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Damian drums his fingers on the table. “Why didn’t he look me up in jail if he was so curious?”
“He’s mafia. The correctional service isn’t exactly a place he likes to hang out. In any event, he invited me for dinner and one thing led to another.” At least this part is true.
“So, he asked you to leave with him and took you to Venice.”
“Exactly. The rest is history.”
“Is it?”
“What are you implying?”
Folding his hands together, he holds my gaze. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”
It’s hard to maintain eye contact. It’s hard to ask him what I’m about to ask, but if Damian rocks the boat, his family will get hurt. “I want you to honor your deal with him.”
“You mean continue to sell directly to the Belshaws?” His voice fills with contempt. “I don’t fucking think so.”
“Please, Damian.” Reaching across the table, I take his hand. “Please, don’t cut them out.”
His jaw clenches. “Why? I was anyway planning on cutting out the direct buyers and go back to selling via the brokers. Why should I favor a man who took you away from your home only to dump you for a pure breed wife?”
“Because I love him,” I say, squeezing his fingers. Of everything, this is the biggest truth.
The fire burns cold in his eyes as he considers me, but understanding flashes in their depths. Damian understands love. He knows what it means.
“Rather than cutting him deals, I have a good mind to go over there and kick his fucking ass,” Damian says.
“For me,” I beg. “Do it for me. Please.”
Sighing, he turns his face toward the garden spotlights that shine through the window. After a long silence, he faces me again. “Fine, Zee, but I’m doing this for you. If I had my way, I’d make sure the fucker goes down.”
“Thank you.” Relief spreads through me. “That means a lot to me.”
“He doesn’t deserve you.”
“No, he doesn’t.” No one deserves what Maxime has done in the name of power and money.
He pats my hand. “It’ll get better.”
I doubt that, but I smile for his benefit. My shoulders remain tense. He needs to know Zane is his enemy, but how do I bring up the subject without telling him how I found out? Damian will want to know, and I can’t tell him Zane has been spying for Maxime’s family.
I clear my throat. “I’m glad you’re out.” I look around the kitchen. “I’m glad about all of this. You deserve it.”
“Thank you.”
“How’s your cellmate? What’s his name again? Zane, right? Do you keep in touch?”
He stiffens. “He’s dead.”
“Oh.” Wow. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m not.”
From the way he closes off, the subject isn’t open for discussion. At least he has one enemy less.
“Come on.” He pushes to his feet. “Let me show you the room we’ve prepared for you.”
I stand. “I really appreciate that.”
“Anytime, Zee.”
“Thank you for the passport and for getting me out.”
He smiles. “You can always count on me. What are your plans? I’m not pushing you to make hasty decisions, and I don’t want you to think you’re not welcome here. I just want to know how I can help.”
“I’d like to get a job and find my own place as soon as possible.” To hide where Maxime won’t find me.
“I have more than enough money to take care—”
“I want to be independent. I need to take back control of my life.”
He nods. “I can understand that.”
I also need time alone to heal. “If you know of any jobs, the information will be welcome.”
“I can arrange a position at the mine for you.”
“No.” Nowhere where Maxime will think to look for me. When Damian frowns, I smooth over my error. “I have to build this new life on my own. I don’t want to feel like I’m doing it with favors. I want to earn it.”
“All right,” he says, “but if you change your mind—”
“You’ll be the first to know.”
“Are we job hunting for Zoe Hart or Amanda Clifford?”
“Amanda. It’s safer like that.”
He picks up my bag. “Let’s get you settled in.”
Following him down the hallway, I’m already like two people living in the chest of one. I’m a contrast of feelings.
I’m both hopeful and falling apart.
Chapter 3
Maxime
Where is Zoe?
I’m going out of my goddamn mind.
We traced her car to the pound. It was towed away from a bus terminal. There are fifty or more busses leaving daily from that terminal with varying routes, but all of them lead around Marseille. The logical checkpoints are the harbor and airport.
Zoe had enough money on her for a plane ticket to somewhere in Europe—Spain or Italy, or maybe the Netherlands—but she doesn’t have a passport. The one I forged to steal her from South Africa is still in the safe in my office. To be sure, I check the passenger lists of all flights that have left since Saturday. With my connections, it’s not difficult to get the information. Zoe Hart didn’t board a plane.
