“That’s a neat trick,” I say to him with a grateful grin. “You gotta show me how you did that sometime. Does he sit and roll over, too?”
He gives me a tired smile back. “Just be careful, kid. Those men up there are involved in some pretty heavy stuff.”
I drum my fingers on the counter anxiously. “Listen, I’m not stupid. I know that Anton is no Boy Scout, but… he just doesn’t seem like the bad guy to me.”
“Oh Jesus,” Anders groans. “Is anyone else hearing this shit?”
“Did you guys talk?” Molly interjects. “What did you talk about?”
“Just, you know, life stuff,” I hear myself saying. “I talked about my cheating ex-fiancé and my backstabbing best friend. And he told me about the heartbreak in his own life. He’s not as scary as you all are making him out to be.”
“He told you about his wife, did he?” Anders asks.
“Anders, behave,” Lisa sighs. “Nothing was proven.”
“Don’t gimme that crap! Take one look at him and tell me you don’t think he did exactly what everyone says he did,” Anders spits.
I blink and look around for someone to explain something to me. “Wait, what am I missing here?”
“How did he tell you his wife died?” Anders asks.
I frown. “He said… well, he said she died by—”
“Suicide?” Anders interrupts. “I’m sure that’s what he said. ‘Murder’ is more like it. Her body turned up three months ago, and according to Marina’s daddy, Anton is the one who should be held responsible. His own wife’s blood on his hands. Some people are just sick and there’s no curing them.”
“We shouldn’t be talking about this,” Cory mutters, glancing towards the staircase.
I shake my head. This just doesn’t square with the man I spoke to on the bow of the ship. He was ruthless, yes, maybe even a little dangerous. But a cold-blooded wife killer? No, that can’t be right.
I stare at him with my mouth hanging open, aware of what a target I’ve made myself. I drop my voice and ask, “Are you being serious right now?”
“It wouldn’t be the first murder he’s committed.”
As I glance around the kitchen, I realize that no one here is arguing that fact. In fact, they all seem a little surprised that I seem so shocked.
“Do you even know who he is?” Anders asks, breaking the heavy silence.
“I… well—”
He rolls his eyes. “See what I mean? Blinded by a pretty face.”
“Can you stop being such a condescending ass for two seconds and just tell me who he is?” I snap.
“Anton Stepanov,” he says, speaking slowly like I might not understand otherwise.
“Am I supposed to recognize that name?” I drawl sarcastically. “I let my Financial Times subscription lapse, unfortunately.”
“He’s not a businessman, Jessa,” Anders says impatiently. “He’s a fucking Bratva don.”
“Bratva?” I parrot like a moron.
“Bratva,” Anders repeats again. “As in the Russian version of the mafia. The significantly more hardcore version.”
I shudder as Anton’s cryptic words float through my head. I’m the maker of sad stories. That’s what he told me.
I’m starting to understand what he meant.
But when he was in front of me on the beach actually saying it, it was too easy to get lost in those gray eyes of his.