Page 4 of The Crimson Lily

Standing at the end of the line, obviously waiting for someone, is Maksim, my interrogator.

My entire spine feels like it collapses on itself.

I look at him, blinking a few times to make sure I’m not hallucinating.

He wears a slim-cut dark-gray suit that looks as expensive as an apartment in Cobble Hill.

His hair, short and black, is smoothly brushed back, almost flawlessly.

Not one wild lock or frizzle. I can see his firm cheekbones and jawline very well, now that he stands with his profile to me instead of his fists.

He carries a black leather jacket over one arm and a black duffle bag in the other.

How typical. I thought black was the mafia’s color only in movies.

I guess it’s Maksim’s color in real life too.

I walk up to him like I’m stuttering, but with my feet.

For a second, I’m looking at his watch, then at his fist, remembering yesterday, the time it could have touched my face.

I shake my head as I really don’t want to linger on that particular thought.

As I get closer, he looks at me, and our eyes make four.

I actually have to crane my neck to meet his blue eyes, and my spine crumbles again.

I come to about an arm’s length in front of him before I scavenge the might to speak.

“ Privet !” I spontaneously say in Russian—what the hell?

—and immediately feel dumb about it. I clear my throat before sounding less like a moron.

“Is this the line?” I ask. Of course this is the line.

There is a big Air France logo on each monitor above every counter.

AF 7 to Paris is even written in bold. Could I be any more of a goose?

He doesn’t reply. He’s barely even looking at me.

He turns around and queues up without saying anything to me, and he doesn’t really have to, as I’m already following him behind the swarm of future passengers, all eager to get a boarding pass to Paris.

In the line, he is as silent as a stone.

It really gets me nervous. I look at his fists at least once or twice more.

I have to say something to break out of this gut-wrenching stillness.

“So…” I begin, then press my lips together and pop them. “Paris, huh?”

No response, which isn’t surprising. It’s not like my question was any good.

But now I know I’m traveling with a mute giant.

I’d better dive my nose into my phone instead, the one with the internet connection, not the Bratva phone back in my purse.

I end up somewhere on Twitter, scrolling through posts about cute animals.

That’s a good way to kill time. As I’m about to click on another significant otter , we make it to the counter.

I’m tall enough not to have to stand on my toes to see the attendant, a lady in a black uniform dress with a cute red bowtie belt.

Maksim speaks with her—I don’t have to say a thing.

It’s the first time I actually hear him speak English, and he has an absolutely impeccable American accent.

I just have to show my passport, discard my suitcase, and voilà, the lady hands Maksim two boarding passes, and he relays one to me.

It’s a window seat in the premium economy class.

I catch a little spark of glee in my chest when I take the ticket from his hands, like I’ve been given some kind of present. I curse myself for feeling that.

The lady casts a furtive glance at me, at my face. I know what she’s thinking. Her big brown eyes want to ask me something. They bounce between Maksim and me, but she relaxes her posture after he smiles at her. A man with such a beautiful gentleman’s smile inspires no evil.

We board the plane quite quickly. I’ve still not gotten much out of Maksim, mostly silence and a few glances. It really starts to get on my nerves. I’m not angry, but it’s uncomfortable, and I’m more than nervous sitting next to him. I can’t take the stillness anymore.

“Why are we going to Paris?” I ask. I blurt the question in what seems like one syllable.

He finally looks at me, his eyes bluer than I remember. I see his gaze quickly examine my face.

“Because your boss is there,” he replies, with no emotion whatsoever in his voice.

I retort with a simple “Hmm” and a series of ample nods. I don’t know what else to say, but then again, I’m not going to let the silence settle in again. “Why this dagger in particular?”

He sighs deeply, a long exhale. It seems like I annoy him more than anything else. “That’s none of your business.”

I sigh too, exaggeratedly, with a little chuckle. “It’s a bit of my business if I’m coming with you!”

I shouldn’t have said that. Maksim’s eyes catch a silver flare, and he almost scowls at me. His glare grips me at my throat. I’m no longer uncomfortable; I’m startled.

Not knowing what else to do, I continue talking, figuring I must say something random to ease the mood again.

“Is it your job to…?beat people?” I find it hard to say that last part, so my voice flutters a little.

What kind of question is that? What the hell has gotten into me? I’m so afraid of his reaction that it feels as if I fuse with the plane’s window, pressing my body against it so I am as far away from him as possible.

“Sometimes,” he answers and looks away.

Phew! I keep on staring at him with protruding eyes.

It hits me, crazily enough, how handsome he actually is.

He has a perfect jaw, adorned with a day-old stubble that gives him this dangerous look.

A smirk is drawn on his face, one that, I swear, I’d die to kiss, should the circumstances be different.

Wait, what the hell are you thinking, Liliana?

The staring has become too weird. He looks away from me and reclines in his seat.

The man sitting next to him by the aisle really has no idea what’s going on.

It makes me chuckle again. The whole situation is extremely amusing—the fact I’m sitting next to a Bratva associate and the other guy doesn’t have a single clue!

I take off my jacket and sink into my seat in turn.

I close my eyes, focusing on the movements of the plane as it rapidly soars into the sky.

Oh, I haven’t been on a plane since the accident, but it feels so familiar.

I’m relaxed, not anxious like someone who would be flying for the first time.

I must have flown regularly in my previous life.

“Do you fly a lot?” I impulsively ask my traveling partner. I’m not even aware I’ve asked the question until after I’ve asked it.

“Yes.”

At this point, I’m too curious. I really want to know more about this stranger. I want to know who he is, what he does, why he does it. He is a silent puzzle, a mystery to solve. And I can never let a mystery sit quietly.

“What else do you do?” I inquire hesitantly, though resolute to get an answer.

In response, Maksim does everything but what I expect. He raises his right arm to the panel above him and rings for the flight attendant. I don’t know what’s going on, so I simply follow his movements with wide eyes and parted lips.

“Can I do something for you, sir?” the attendant, a young woman with pure blond hair and bee-stung lips, asks Maksim.

“I’d like a seat in business class,” he declares.

The girl first seems hesitant. She looks at me, then at the other man next to us. She goes away for a minute, and against her own expectations, returns with a big smile on her face.

“Follow me, sir,” she says with a welcoming voice, like escorting him to business class is the only thing that makes sense—as if him even being here was nothing but an error.

How cheeky! I can’t believe it. He’s actually leaving me.

I’m not sure how to feel about this. I mean, he could just ask me to shut up, if that’s what he wants.

He doesn’t have to turn this into a show.

The man next to us is looking at me, probably asking himself what sort of strange couple we are.

Maksim stands up and leaves for the freaking business class.

He doesn’t even look back at me, even though he doesn’t really owe me that, but I still feel annoyed about it.

Perhaps because something inside me wants him to stay.

Now I’m alone again with my thoughts and the reality that I am headed to Paris on a mission for the Bratva.

I don’t even have an idea of what use I’ll have for them.

I’ve bluffed so far. I remember the dagger, the safe…

?but exactly how to open the safe? I still need to figure that one out.

What if that memory never comes back? I would be discarded.

I would be thrown into the Seine and forgotten about.

The name of the Paris river just popping into my head reassures me a little.

There is a chance the memory would return, but panic is already branching through my veins again.

I’m alone, and the man two chairs from me has already fallen asleep.

I’ve had this constant feeling of numbness, the one that led me to JFK Airport to board a plane to Paris.

Now that I’m actually on the plane, I’m frozen.

I’m afraid of where this mission will take me. I just don’t want to die.

Call Béatrice, now!

I snap awake. The plane’s lights are off and everyone is sleeping around me, but that name goes round and round in my head, like a mental note I made that’s screaming at me. Call Béatrice. I close my eyes again, holding on to the memory of that name.

You have to call Béatrice now, Liliana, now!

Just like Alejandro, Béatrice is now a new ghost of my past. A revenant among my thoughts. Only this time, I remember her face. I remember her eyes and hair. I remember her name. Béatrice Leclerc, my one and only best friend.