by Avery Aster
“My boys…” Banja’s heavy eyelids opened and he started to choke on his tears. His attempt to reach for Dash then Dejon failed as his arms dropped by his lap. “I didn’t think you’d make it…in time.”
He leaned on the left side of the full-size bed, Dejon sat at the right. Frail and cold, they each held Banja’s hands.
This was it. Banja was dying.
“Your twins are here to be with you.” Dash started with small talk about their flight from London Heathrow, then about their lives in Europe. Dejon, the romantic, dated some girl long-distance. His brother called her Kiki and mentioned she lived in Manhattan. Dash, the independent, kept many women, but nothing serious. He hadn’t found the right one yet.
“I live in Notting Hill and run Mum’s jewelry store.” Located in Portobella Road Market, Jilly’s Jewels specialized in antique and estate pieces. Never returning to acting, their mother had retired as a British TV icon, sticking with what the Turays did best—gems, but notably only conflict-free ones, of course.
“Silly Jilly,” Banja huffed. Then he drifted off, almost as if unconscious. Maybe it was the mention of his estranged wife that caused his body to nearly quit. Jilly had that effect on people.
“Daddy, I left the university early. I spin music and travel.” Vying for his attention, Dejon pulled out a disc from his pocket. “I brought you trance tunes to listen to. It’s from my recent Berlin show—”
Banja didn’t hear him.
In an agonized expression, Dejon’s brows drew together. The sensitive one of the two, he couldn’t get Banja to listen. Overwhelmed, he stared at Dash, pleading to wake him up. He leaned toward the end of the bed, asking, “Is he…?”
“Give Dad a minute.” Dash soothed his brother’s fear, realizing Banja would come to. He hoped, anyway, at least for Dejon’s sake.
A mess, Dejon hadn’t talked much on the flight over, but Dash felt his brother’s sadness. In times like these, it was hard not to drown in Dejon’s emotions. They were too real for Dash, almost his own.
The bond he shared with his twin in many ways felt extrasensory. Hours could pass without talking but always saying so much. Convinced they were telepathy-prone, Jilly had enrolled them at The Telepathic Institute at the start of puberty. Intended to be low frequency and safe, The Hanzfeld Experiments on thought transference, while they’d slept, were actually cruel and abusive. German scientists under pressure to prove their findings, for more funding, had positioned the Turay Twins as their prime cash cow. They’d gone to any lengths necessary to succeed.
The nocturnal extrasensory perception studies had only a negative impact on them. They’d given Dash a heightened threshold for pain, and intensified Dejon’s empathy for others. This often led Dejon to have anxiety when in a dark room or while in bed.
Nothing conclusive came from the tests, other than Jilly’s remorse. She had no idea what they’d gone through. Years later, at the age of thirteen, Jilly had put Dejon and him in separate bedrooms. They’d needed more space. It was only then that his brother admitted he couldn’t sleep without Dash at his side.
“You okay?” Dejon searched his face for an answer. Saying goodbye was happening a lot faster than he’d anticipated.
“I’m fine.” After all these years, seeing Banja right then, Dash didn’t know what he’d feel, if anything at all. Unable to be as empathetic as Dejon was toward their father, he did feel regret—not for Banja, but his sister. She’d be alive if they’d come to London. But the past was behind him, as it should stay.
Suddenly awake, Banja grunted, seeming uncomfortable in his own body. “Time. I don’t have. I must tell…”
“Dad, you’re trying to say something. We’ll stay for as long as you need us.” Dash pushed the anger he had toward his father to the back of his mind, giving Dejon an encouraging smile.
Before he went back to England, Dash had promised his mother he’d find a way to forgive Banja for putting the diamonds ahead of his family. He had to.
“Boys. One thing you must do…before I go.”
“Anything,” Dash replied as Dejon dried his eyes, telling Banja not to talk as if he lay dying.
“Cath’s Certification Process…is a scam.”
“What?” He couldn’t believe his ears. His father had dedicated his career to getting the United Diamond Congress (UDC) off the ground. This certification program insured that all stones coming from their homeland were mined fairly.
“Recently…UDC approved three Sierra Leone gems to sell. They are…blood diamonds.” Banja motioned for Dejon to take a folder from the nearby nightstand, while Dash poured him a glass of water from a pitcher on the dresser. Refusing the drink, he continued, “This outlines what stones they are…who bought them…where to find them…how and when to bring them back.” Barely able to get out the last word, Banja’s energy seemed to be fading fast.
“Daddy! What do you mean when you say, ‘Bring them back’?” Dejon’s brown eyes whitened.
“Steal.” Banja rubbed his chest as if it hurt him to say what he required of them. “Return the stones to the families…who lost loved ones…to mine them, son.”
Shit. Now I know why you didn’t want Mum to come with us. She’d be off her trolley.
“No,” Dejon voiced loudly. “We’re not doing that.”
Unexpectedly, Banja gripped Dash’s hand, urging him to silence his overly emotional twin. It reminded him of Banja’s absence during their childhood. Many times, Dash had found himself in a fatherly role. Born only seven minutes before Dejon, he often felt years ahead of him.
“For me, son, do this.” Banja blinked as tears puddled his eyes.
“Yes, sir.” Glaring at Dejon to agree, Dash answered for him. Come on, Dad is nearly gone.
Lips pursed, Dejon sat quiet, without a reply.
“Dejon?” Their father apparently didn’t anticipate refusal. “That’s an …order.”
“An order?” His twin’s tone turned sarcastic. On any other day, Dash could understand not taking a request from a man they hadn’t seen in over a decade. But right then, Dejon needed to be agreeable, doing as their father asked. This was Banja’s dying wish.
“No choice, son.” Coughing, Banja’s skin lightened from onyx to ash. The more Dejon didn’t agree, the faster their father seemed to kiss death in the face.
“We’ll get the stones back, Father. Dejon, tell Dad.”
Mouthing “no” in Dash’s direction, Dejon still wasn’t having it.
“Swear on Kamara…you’ll do this.” Banja spoke clearly. This wasn’t crazy talk, rather the real deal. Dash couldn’t believe they were being asked to pledge on their late sister’s name. “Promise…if not to me, then Kamara and the lives she saved…that you’ll act in her honor.”
“I don’t steal.” A flicker of anger shone as a bead of sweat on Dejon’s forehead. “And shame on you for bringing up our sister. Kamara was noble, but I will not fight with some mob, picking up wherever you two left off. Nor will I disgrace her legacy and fail trying.”
When Dash had grown older, he’d asked his mother why Kamara and Banja had fought the rebels. She’d replied, “Young women are forced to spend time with bad men they don’t love. Children’s limbs are broken off as if they were nothing more than plastic dolls and forced to work the mines. That’s why they’re called blood diamonds.” Her response had followed a fit of tears. Dash had never forgotten his mother’s words. He’d realized people bled for the vanity of jewelry.
Reminding himself of this, he wondered if what his father asked them to do was really considered stealing. The stones belonged to their town. To think of the luxury retailers around the world, selling blood diamonds to consumers, who then gifted them as gestures of love and happily ever after, all coming from these killers enraged him.
That’s it. Yanking Dejon’s arm, Dash got them on their feet. Out of their father’s earshot, he pushed him over to the corner of the room by the bookshelves. “Fuck, Dejon, what is wrong with you? Do
n’t be an arse. Just do this for all the people who’ve suffered.”
“We cannot go up against these warlords.”
“Sure we can.”
“If you want me to say we will, fine, to make Daddy happy. But we’re not actually going to steal these stones.”
“Dude, yes.”
“Balls up, this is fucked up. Are you out of your thick skull? What part of ‘no’ do you not understand? The N or the O? No!”
Same in size, both tall and broad, Dash never held back showing dominance. Open-palmed, he whacked Dejon on the back of the head for speaking to him sarcastically.
“Bugger off!” Fearing he’d be struck again, Dejon flinched, trying to block him.
“Agree to carry out Father’s last request.” He didn’t understand Dejon’s resistance. His brother would normally give the shirt off his back for anyone in need. Didn’t Dejon have any empathy for their native people in the mines? “You’ve changed, dude.”
Over the years, he’d shared everything in life with Dejon—similar passion for rugby, a Kensington circle of close friends and often the same woman. Notably white girls with honey-colored hair, creamy skin, a tight pussy and an even tighter ass. How could Dejon not see eye-to-eye with him now?
“No, I haven’t. If anything, I’ve grown up.”
“This is because of that totty, Kiki Izatt, isn’t it? You’ve fallen arse over tit! It’s getting more serious, isn’t it?”
Ever since his brother had started dating her, he’d seemed different. Dash hadn’t met Kiki yet but felt certain his brother’s attitude came from Dejon thinking only about his American.
“Last week, while in New York, I asked Kiki to marry me. She said yes. I’m moving to the US to be closer to her, before we hitch.”
“Bloody hell! How could you keep this from me?” Dash thought they’d shared everything. His assumptions on this New Yorker were right. “I need to meet her.”
“It’s too soon for that. You’ll ruin—”
He pressed his fingers on Dejon’s lips to shut him up. “We’ll talk about your girl later. Not here. This is about Dad. Not you.”
“Right.” Dejon pushed Dash’s hand away from his face.
“I bet these diamonds have sentimental value to our family.” Dash figured the stones must be in the hands of a designer, or maybe were being cut and polished at some off-site location, perhaps the Ivory Coast. “How hard could this be?”
“You wanna die repeating Kamara’s footsteps? Go right ahead. Not me!” Chest out, arms crossed, Dejon showed Dash he wasn’t afraid of him anymore. But Dash knew Dejon would back down. He always did. “Mum told us never to get mixed up in Daddy’s affairs.”
“Right, let’s not forget Mum.” Instinctively, Dash wrapped both hands around the back of Dejon’s neck, as if he might head-butt him. Nose to nose, he spoke harshly. “Kamara died for Dad. Mum moved us to London so we could have a better life. Now, my days are spent working for her as Kamara had done for him. Don’t you get it?”
“Not really.” Without a care in the world, Dejon shrugged.
That nonchalant gesture almost sent his foot up Dejon’s arse, but he kept his cool. He’d let Dejon be heard. He finally knew his twin’s desire to go to the States. Well, not yet. “You haven’t done shit for this family.” Dash sprayed his words on his brother’s face. “I am doing this for Dad, for Kamara, and for the millions of women and children who have died over these stones. If you don’t agree today to help me, I will make certain you never get to the US.”
Dejon’s chin dropped hearing his brother’s threat.
“I’ll feed you to these rebels as if you were nothing more than a scoop of bread pudding. I mean it.” He didn’t, but Dash felt like showing him how some of these locals lived. Certainly not at this beachside mansion, behind armed guards, that was for sure. “You’re spoiled, a baby with no responsibility. When did you become such a selfish twat?”
“Fuck you, Dash.”
It was his brother’s chance to grow a pair of Turay’s famously hung balls. Dash would see to it. “Step up. We are no more British than we are African. It easily could’ve been us working in those mines, Dejon. Instead, we were born into the Turays, on the other side of the glittery fence.”
“We don’t belong here.”
“Mum might’ve taken us away, but Dad is calling us back.” He licked his lips then added, “Be a man before you bugger off making babies with the American.”
Muttering curse words, Dejon tried to pull away. Dash released him, recognizing that look on his brother’s face. His twin gave in. “Daddy…we’ll do whatever you need,” Dejon shouted dramatically.
Banja didn’t reply.
“Did you hear me? Daddy, I said we’ll do it. We’ll steal for you.”
He put his arm around Dejon’s shoulder. “See, you wanker, that wasn’t so hard.” Just as they walked up to the bed, Dash’s right foot stepped over the folder. The papers must’ve fallen while they talked.
Blimey fuck…
On his back, Banja stared up at the ceiling. His mouth hung open.
“Daddy’s gone…” Dejon hugged himself.
Taking his father’s hand in his, Dash checked for a pulse. When he couldn’t find one, he ran his palm over his father’s eyes and closed them. “We love you, Father.”
Times Square, New York
Taddy sat in her conference room studying her calendar. Tapping her python pump against the floor, she focused on how to make the impossible work. “Paloma, darling, this season’s exhibition schedule is tighter than one of Duchess of Alba’s facelifts. I’m not sure we can manage all these trade shows for you.”
“Sì, put another Brill girl on my account.” Paloma Tittoni, queen of all things bedazzled, daughter to the Royal House of Girasoli and sister-in-law to Taddy’s lifelong friend Lex Easton, winked a glittered eyelash at her. “We have oodles to do. Paloma Gems is all I have. It’s my life. My days of being melancholy with this bling business are over. This year, I’m not just doing jewelry, I am jewelry! Let’s take my baby public.”
“Now we’re talking my favorite language—money.”
“So, I need more than you. I need the mini-me version of you working on my account, too.”
“Ha.” Taddy laughed, gliding her red acrylic nails over the statement necklace dipped in 18 carat gold. Paloma had brought with her some of the upcoming collection. “I’ll have to double your retainer for that level of manpower.”
“Triple it. This is Paloma Gems’ year to kick Cartier’s French ass. Capisce?”
“Ohhh, you’re turning me on.” Taddy shifted in her seat. She adored her competitive clients almost as much as those willing to pay three times her fee. Nevertheless, who could she trust with these expensive pieces? “Anyone come to mind you’d want added onto your account? How about Ragan?”
“That Ragan is stupido.” Paloma flipped her long, sable hair over her bare, Mediterranean-bronzed shoulder. “No. Paloma Gems requires a publicity executive who is in touch with the marketplace. One who will work harder than you have to get my media buzzing.”
“Duckie Capri? I could transfer him from Blake’s team. He’d do anything to be a part of the fashion and jewelry division. He loves his sparkles. Can’t say I blame him.” Taddy couldn’t help herself; she had to try the necklace on. Unfastening the clasp, she held the heavy bling up to her décolletage. I feel like effin’ Cleopatra.
“Your goose, duck, whatever you call him, is cute and connected. But he can’t spell. I’ve read his emails. No. Taddy, you know who I want. Let’s not waste another minute. Put that adorable Kiki on my account. She’s got spunk!”
Since hiring Kiki Izatt, she’d been protective of her. Nurturing her career step by step, she’d only wanted to see Kiki succeed. Paloma Gems would be a massive undertaking. Compared to her other clients, a jewelry brand had the highest cost of goods, thus the most room for failure.
“Kiki is recently engaged to a young man. A disc jockey wh
o lives in London. I’m afraid her time might not be as focused as you wish, Paloma.”
“Is Kiki pregnant?” Paloma asked.
Her assistant was many things. Curious, quirky, intelligent, humble, and cute to the point where Taddy had wondered if she’d had a girl-crush on her. Nevertheless, pregnant or sexually active was not on the short or long list of adjectives to describe Kiki Izatt.
Lord, had she tried over the years to get Kiki laid. Taddy had flown her virgin ass around the world, hired the hottest (and most expensive) male escorts from Greece to take Kiki out on the town, had introduced her to the who’s who of the TriBeCa nightlife, had even offered up her muscular butler from Russia, as well as her ever-so-BDSM-kinky cosmetic surgeon who had a fetish for flat-chested girls, but nothing had worked.
That girl had held on to her chastity as if it was the last piece of couture Alexandra McQueen had ever sewn.
“God willing, but no. I have an idea, Paloma darling. I’ll have Kiki shadow me until we get to the Euro Diamond Expo in Stockholm. If she’s pulling her own, then she’ll be on your account full-time as the primary lead.”
“And if not?”
“Then Paloma Gems gets the fiercely connected Duckie Capri.” She’d buy him a dictionary.
“Deal!” From around her wrist, Paloma adjusted an oversized pink diamond bangle.
“Those stones are exceptional. Where are they from?”
“Sierra Leone.” Paloma slid the bracelet off her wrist and placed it on Taddy’s. “That reminds me of one more teensy-weensy thing we must discuss. Then we’re off to lunch at Cipriani, my treat.”
“Okay.” Familiar with clients who waited ‘til the last minute of their meetings to slip in some off-the-charts request, she grimaced. Hoping this wouldn’t require half a bottle of Xanax and a vodka martini to recover from, she encouraged, “Let’s hear it.”
“I want to talk to you about something I simply must get my hands on.” Her iPad appeared from her bag. She turned it on, tapped the screen a few times, and then slid it across the table.
