Athena nodded, a sick feeling of apprehension mingled with excitement churning in the pit of her stomach. This morning, for the first time since leaving the Paris clinic, Mary would remove her bandages completely. Athena would be able to see her ‘new’ face, the image that would represent her new identity, for the rest of her life. She’d re-invented herself before, of course. Risen like a phoenix from the ashes of her childhood, her son’s death, the helicopter crash that had so nearly killed her … But not like this. Today she would be reborn an entirely different person, utterly unrecognizable as the Athena of old. Today, Athena Petridis would truly and finally die, and a new woman, a stronger, wiser, invincible woman, would emerge to take her place. If all went well …
Propping a mirror at the foot of the bed, the nurse began to unwind the dressings encircling Athena’s forehead, nose, mouth and chin. She worked slowly and methodically, her fingers deft and light, like an archaeologist unwrapping a fragile Egyptian mummy. As she got close to the skin she slowed even further, watching her patient’s reactions carefully for signs of pain or discomfort.
‘If anything pulls or stings, tell me at once,’ she instructed a mute Athena.
Nothing did. Instead, Athena stared in wonder as, little by little, a woman’s face appeared in reflection. First came the smooth, wide forehead. Then the long, slender nose – so different to how it was before! The skin on this new woman’s cheeks was taut and had a slightly waxen look, but that too was unrecognizable from the burned, melted ruin that had gone before; nothing short of a miracle. Finally, the lower face emerged, still bruised and with markedly fuller lips and a more pronounced chin, possibly the result of some sort of implant to replace lost tissue. Taken together, despite the residual swelling and some small scars along the hairline and under the jaw, it was the face of a moderately attractive, middle-aged woman.
Athena’s eyes welled up with tears.
It was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. And she had Peter to thank for it. Darling Peter. He was the only really true friend Athena had ever had in this world. Spyros had loved her, in his own way, and he had saved her when she needed saving, after Apollo died. But like all the other, lesser men in Athena’s life – Dimitri Mantzaris, Larry Gaster, Antonio Lovato, Spyros had wanted something in return for his love. To possess her. To own her. To suck her dry from the inside out until there was nothing left. No heart, no soul, no identity of her own.
Peter had never wanted her like that. Only Peter had ever loved her unconditionally. Although, of course, there was so much Peter didn’t know, so much he would never understand about her life since she left him, no matter how Athena tried to explain it. Peter Hambrecht didn’t know her dark side.
Spyros knew it. He knew it and understood it and nurtured it, like a precious plant, a rare flower. But Spyros was gone now. She was on her own.
‘Hmmm. Yes. That all looks good to me,’ Mary clucked approvingly as her fingers moved from scar to scar, her critical eye assessing the degree of healing. ‘How do you feel?’
‘Incredible,’ the woman in the mirror answered, her voice choked with emotion. ‘Like I could take over the world.’
Mary laughed. This friend of Mr Hambrecht’s was a funny one. All meek and mild one minute, and then coming out with things like that the next. Take over the world, indeed.
‘Let’s see if you can manage a proper shower first,’ said the nurse, carrying away the used bandages and scrubbing her hands with carbolic soap up to the elbows in the bathroom sink. ‘And then I’ll bring you a nice cup of tea.’
Later, her face freshly dressed with smaller bandages and her newly washed hair combed up into a tidy bun, Athena won Mary’s permission to get dressed and take a ‘gentle’ stroll in the grounds. ‘Nothing strenuous – I mean it. Don’t make me ring Mr Hambrecht and tell him you’re refusing to rest, because if I do he’ll have both our guts for garters. Back in bed by six sharp.’
Athena promised solemnly. She would miss Mary, and this place, and of course Peter. He hadn’t wanted to deceive Antonio and set up the whole London clinic arrangement as a decoy, while secretly making alternate arrangements with a top plastic surgeon in Paris. ‘Is all this subterfuge really necessary?’ he’d asked Athena in one of their last phone calls, while at the same time booking the Mil
l House and dutifully arranging a small private plane to fly her into Le Touquet. ‘I know you’re lying low from the police, but must you really double-cross your friends as well?’
‘Until I’m safe, yes,’ Athena told him.
‘And when will that be?’
‘Soon,’ she promised him.
‘And when you’re “safe”, I can see you? Face to face?’
She hesitated.
‘You promised, Athena,’ he reminded her. ‘That was your part of the deal. I miss him too, you know,’ he added, in the face of her silence. ‘But do you think our son would have wanted his death to keep us apart for ever? I don’t want to lose you again. I can’t …’
‘You won’t,’ said Athena. Then, not wanting her last words to him to be a lie, she added. ‘I love you, Peter.’
Strolling down past the old mill wheel, still and silent now, to the shallow, rushing brook that snaked along the floor of the valley, Athena drank in the joy of the moment. The warm sun on her back, the heady scent of earth and grass and new life rising up from the ground, the softly lowing calves on the hillside, calling to their mothers. This place was beautiful. Life was beautiful. Her face was beautiful.
But there was much to be done. First, she must leave here and return to where she could reestablish her old networks. After that, she would secure her hold on the coveted migrant routes by doing what Makis had been too short-sighted to do: by running their people-smuggling like any other Petridis business. That meant focusing on quality, from top to bottom. Better boats, better conditions, a safer passage for more ‘high-end’ stock. No more half-starved children being shipped to pimps in Eastern Europe. That was simply bad business. They needed fewer, more discerning clients, willing to pay a premium for high-quality, reliable shipments of healthy adult workers. Forget the sex trade. The big profits were in illegal slave labor, and the biggest and best buyers in that market were independent farmers and factory owners, struggling to compete with their larger, multinational rivals.
That’s who we should be targeting. It’s so obvious!
Adrenaline coursed through her body as she visualized the challenges to come. Rebuilding Spyros’s empire. Creating something meaningful, something lasting of her own. Her life had already been an incredible journey, a story no one could have scripted or even imagined. But she wasn’t done yet.
She was alive and free, and Makis Alexiadis was dead.
It was time for the final chapters to begin.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Three men and one woman sat in an uneasy circle in the grand living room of Nathan Maslow’s Nantucket beach house. Number 2 Lincoln Circle was a sprawling, gray-shingled estate with a long shell drive, stately grounds and picture-perfect views across the Nantucket Sound. It was a fittingly impressive vacation home for billionaire investor Maslow and his wife, Jane, and the living room was the perfect space for parties with its floor-to-ceiling windows, spacious high ceilings and endlessly comfortable couches.