses, and my heart rate steadies.

“Nick,” he breathes.

“Excuse me?”

“We’re friends. Call me Nick.” He crosses an ankle over his knee. He’s not wearing shoes, and my attention falls to his thick wool socks. The informality further calms me.

“Tell me something about you, Nick.”

“What do you want to know?”

“I don’t know. There’s not much of you in this house. No personality.”

“I’m not a woman.” He lifts his shoulders like that’s explanation enough.

“What does that mean?”

“I’m not into sentimental shite.”

“You mean, like photographs?”

“That and I bought the place furnished. Had a designer redo a couple of rooms. I have no plans to waste my time or money on carpets and drapes.”

His gaze falls to my lap.

“What about Lina? She doesn’t like to decorate?”

“She doesn’t plan to stay long.”

“She mentioned country life’s not for her.”

“If she wants me to continue paying her bills, it will be.” He exhales. “The crowd she gravitates to in London is…questionable.”

“So you’re like a parent to her?”

“No.”

I pointedly narrow my eyes at him, calling bullshit.

“She’s my younger sister. Twelve years younger. And…our parents...”

A log breaks in the fire, and the crackling fills the room. It’s peaceful in here. He leans forward and picks up a handheld remote device. With a touch of a button, the shades fall.

I’m about to prompt him, but he continues on with his explanation.

“Our parents died in a car bomb when I was fourteen.”

Oh. Wow.

“And she was two?”

He nods and knocks back his drink.

“I’m so sorry.” As I say it, I feel the sympathy, and it’s an unusual sensation. It’s one I would prefer not to experience. When Willow found herself in her predicament, it was like I was watching frames in a movie flick, but I did my best to remove my heart from her drama. I didn’t wish for her to live my experience, yet I was powerless to stop her father. And here I am, hurting for Nick and Lina, for a past I am powerless to change.

“Long time ago.”

“Who did it?” Bombs are no accident.

“Putin. My father displeased him.”

“Is that when you moved to England?”

“We’d already moved when it happened. I was born here. But I suppose there were expectations.”

“You were too young to know the details.” I’m not sure why, but I sense that from him, in his posture and choice of words.

“I was off at boarding school. Around that time, several of those within Putin’s circle were eliminated. My grandfather was still alive and ensured my inheritance remained with me.”

“Not Lina?”

He gives a wry smile. “She’s a girl.”

“My god, she must hate you.”

“If she gets her head on straight, I’ll fix it. But handing her a sum of money right now would be akin to giving her rope and a hook.” He gets up and pours himself another drink. He gestures to me, holding a bottle, and I decline with a shake of my head. “I’ve shared,” he says as he returns to his spot with a fresh drink. “Your turn.”

He’s correct. “There’s not much to tell.” I twirl the liquid in the glass. It’s not a bad thing to share what happened to me. I’m not embarrassed. There’s no shame in being a victim. These are all things my therapist told me. The therapist I sought because I couldn’t sleep. “What do you know about the Lupi Grigi? I mean, you obviously know their business, but what do you know of our culture?”

“Conservative customs.”

In the firelight, his trimmed auburn beard appears soft and warm, and I have the oddest desire to scratch my nails through it. He leans into the sofa cushion, creating more distance between us and giving me air.

“My uncle arranged a marriage for me. I didn’t have a choice or any input. Women in our world often don’t.” I look to the mesmerizing flames. He has questions and answering them may be therapeutic for me. But there’s no need to witness his reaction. “It was a business transaction. Vincent owned a chain of laundromats throughout Eastern Europe.”

“Money laundering?”

“Mostly. Vincent differed from the other men. There was a reason he wasn’t yet married. He was a little off, and everyone knew it. He tortured the cats in town.” A vision of the fountain in the square assaults me. Blood in the water from a stray cat he’d sliced and discarded. “At first, I tried to avoid him. But I couldn’t because somehow I became his stray. He’d hunt me, taunt me. Hit me until I balled into the floor and played dead.” I straighten my spine and lift my chin. “I secretly sought SERES training. For self-defense,” I add as explanation.

“I’m familiar,” he says.

“And therapy. I researched poisons under the guise of learning how to treat wounds so I could heal him if he came home wounded. No one else would help me, so I had to help myself.” I sip my drink. He must think I’m a monster. Everyone thinks so. “I became pregnant. I hadn’t decided if I was keeping it. I didn’t want to raise a child to be beaten by him and treated like an animal. But he took the choice away. He beat me so badly that I lost the child, had an emergency hysterectomy, broken ribs, broken jaw.” I point to the white line descending from my lip, the scar everyone sees. Scars crisscross my abdomen and back. The worst of my scars are invisible.

“Two days after returning from the hospital, he came at me again, furious I’d reported him. He had no reason to be angry. They did nothing to him. They didn’t believe me, or if they did, they were too scared to admit it. But I expected the worst. I prepared. And when he came at me, I killed him. Shot him first, then I took a knife and saved myself.”

“You’re the strongest woman I’ve ever met.”

My strength is irrelevant. I shift my gaze from the flames and breathe deeply, forcing down the turmoil building inside. I can’t dwell on the past. There’s nothing to be gained by unearthing dormant emotions. If Nick pities me, it will twist my insides.

“And that’s why you’re so willing to help me.”

He’s got it wrong. “I’m not helping you.” Needing him to understand, I look him straight in the eyes. “I’m helping me. This has always been my plan. Your offer provided me with a method of execution. I don’t care if I die bringing them all down. My uncle knew what he married me to. So did my mother. If I can do anything good in this world, it will be to stop the cycle.”

“Willow knew everything that happened to you? Is that why she pushed Leo to marry her?”

“I told her after it was all over. She’s younger than me, but we grew closer when I came to live with her family.” I blink against the burn behind my eyes as I’m reminded that she’s gone. “I’m happy she escaped my fate. Leandro might not have been as depraved as Vincent, but he wasn’t a good man. Death is a better fate.”

“They’ll pay.” He sips his bourbon, and his eyes narrow.

What is he thinking? What is he seeing?

One second passes. Two seconds. And then his steely, determined eyes meet mine. There’s no pity. Thank god. I so hate pity.

“When the dominoes fall, all hell will break loose. You’ll need to stay here for a while.”

“They can’t hurt me. Not anymore.” I don’t fear death.

“Is there anyone back in Italy you need to be concerned about? That we should protect? Orlando?”

“The Orlando you met is my friend. But this weekend...”

“It’s his commitment ceremony. And when he kills, he’ll change. That’s what you mean?”

“The metamorphosis to monster.” The flickering fire reminds me of my question. “Are you one?”

“A monster?” His smirk suggests he finds the label darkly amusing. “By your definition, yes. But I’ll be the shadow that keeps you safe, angel, while you light up the sky.”