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Exile.
Demyen doesn’t say another word. But he pulls out a roll of cash, unwraps the band around it, then thinks again and rewraps it. He sets the whole roll on her table and nods for us to leave.
“Thank you,” I say over my shoulder. It feels rude not to.
The shell of Helen Cooper gives me a sad little smile. “I am sorry, honey. We all are. I used to wonder what happened to Greg Everett’s poor little girl. Wondered if you ever survived to adulthood.” Her eyes flick to Demyen. “I’m glad to see you did.”
Demyen stares at her for a moment longer, then presses a hand to my back and ushers us down the stone path to the road. He still doesn’t say a word and I don’t press him to.
If he’s feeling what I’m feeling? We’re both in utter shambles.
19
DEMYEN
For the first time since Tolya’s arrest, I want to throttle him.
Do I blame him for all this?
I didn’t. Not really.
Now, though? Maybe. Kind of.
What the fuck were you thinking, brother?!
I look over at Clara, who’s basking in the Fijian sun as our boat glides over the water back to the villa resort. I remember what Tolya said about that horrible, fateful night: that he saw a little girl get kidnapped, stuffed in the back of a car. And he couldn’t stand by and just let them take her.
Did he know who she was?
Did her kidnapper know he was following them?
I want to be furious at Tolya for being so stupid and sticking his nose in someone else’s business. For trying to play the hero when we were raised to be the villains.
But that little girl was Clara.
And I can’t imagine myself sitting idly by while she, or Willow, was suddenly snatched in front of me and stuffed into some random guy’s trunk.
No. Who I should be furious with is whichevermudakpoisoned Michael Little. Whoever gave him that fucking coffee and started this whole chain of events that now has me glaring at tropical waters while a gorgeous woman does her best to avoid poking at my frayed nerves.
Motherfucker is ruining my trip and I don’t even know his fucking name.
I scrub a hand over my face and reach for Clara. “Come here.”
She looks at me, uncertain at first, but eases into my side and sighs. “You doing okay?”
I want to laugh. “Fucking terrific. My brother is either the best or worst shot in Las Vegas history, and some dickhead is out there probably sipping coffee from the same mug he handed to Michael Little.”
Clara doesn’t say anything in response. She simply rests her head on my shoulder and wraps an arm around my waist.
Which doesn’t make the next bit of news any easier to give. “Since we found what we came for, it’s time to head back to the States. We’ll leave tomorrow morning.”
I expect at least a small protest, but she only nods. “Sounds good.”
“You’re good with that?”
She sits up to smile softly at me. “Yeah. This was a business trip, right? You didn’t have to bring us, but I’m so grateful you did. It’s your time and your resources you’ve shared with us. We’ll take what you offered and appreciate what we have.”
I don’t deserve this woman. I really don’t. “Want me to break the news to Willow? Or you?”
