by Liz K. Lorde
“Patience, my love,” Cas teasingly chides. “I was getting to that part.”
I look at him expectantly.
“So there we are on the open road, barely a dollar to our names, but I at least have enough money to book us into some sleazy motel on the side of the highway a couple hundred miles outside of Vegas. But we don’t care about the look of the place—it’s not like we have plans to leave the bed whilst we’re there, anyway.”
I grin mischievously at that. “Sounds about right.”
“Anyway, so, of course, we fuck all the way to morning—”
“I bet we do…”
“Ana, let me finish, will you—”
“I’m sure you finish plenty of times if we’re at it all night.”
Cas removes his hand from between my thighs to run it over his face in exasperation, though he’s laughing as he does so.
“You’re impossible, you know.”
I kiss his cheek. “Only for you.”
It’s gotten darker and quieter in our suite; outside, the fireworks have stopped.
“So, where do we go next in this alternate version of our lives?”
Cas gives me an incredulous look, and says, “You ready to listen properly, this time?”
I pretend to be affronted. “But of course! Who do you take me for?”
Cas sighs contentedly, as if to say ‘What am I going to do with you?’ but he continues his story anyway.
“We sleep all the way to noon, and then we get straight back in my Spider and make the long drive over to San Francisco. We stay there for two years, making an honest living and staying in a tiny little apartment, spending all of our spare time down by the port, looking at yachts.”
“Yachts?”
Cas gives me measured look.
“Yes, yachts. Out at sea, we won’t be bothered. Out at sea, we can’t be found. We save up every last dollar, every last nickel, every last cent...and we buy a yacht. Nothing fancy. Nothing too expensive. Just an honest-to-goodness, sea-worthy yacht. You buy the soft furnishings for the cabin. We call her—”
“Maria.”
Cas’ eyes widen in surprise, then he gives me the warmest smile I think I’ve ever seen.
“You remembered.”
“Of course I remembered. Your mother was the kindest woman I ever knew.”
I’m not just saying that for Cas’ benefit, either—Maria Andreas was everything the women attached to my father’s mob were not. She wasn’t closed off in the way my mama had to be.
Most importantly, she entirely approved of the young romance between me and her son.
“Had she made it to our eighteenth birthdays, she’d have given us her blessing for sure,” Cas says aloud, though it seems as if he’s lost in thought.
“At least she didn’t suffer long in the end.”
“Yeah.”
I hold Cas in my arms; his eyes are just a little too bright.
There’s a long pause.
Eventually, I say, “So where did you decide Maria was taking us?”
It seems to take Cas a second or two to come back to his senses, but then he chuckles.
He flings an arm up in front of us, making a wide gesture with his hand.
“Anywhere. Just...away. Barcelona, maybe? Or, perhaps, Greece. Either way, we live blissfully at sea for a year or two, going from port to port, until...”
“Until?”
There’s a glint in Cas’ eye.
“We get some unexpected but very welcome, news.”
He glances down at my stomach, and I get this picture.
“Well then, we have to go to Italy! Baby Andreas should grow up following his papa’s roots.”
Cas smiles at me fondly.
“And what of his mama’s roots?”
“Oh, so it’s a ‘he’?” I say, giggling. “And no, let’s not go anywhere near Russia. I’ve had enough of Russia. But I just can’t seem to get enough of Italians, no matter how hard I try...”
Cas rolls on top of me then, growling softly into my neck and running a hand down my thigh as he does so.
“Your imagined life for us sounds pretty damn perfect,” I murmur as Cas brings his face up to look at me.
He smiles at me fondly. “Thanks for letting me share it with you. I wish it had been true.”
It suddenly feels as if I’ve had a lightbulb moment. An epiphany. Maybe it’s the alcohol speaking, but I’ve never been so sure of something in my entire life.
“Cas.”
“Mmm?”
“The timeline might be a little screwed, and you might have three more bullet holes than you had in it, and I might have a few more bruises—”
“Must you bring me back to reality like that?” Cas sighs dramatically.
“No, no—listen to me. Get off me for a second.”
Cas desperately looks as if he wants to protest, but he grudgingly obliges.
I fling myself off the bed with a little too much enthusiasm, teetering a little on my unsteady feet, and then locate my purse, lying abandoned on the floor.
I undo the clasp and remove the two items most precious to me. I feel a grin creep up my face as I bring them back over to the bed.
Cas is sitting up now, interested in what I’m doing, when I get down on one knee in front of him.
What a thing to do completely naked.
I hold out our two wedding rings in front of me; they glitter and shine under the Vegas lights.
Cas looks at the rings, then at me. I’m fairly certain it doesn’t need to be said, but after everything we’ve been through, I say it anyway.
“Marry me, Cas.”
Chapter 21
Cas
The morning light greets me.
I groan as I open my eyes.
I’m not a fucking morning person, I think to myself as I stumble blindly across the room and pull the curtains shut.
I storm back into bed, but before I can flop down on the mattress, I trip over my shoes and fall—face first—to the floor.
Welp, I say to myself, I’m up now.
And it’s only when I rub my eyes that I feel it.
It’s a ring.
It’s a ring on that finger.
It’s a ring on that finger on that hand.
“No way,” I say out loud. “Did I really—”
My voice drifts off and I look around the room. There’s only one person who could be— or who I would even want to be—my wife.
“Ana!” I call her name loudly.
I know she was here, because I’m looking around the room and seeing nothing but our clothes in piles, mixed together.
I try again. “Ana!”
And then I see a note on the table.
I almost miss it, really, because it’s a Post-it Note.
But it’s bright yellow, and it’s on a black table, and really, how can I miss it? Even Ray Charles, blind and dead, would have seen it.
I read it out loud.
“Cas-Bear,” I begin, “Walked to the drug stored. Be back shortly. Love you! Ana-Baby.”
I read it over in my head a few more times, then toss it back on the table.
“Oh, hell no,” I say out loud, to no one in particular. “How could she be so goddamn stupid? Wandering around this neighborhood is liable to get us both killed.”
I pace around the hotel room, flipping through my phone absently, hoping to find someone who can help.
I read the note, again—just to torture myself, I guess—and, finally, settle on calling Gio.
“Bagman,” I say into the phone, “I need a favor.”
I listen to Gio rattle something off in Sicilian—probably damning me to hell in a million different and original ways—and continue. “I need you to hit the streets for me and find Ana? How many Ana’s do you know? Gio—I need you to find the Rachmanoff girl!”
I look around the room and find, to my eternal delight that it still smells of her.
Fresh lilacs. Clean soap.
H
er own, unique scent—the one that emanates from between her legs—is all over me.
I flop back down on the bed and note the bridal veil that’s still on her pillow.
Fuck, I think to myself, I think we did get married after all.
“Gio,” I say back into the phone, “the room smells like sex, there’s a bridal veil on her pillow, and I’ve got a ring on my finger. What? No, Gio, on my ring finger,”—I suck my teeth—“fuckin’ pinky ring. Did you really ask that, Gio? Yeah. So, if this isn’t all the signs that I’m a married man, I don’t know what is. Yeah. So, I need you to get out there and find her. What? No, I don’t know where she went. She left a note saying she went to the store. Fuck knows when she left, or where she’s even going.”
Gio natters off in Sicilian again, and I’m zoning out. I, of course, speak fluent Italian, but the Sicilian dialect eludes me.
There are some phrases that I can pick up on—namely, that I’m an idiot, that I should have signed a pre-nup, that my poor sainted father (ha, ha) is rolling in his grave—and I just resign myself to the fact that my bagman, while unfailingly loyal, is also a royal pain in the ass.
“Look. Gio. Cornuto. I’m all those things and more. I admit it, and I’m gonna go to church and light a candle in honor of my poor sainted father. May he rest in peace. But in exchange for me doing that, I need you to go find the Rachmanoff girl. Alright? Alright. Goodbye, Gio. You’re the best, you know that?”
I click off the phone and take Ana’s veil in my hand.
For the life of me, though, I can’t remember anything from last night.
Instead, the veil causes me to flash back to the first time we tried to get married—and, once again, I smell the hot, burning steel of the bullet, blacking in and out, Nico screaming over me…
Wait a minute.
Nico.
I flip through my phone again and find the contact titled “Asshole.”
Can’t be anyone else, I think to myself and dial the number.
He picks up on the first ring.
“Prince Caspiaaaaaaaan,” he says, over-exaggerating my name.
I groan. “You know, Nico, if you were born first, Mom and Dad would have never had a second child.”
He guffaws with laughter at this. “And therefore, you should be thanking God every day for me, Prince Caspian. See? I made it worth your while.”
I groan again. “If you were in front of me, I’d choke you.”
“But I’m not, so you can’t,” he says teasingly. “What’s up, though?”
“Look, Nico. I don’t know what the fuck is going on right now, but I can’t find Ana and I think we might have gotten married. I need you to go look for her,” I say all at once.
He grunts. “Why can’t you get off your ass and go find her yourself, Prince Caspian? Why’s everyone else gotta do something for you?”
“Fuck you,” I say, “I’m serious, Nico. You know I’m a marked man. I can’t go anywhere. I need you, fratellino.”
He laughs again.
“What, Nico? What’s so goddamn funny?” I demand.
He finishes laughing. “Ah, shit, Cas. You really don’t remember, do you?”
My heart hits my stomach.
“Remember what, Nico? What are you talking about?”
Chapter 22
Ana
The roar of engines reaches my ears as I stroll slowly down the street, midday traffic flying past in a blur.
Vaguely, I hear the music from the passing cars, the occasional honk of a horn. It seems to roll right off me, my attention focused solely on my own thoughts.
I replay last night in my mind, a smile cementing itself to my face.
I can’t believe I’m married. Cas and I are actually husband and wife. After the years we spent apart, it’s almost too good to be true.
Just days ago, I was utterly hopeless—engaged to a monster, my only salvation seeming death itself.
Today, I woke next to the love of my life, a man who I previously thought dead. A man who is now my husband.
My husband.
I feel like I’m living in a fairy tale.
I almost pass the drugstore, so absorbed in my own joy. At the last moment, I spot it, turning quickly towards the door.
A bell chimes merrily as I enter, announcing my presence.
I smile politely at the man behind the register before gazing around at the aisles.
I spot what I’ve come for and head toward it, still wonderfully distracted by the images in my own head.
I delight in the soreness between my legs as I walk, my only evidence that last night truly happened.
Well, not only, I think as I look down at my hand. My ring shimmers brightly on my finger, a statement of mine and Cas’ undying love.
I feel my grin pull wider looking at it.
I reach the aisle quickly, looking confusedly at my options.
I know that it’s preemptive to be here now, but call me cautious.
Or hopeful.
I glance around at the wide array of pregnancy tests, reading the names in my head.
Obviously, I know that it’s impossible to tell so soon, but I’ll feel better having it ready. After all, it’s not like we used protection last night.
The thought of a baby—Cas’ baby—makes my heart stutter manically in my chest.
We truly can put the past behind us; maybe even be a real family.
I reach for the nearest tests, grabbing one in either hand. Quickly, I skim the boxes, searching for differences between the two.
Frankly, I’m not well-versed in this area, for obvious reasons.
With a sigh, I place one box randomly back on the shelf. If I take the time to read every option, I’ll be here all day. My note clearly said I’d be back soon, and I don’t want to worry Cas.
They all do the same thing anyway, right?
I walk back to the register, feeling slightly self-conscious as I place the box on the counter.
“Wild night? The man asks, smiling up at me in a way that makes my skin crawl.
“Actually,” I answer in my most serious tone, “my husband and I are trying for a baby.”
His face seems to fall in response, the smile wilting quickly from his lips.
Without further comment, he rings me up, remaining silent even as I begin walking away from the counter.
Despite my discomfort, the smile almost immediately returns to my face.
It wasn’t even entirely a lie. I have a husband now, a wonderful husband. And who knows? Maybe soon, we’ll even have a child.
My mind turns pleasantly at the thought, the world feeling suddenly awash in possibility.
The bell chimes again as I open the door, bright sunlight filtering in through the opening.
I step quickly outside, now wanting only to be back at Cas’ side.
I’m so wrapped up in my thoughts that I don’t even see the man stepping in front of me. My face smashes hard into him in the next second, his solid flesh like a wall before me.
“Oh!” I shout in surprise, “I’m so sorr—”
The words shrivel in my throat as my eyes track upward, my thoughts dying in the face of sudden, overwhelming fear.
No.
“Hello, darling.”
His voice crashes into me—a rough, gravely sound that seems to pierce through my mind. I had thought myself free from that voice. Stupidly enough, I had truly started to believe I was safe.
“Yuri.” I choke out, quickly taking a step backward.
I look frantically around, desperately hoping for assistance even though I know better. This man is a killer, cold and calculating; he wouldn’t confront me here if there was any chance of interference.
I can’t believe my own stupidity; waltzing around Las Vegas in broad daylight. I should have known better.
I do know better.
But I allowed my happiness to blind me, idiotically willing for myself a safety that doesn’t exist.
No place is safe from m
y father, or the men who work for him.
Yuri smiles, a look completely devoid of humor.
In all the time I’ve spent with the man, every painful hour, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a smile reach his eyes.
I doubt that the man is even capable of happiness. At least not beyond the pleasure he gains from tormenting people.
His lips pull back nonetheless, his face resembling nothing so much as a feral animal.
“Ana,” He says, his thickly accented voice ringing clearly around me, “you don’t look happy to see me! What a shame. You should know I’m thrilled to see you.”
His eyes pull slowly down the length of me, his gaze easily as violating as any touch.
“Stay away from me,” I choke out, willing my voice not to tremble.
“Is that any way to talk to your fiancé?” He asks, taking a step nearer.
I quickly take a step back, desperately trying to maintain the distance between us. My fear wells as my back slams hard against the building behind me, effectively trapping me in place.
“You are not my fiancé.”
His laugh sends chills racing through me, the sound full of malevolence.
“Still so stubborn,” he says, turning his face from me.
He calls over his shoulder, his words lost to me in my building panic.
Suddenly, from every side, men seem to materialize.
I recognize some faces among them—my father’s men, Yuri’s men. My heart beats wildly at the sight, my panic building to a near frenzy.
He gestures calmly to a car behind him, its black body shining in the midday sun.
“Why don’t you just get in the car, Ana? Then we’ll discuss what I am and am not to you.”
His words seem to erupt as a growl, his anger seeping through despite his calm demeanor.
I left this man at the altar, snuck quietly away on the day of our wedding. I know what my leaving cost him. After all, it’s not like our marriage had anything to do with me.
Our wedding was an asset to him, a symbol of his growing power.
In his mind, I robbed him of his reward.
My mind tumbles back to my time with him, to his violence and abuse. If he was that way before I crossed him, I shudder to think what he might do to me now.
“I’d rather die.” I spit.
