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“What about Oscar? Chloe?” I say in a panic.
“Fine,” Tony rumbles.
“Unfortunately,” Callan spits.
“Shaken up, but okay,” Tony assures me. “They are staying at Winter Manor.” Oscar’s mother’s home. It’s possibly the safest place. I nod, but it doesn’t dispel the unease pulsing through me.
“He knows my real name,” I whisper, worried this will somehow come back on Oscar and Chloe.
“They know nothing,” Tony chimes in. “Oscar thinks Callan got you caught up in something. For all he knows, Olivia was another victim of trafficking, and the Russians got their wires crossed.”
So Callan has taken the fall for me. I eye him and find he is watching me astutely. I drop my gaze, and we all eat the remainder of the meal in silence, each of us avoiding eye contact. I can barely stomach anything, so I move the food around, eager to leave the table and hide away with my thoughts.
“How are you feeling?” That’s Jefferson. I tilt my head, only to find multiple reserved gazes. He doesn’t mean my father.
“Like I went a few rounds with a Russian.” No point lying. It's evident I’m in pain: mentally and physically.
“You’re due more pain relief in an hour or two,” he tells me as he loads his mouth with pasta. I pick at my meal, still not hungry, and besides, each mouthful is too uncomfortable for me to enjoy it. Even lifting the fork is difficult.
“Good?” Tony asks, trying to lighten the mood. For a moment, I’m thrown back to that room and the bottle of piss I was nearly given to drink.
I swallow awkwardly and cough.
“Yes, my jaw hurts, that's all.” Everyone has cleared their plates, yet mine is still half full. If Callan hadn't come when he did, they could have sent me off to that person who had paid for me. I shudder inwardly. I don’t even know if the Yovenko’s are dead. What if they come back for me?
“If I were to give you pain relief now, you'd fall asleep.” Jefferson laughs.
“Sounds good to me,” I say honestly. I don't want to think anymore. It’s been over a week, but my bruising is still visible. The pain is more bearable, but I suspect I’ve become more used to where I hurt the most and how to avoid aggravating it. The medication is helping a lot.
“I’m afraid that will have to wait,” Callan interjects, “it’s time, Zara.” The way he says those words, his tone, the serious shine in his eyes, and the hush over the table tells me that my first request, the reason I got into this mess in the first place, is finally transpiring. My heart thumps painfully behind my breast.
I give a soft but sure nod.
“Okay.”
Twenty-four hours later, I am sitting in the passenger seat of Callan’s car, disguised by a blonde wig and blue lenses to hide my natural green. My heart is hammering rapidly, as everything I have known over the last decade is about to be no more.
“Won't people wonder where I am?” I ask. It’s been bugging me since Callan announced I was leaving, but so much has happened in the last few hours that I’ve only now been able to vocalise it.
“No, they will mourn you because they believe you are dead.” His emotionless tone makes me flinch. Dead?
“You faked my death?” I whisper, shocked and horrified.
“I didn’t need to. The police found your DNA and plenty of blood where the Yovenko’s kept you. We burnt the place to the ground. The only evidence they found is what we wanted them to see.” Are they still alive? “They announced to the public that they believe your body has been disposed of in what they can only describe as a kidnapping gone wrong. If they hadn’t released a statement, I would have gone through with faking your death.” He looks at me briefly over the console. “Did you expect me to relocate you and everything to be fine? Zara, we have to make the world believe you’re dead. This way, no one looks for you, and you can start afresh and begin again. I have moved funds to secure your future. Stalin was sure not to leave a paper trail. It’s your own money, offshore. It’s safe and under a new name. Everything will make sense when you arrive at the location.” He indicates and pulls into a dimly lit car park and drives into a hanger.
“Oh. Okay.” Swallowing my anxiety, I stare at the dashboard.
“Your accounts were cleared, and the police believe that as no ransom was taken, they hit your accounts personally and disappeared.”
“Oh god, are they still alive?” I baulk.
“No, you're safe. Keep wearing your wig, lenses. You have others stocked when you arrive. It’s remote. Keep your head down. Don’t make friends. This isn't going to be easy, Zara. It’ll be lonely. But you’ll be safe,” he assures me. Wear wigs. Pretend to be someone elseagain.“Come on.”
I’m not ready to say goodbye to him.
“If they’re dead, why am I hiding?” My whisper is laced with pain. Why is he going through with this? If they’re gone, I’m safe.
“Men like that don’t work alone, Zara. Men like the Yovenko’s want revenge.” I swallow the fear his words bring. Just like him, The Yovenko’s have a team of people, family even. My involvement with them will have repercussions.
