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The man looks delighted as he shakes. “Nice to meet you. My name is Simion. Peter here did not tell me he had such a lovely partner.”
“Sometimes it’s better to be surprised,” Peter says giving me a knowing smile.
I grin back at him and accept the wine when it comes.
Peter spends the next twenty minutes speaking Greek. I still don’t know the language, only the basics, and I’m forced to tune them out as I nurse my drink and watch the people around us. What I took for a rough and rowdy place at first is actually fairly subdued—I suspect that other group got thrown out for being too drunk—and nobody pays us much attention. Couples eat dinner quietly together. Groups of friends speak and laugh in low tones. There’s a soccer match on TV that takes up everyone else’s attention and I enjoy watching their reactions as things happen on screen. Finally, Peter takes an envelope from his jacket and slips it into Simion’s lap.
“That should cover the first payment,” he says in English and my attention is drawn back into their conversation. “Tell your boss that there’s more. We pay well, on time, and without issues so long as the work gets done. Balaska doesn’t want violence and neither does Le Milieu, only business. This can be lucrative for everyone.”
“You know, Peter, I didn’t expect an American like you to get involved in something like this. International drug trade? Seems like a risk.”
“I’m in a risky business, Simion. No sense in pretending otherwise. Will you tell your boss?”
“I’ll tell him, but I don’t know how receptive he’ll be.” Simion sighs and looks over his shoulder. “Between you and me, you’re not the first man to come ask things of Demetrios, but he always says no. Says our reputation is too important.”
“I’ve found reputations are less important than money, and men can change their minds with the right amount of convincing.”
Simion laughs and shakes Peter’s hand as he looks at me. “You have a good one here. A dangerous one, yes? But a good one. Trustworthy, as far as criminals go.”
“I don’t know about good, but he’s okay.” I place my empty wine glass on the bar and excuse myself, slipping toward the back and into the women’s room while Peter finishes up with Simion.
I stand in front of the mirror for a moment. I feel good—tired, in pain, but happy, and it isn’t just the alcohol in my stomach. There’s something about being out with Peter and watching him work, the way he speaks to people, the way he scans a room for threats, the way he keeps me in sight even when he doesn’t have to. There’s a protectiveness to him like he hasn’t quite given up on the idea of being my bodyguard and my babysitter. I don’t want to need his protection anymore, but it feels good to know that I have it anyway.
The door opens. I turn toward the stalls, but the person stands near the door, staring at me. I glance over and freeze.
It’s a man. Hovering in the women’s room. A tall man, thick neck, dark eyes. He’s looking at me with a strange determination. His muscular arms flex and he steps forward.
I ask him, “Are you lost? You’re in the women’s room.” I smile disarmingly, hoping this is just some drunk moron and maybe telling him where he is will snap him out of it.
But he says nothing, only advances on me, and as he gets closer, he cocks back a fist.
Days and days of hard training kick in. I duck the punch and attack him just like I’ve attacked Peter a few dozen times. I go for the crotch first, driving my knee into his balls, and punch him quickly in the stomach and again in the throat. He staggers back, gagging and groaning, and I shove him sideways, lunging for the door.
There’s a second where I have some space. The door’s right ahead and I can almost reach it. Maybe if I get it open, I can escape out into the hall and scream for help. Or maybe I can reach down to my thigh, pull my gun, and turn on the attacker, but if I pull that out I’d better be ready to use it.
I go for the door, slipping slightly on the damp floor. I grab the handle—
But the man growls, says something harsh in Greek, and I feel his hand grab my hair and yank.
I scream as he pulls and I’m wrenched backwards. I hit the floor, landing hard on my back, and the man’s knee comes down with all his weight behind it right onto my chest. His hand cocks back as my fingers desperately scrabble at my thigh, pulling up my dress, looking for the gun I have strapped there. I should’ve pulled it first instead of trying to run away. I had one opening, one fucking chance to end this, and I tried to run instead of pulling my gun. For all my fighting and self-confidence, I still took the coward’s way out when it came down to it, and I don’t know how I’m going to get away.
I can’t reach the holster. His weight is too heavy and he’s too big and my arm’s pinned. He punches me in the face once, twice, and I feel woozy in a way I never have with Peter. This bastard’s not holding back. I struggle, trying to fight, but he’s massive and there’s nothing I can do. His weight is crushing me and I can barely breathe and there are spots in my eyes and, fuck, he’s going to kill me, he’s going to kill me right here on this bathroom floor and there’s nothing I can do to stop him. There’s no getting up after this, no second round, I should’ve pulled my gun and now I’m fucking dead.
“Rastus says hello,” the man whispers in a thick accent.
As my vision starts going dark around the edges, the door bursts open and my attacker looks up. The burly fuck says something in Greek before a fist takes him in the mouth, knocking him back. I gasp for air and roll onto my side, coughing hard and choking and gagging and trying to clear my head. I get up onto my hands and knees and watch as Peter pummels the big man, fists slamming into his face over and over again, turning the burly bastard’s mouth and nose into mush. “You shouldn’t have touched her,” Peter says, takes a fist full of the man’s hair, and slams the guy’s face into the sink.
He leaves an ugly red smear on the white porcelain. Peter does it again, and again, and finally there’s a sickening, horrible crunch, and the man slumps to the floor.
There’s blood everywhere and the big guy isn’t moving.
“Adrienne.” Peter kneels next to me. “Are you okay?” He pulls me into his arms and starts checking me over for wounds.
“I think so.” I touch my throat. My ears are ringing and my head’s spinning, but I’m alive. “What did you do?” I stare at the unmoving corpse and the blood on Peter’s clothes.
“Nobody touches you,” he says as he pulls me to my feet. “Nobody.”
The door opens again. This time it’s Simion, looking concerned. He stares at the scene, at me in Peter’s arms and down at the body on the floor, and all the damn blood, and his hands come up to his mouth in horror.
