“Oh, Dad…” I grimace and look down, poking my pasta with a plastic fork. The guilt is eating me alive, because that’s precisely what’s going to happen in the near future—as soon as Peter deems my mom well enough. With effort, I manage to look up and smile at my dad. “Please, don’t worry. Everything is fine, okay? I’m here, and all is well.”
I know I sound evasive—Dad has been accusing me of that all week—but it’s hard to be convincing while juggling all the lies, half-truths, and facts I’ve been feeding to different people. The story for my parents and their friends is that Peter is my lover, and that he brought me home despite his ongoing “misunderstanding” with the FBI because he loves me and wants me to be there for Mom. The implication here is that one day, Peter’s legal troubles will be over, and at that point, we’ll have a shot at happiness together.
In contrast, the picture I’m painting for the FBI and everyone else is that of a monster who kidnapped me on a whim and eventually got bored enough to let me go. The only reason I’m able to make the dual stories work is that the Feds don’t want my parents—or anyone, really—to know about George’s role in all of this. And that goes double for the events that set Peter on his path of vengeance. After I spoke to Marsha that day at the bar, Ryson brought me to their downtown office again, and not-so-subtly ordered me to keep my mouth shut, confirming my suspicion about Marsha’s involvement with the FBI.
It was too noisy at the bar for the agents to overhear our conversation, so the only way he could’ve known exactly what I told her is if she’d reported it to him right away—or maybe even wore a wire.
Naturally, I acted contrite and promised to be more discreet. And in return, I extracted a promise that the Feds will keep their mouths shut around my parents, doing nothing to dispel the less worrisome paradigm I created for them.
“As you know, my dad’s heart is weak, and he doesn’t need the stress of knowing I was forced to lie to them all these months,” I told Ryson, and the agent was only too happy to agree.
I’m guessing he extracted a vow of silence from Marsha too, because when I ran into Andy in the hallway, she didn’t know anything more than what she must’ve heard earlier.
“What happened?” she asked, eyeing me with unabashed curiosity and confusion. “You just disappeared one day, and the FBI were all over the place, questioning everyone. People were saying you hooked up with some criminal?”
“It’s a long story,” I said, giving her an uncomfortable smile. “Maybe we can get together one of these days and catch up. For now, my mom is waiting…”
“Oh, of course.” She attempted to rein in her obvious disappointment. “Marsha told me what happened with your mom. I’m so sorry. I hope she recovers soon.”
“She will, thanks. I’ll see you around.” I waved at her and continued down the hall, trying not to think about how out of place I feel here, at this hospital that was once my second home.
How lost and alone I feel without Peter.
Soon, I tell myself. He’ll come for me soon. All I have to do is wait.
And pushing away the guilt that comes with the thought, I put on a bright smile and enter Mom’s room.
17
Peter
We meet Danilo Novak at a café in Belgrade, a modern, stylish-looking place that has been entirely taken over by the Serbian arms dealer’s men. Other than the two young baristas behind the glossy white counter, every person in the café is armed to the teeth—and for all I know, the pretty teenage baristas are too.
Anton is providing backup—a precaution in case things go to shit—but the twins are with me.
Walking in, we stop and take in the situation.
Novak is sitting at a small round table in the middle of the café. It’s a location designed to make us uncomfortable—we’ll be surrounded on all sides—but I just give the arms dealer a cool smile as we make our way over.
“Nice place,” I say in Russian, going on the assumption that he’s more likely to be fluent in my native language than in English. “Do you own it?”
Novak’s thin lips curl up. “I do. Glad you like it.” His Russian is accented, but as fluent as I suspected. Of course, I could speak to him in Serbian—I know most Eastern European languages, as well as Arabic and a few others—but I’d rather not reveal that I understand his native tongue.
When dealing with men like Novak, every little advantage counts.
He leans back, studying me with a peculiar lack of interest. A tall, thin man in his mid-forties, with a receding hairline and thick glasses, Novak looks like a cross between an accountant and a math professor. Only his eyes betray what he is—expressionless and pale, they look like they belong to a lizard… or a stone-cold killer.