There was a pause. She might have called it a hesitation except it was nearly impossible to believe Zervou hesitated over anything. “My mother and grandmother live there still,” he said.
Which didn’t exactly answer her question, did it? She opened her mouth to ask another probing question, but he spoke before she could.
“How is your mother faring?” he asked as he navigated the Friday evening traffic in Corfu. A clear attempt to change the subject. Away from him. Onto her.
She didn’t think he cared in any deep sense, but it still meant something to her that he would ask—even as a distraction. It meant he understood enough to know it mattered to her. Perhaps it was all a great ruse, but he was a good actor in it.
Enjoy, remember? Maybe even enjoy the acting. As long as you understand it’s temporary.And wasn’t she an expert at understanding temporary? Her life was built on the shifting sands of other people’s whims, vices or fists. So she did not need to know him or probe under the ruse or the change of subjects. He could be a mystery to her. It changed nothing.
“She is…well, I think. It is a difficult process, even in the lap of luxury. She has no complaints about the facility.”
“Then what does she have complaints about?”
She studied his profile, surprised he could read what she wasn’t saying. Surprised he would call her out on it.
In the end, she shrugged. What did it matter if he knew her mother’s concerns? “The more sober she is, the more aware she is and the less she likes the idea of you paying her way. Or what she imagines I am doing to pay for you paying her way.”
“You did not tell her about our arrangement?”
“Regarding Erjon? No. I never mention him to her.” She stared out at the passing city. “And I never will, even if we are successful. She will think we had a grand love affair and it ended.”
“Whenwe are successful,glikí mou. I will not be giving up until Erjon is begging for mercy and perhaps not even then.”
He said that with a dark fervor she appreciated. She also would not give up. Not until Erjon paid. Not until he suffered. It was a good talisman amid this strange turn her life had taken. As long as her mother was safe and Ari had boxing and the chance to ruin her father, all was well.
Zervou drove them to the back of the club. At what must have been some kind of private entrance, they were greeted by a man Ari thought might be the owner. A manager at the very least. He led them inside where the music pumped, the beat reverberating through not just the club but her entire body.
She’d never had time for clubs. For frivolous. She was fascinated. But she was also surprised because this was not exactly the place for a photo op, with the low lighting and the crush of bodies. She supposed not everything had to be about a picture. Still, she was curious what had prompted this choice, much different than the ones he’d made so far.
It was clear the club owners knew Zervou and were eager to please. They were shown to a private corner. Though it took Ari a few moments of sitting there to realize it, someone had been installed just a few steps from their booth to act as a kind of security so no one approached them unbidden.
When the waitress arrived, Zervou ordered some drink Ari had never even heard of, but she had no doubt it was alcoholic, so she stopped the waitress before she hopped off eager to do a rich man’s bidding.
“I would like a club soda.”
“Oh. Of course.” The waitress smiled politely then bounced off.
“What I ordered was meant to be shared, Ariadne,” Zervou said with some disapproval.
“I will not drink alcohol,” she said firmly. There was no reason to partake in that which had taken so much from her mother. She braced for an argument. A lecture at the very least.
“Very well,” he said instead. “Will you dance?”
She looked out at the gyrating bodies. The thud of music. She glanced at him, felt that sizzle of his gaze on hers.
Yes, she would very much like to dance with him, to feel his body against hers in a kind of safe environment. A test, perhaps.
Still, she had never really danced before.
“I will, but I have never really danced. I cannot promise it will be much of a photo op, if that is why we’re here.” Maybe it was alittlefishing, but he didn’t bite.
“Dancing is not so complicated. Especially here. Think of it as a boxing match,” he offered. He pointed out to the crowd. “See the woman in bright pink?”
Ari spotted her, a pretty blonde in a dress that stood out even in the dimmer light. She was being led out to the dance floor by a short man with his hair slicked back.
“It begins with a bob and a weave,” Zervou said, with some humor. “He pulls her in, she returns with a duck, a break.”
Amused at the boxing terms being used to describe the couple’s dancing, Ari kept watching as Zervou narrated.
