“Elle.”
I took his hand, leaning in for a stiff hug, allowing him to kiss my cheek.
“Well, you don’t look like you spent time in the Miami sun at all,” he said.
It took me a moment, but I remembered. “The cold sucked away my tan.”
The other man stood. “Elle, this is Robert Savich. He’s one of my attorneys here. I don’t think you’ve met him yet.”
I extended a hand to shake his. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Savich.” My dad met with attorneys often for the business. It had never stood out to me until tonight.
“Likewise.” He turned to my father and I noted how uncomfortable he seemed. “I’ll get back to you tomorrow on that.”
My father nodded, his expression stern, and Mr. Savich left.
“What’s going on?” I asked, taking the seat he’d just vacated.
My father shook his head. “Nothing.” But I could see from his face it was something. He raised his hand to a waiter and, when he came, ordered a bottle of wine. We came here so regularly, we both just allowed the chef to surprise us tonight, maybe neither of us caring much what we ate.
“How are you? It’s been too long,” my dad said.
His phone rang, and he glanced at it but rejected the call.
“I’m okay. You seem really distracted. Everything okay?”
“It’s fine, just” — he shook his head —“business.”
For the next ten minutes, we made small talk, discussing unimportant things, my stomach in knots all along.
There was a pause and my dad looked around. “Where’s the bloody waiter?”
It was time. “Dad, I wanted to tell you that I don’t want to take an allowance anymore,” I blurted out without any introduction or opening or anything. I just had to do it or I would chicken out. I knew myself.
He chuckled, tilting his head to the side.
The waiter came with the wine just then, as if having heard him. He described the vintage, but neither of us listened and, when he poured some for my father to taste, my father snapped at him, “It’s fine. It’s always fine. Just pour.”
This wasn’t like him. He was always in full control of himself and polite. At least he always had been when around me. His phone rang again then again. He ignored both calls.
“Tell me why you don’t want your allowance.”
“I got a job. And not just a pass-the-time sort of job.” I picked up my glass and sipped. It was probably a very nice red, but nerves kept me from tasting a thing.
He raised his eyebrows but smiled. “I’m intrigued. Go on.”
“I’m going to be managing a place called SafeHouse.” I watched him. I knew not to tell him I owned the building. He’d have too many questions for that, and my first priority was protecting Adam. “It’s a shelter for women on the streets, prostitutes, runaways,” I said, taking another sip and trying hard not to choke on it. “Victims of sex crimes,” I added, studying him.
He didn’t give a thing away but seemed to be considering, studying me back. “So a nonprofit?”
I nodded.
“Will it pay enough for the condo?”
“Well, I think I’m going to move. I’ve been thinking about it for a while, and maybe I want something more modest.”
He shook his head. “Just take the allowance and stay where you are.”
“No. I don’t want it.”
“Don’t be unreasonable, Elle —” His phone rang again and, this time, he muttered a curse under his breath and handed it to his guard, who turned away to answer.
“What’s going on, Dad?”
“Nonsense, that’s what.” He drank the full glass in one large mouthful. He was stressed. More stressed than I’d ever seen him before. The guard ended the call and leaned in to whisper into his ear. “Thank you,” my father said. The man left the phone on the table and walked away. “We’re going to have to cut this short, I’m afraid,” he said to me. “There’s a complication, and I need to go earlier than I’d thought.”
“What complication? What’s going on?”
“The Americans think they have a case against me. A new witness. They’ll never stop.” He shook his head, his expression bored by it all. “I have to go see Eduardo.”
“Witness to what?” I asked, all those doubts Adam had planted now having taken root, weighing heavy in my gut.
His eyes lost their luster, went flat like they had been when he’d been talking to his attorney. “Drug trafficking.” He paused. “And other things.”
“They’ve tried before, Dad. They won’t win. It’s not true.”
I saw it in the way he looked at me, in the way his body slouched just a little, as if resigned. He then smiled as his guard came over.
“Car’s ready, sir.”
“Stay and eat. You’ve lost weight.” He reached out to touch my cheek as he stood, smiling sadly, worry creasing his brow. “And don’t believe everything you hear, okay, baby doll?”
I touched his hand, tears warming my eyes. I nodded. “Bye, Daddy.”
He leaned in to kiss my forehead, pausing there for longer than a casual good-bye. “Bye, honey.”
I watched him go, just watched his back as he walked out the back door of the restaurant, talking quietly with Stefano the entire time. And when he’d gone, the waiter brought our food, but I, too, rose to my feet. I wouldn’t be able to force down a single bite. Not the way I felt.
The following morning, I understood why the night had ended like it had. Someone had been kind enough — or cruel enough — to drop a newspaper at my door rather than leaving it downstairs by the mailboxes, the story splashed across the front page: New Witness Comes Forward in Manuel Vega Case. Columbian Kingpin to be Extradited.
They had done it.
They finally had enough evidence to arrest my father.
He’d left last night because he’d needed to get out of the country. It would be a temporary escape, but this must have caught him by surprise or he would have been prepared for it. This wasn’t the first time he’d been investigated, but I wondered about this particular witness. They had to have enough of a case to go ahead with the arrest although I couldn’t imagine my father being extradited. He wouldn’t fight an arrest by going into hiding.
He’d said he needed to see my uncle and, now, I understood why. It had to do with this new witness.
Taking the paper, I sat down on the couch and started to read, skimming first, taking in the photos. The witness’s name was Alexia Rhone. In the photos of her leaving the district attorney’s office, several bodyguards blocking reporters, only glimpses of blonde hair, a long, camel-colored wool coat, and black high-heeled boots showing. There were two photographs of her taken another place, another time. I recognized the place. And the man she was with. Although she had to have been ten, fifteen years younger than him. She couldn’t have been older at the time than I am now. She was beautiful, stunning even, smiling and leaning into him, into my father. They stood outside our family home in Cali, Columbia. He held her close and he, too, smiled. From the way he was posed, the camera had caught him off guard, and he seemed carefree and happy.
The other photograph of her was much more somber and many years later. She was older, her face that of a middle-aged woman. She was still beautiful, or at least half of her was. The other half of her face was marred by burnt flesh, scarred so badly I turned away from it.
Alexia Rhone now lived in New Canaan, Connecticut. A photo of her splendid home was on the next page. She lived in opulence. Her husband had passed away some years ago leaving her a fortune. I read her story, curious to know this woman who held such power over my father, a woman he had obviously been happy with, at least for a time, judging from the photographs. She was born in a small town in Colorado, had met my father when she was nineteen. They’d spent almost five years together. The photo was apparently one of the last taken of them together. She knew what he did. Knew his business dealings, his connections. According to the article, she’
d confronted him when she’d found out the truth — all of it. The drugs she’d been able to overlook. It didn’t affect her, after all. But when he kidnapped the first truckload of women to be sold, when she learned that, she’d tried to leave. The scars proved to be a punishment, a token of his affection for her, because, out of that affection, he hadn’t been able to put a bullet in her head.
She’d stayed silent for more than twenty years. So why come out with this “truth” now?
I had to remind myself that this was all according to her.
I stood, throwing the paper down. It was a lie, it had to be. I put a pod into the espresso machine and hit the button to make myself a cup, switching on the laptop as I did. My cell phone rang. Although I didn’t recognize the number, I answered out of habit.
“Hello?” Irritation marked the word.
“Ms. Vega, this is Sarah Wheeler from Channel —”
I hung up, but almost as soon as I did, it rang again, another unknown number. Reporters would be calling now, stalking me for an interview. I gazed out the window, seeing a few news vans parked out front, two cameramen already filming, reporters pointing toward my floor.
Shaking my head, furious with the intrusion, I pulled the curtains closed. The coffee was ready by then, and I picked up the mug. The phone rang again, and I almost didn’t answer, but when I looked at the display, I saw it was Nikki. I accepted the call, realizing how badly my hands shook.
“Hi, Nikki.”
“Hey, honey. Have you seen the papers?”
I sat down, defeat overwhelming me, tears springing to my eyes. “Yeah.”
A pause. “You doing okay?”
I shook my head, covering my mouth, not wanting to cry out. Why did everything have to happen like this? One thing on top of another on top of another.
“I’m on my way, hon. I’ll call you when I’m in the lobby. We’ll go get some work done at SafeHouse and put this craziness out of your mind.”
“There are a bunch of reporters outside, Nik.”
“Screw the reporters. I can handle them.”
I smiled at the thought of petite little Nikki in the five-inch heels she insisted on wearing no matter what we were doing, no matter the time of day, fighting her way into the building. “Okay.”
If she didn’t come, I knew what I’d do. I’d hibernate, again. And that wasn’t a good thing.
“See you soon, hon.”
“See you.”
I took a quick shower, feeling slightly nauseous at the thought of having to face reporters. Pulling my hair into a ponytail, I threw on a pair of skinny jeans and a hoodie and tied the laces of my Chucks. I didn’t wear a stich of makeup, although my face looked gaunt, dark circles evidence of how badly I’d been sleeping. Nikki called as soon as I was finished, and I buzzed her in. Within moments, she stood at my door, two Dunkin’ Donuts’ lattes and a box of donuts in hand.
“You’re a lifesaver,” I said, hugging her then locking the door once she was inside.
“Nah, you’re the lifesaver. I just brought the donuts.”
We sat at the counter, and I opened my laptop while we drank our coffee and ate donuts. The sugar was sticky sweet, but I ate two, suddenly ravenous.
“I just saw him last night. We had dinner together, and I knew something was up.”
Nikki watched over my shoulder as I scanned more articles, more photos. “He went back to Columbia?”
“Yeah, but I can’t imagine they’d have to extradite him. He’ll come of his own free will, but if I know my dad, he’s buying time.”
I glanced over to find her studying me. She put an arm over my shoulders. “Whether he did what they’re saying or not, I know he’s been a good father to you.”
I shifted my gaze to my lap, wiping a tear. I could hear she felt sorry for me but she wasn’t judging. “Thing is, Nik,” I said, “I’m not sure. What they’re saying, it may…”
“Shh.”
She held me for a few moments while I cried quietly before pulling myself together. Turning back to the computer screen, I clicked through to another page, this one a gossip magazine with more photographs. That was when I saw him. When I saw Adam. It was a profile shot, and his arm was up to ward off a reporter, cutting off part of his face, but I was sure it was him. He stood beside Alexia Rhone, shielding her from view with his body as he shoved someone out of the way. He was protecting her. He was her bodyguard? But…what was this? Who in hell was this man? When I’d done my research after learning his true last name, there was a chunk of time missing, seven years in fact, where Adam seemed to have dropped off the face of the earth. I hadn’t been able to find out anything else about him no matter where I’d searched. And now, to see this, it brought up so many questions.
“What is it?” Nikki asked, peering at the photograph.
I shook my head, rubbing my eyes, unable to believe what I saw.
“You look as though you’ve seen a ghost, Elle. What is it?”
“Nothing,” I said, closing my laptop. “Nothing.”
“Finish your coffee and go put some makeup on. Your face is drawn. You don’t want them to see you like that when they start snapping pics. Don’t let them know they’re getting to you.”
I smiled. “I feel like shit.”
“It’s a bad spell. Now go get yourself together. A little cover-up under the eyes, some mascara, and lip gloss will do it. And sunglasses. Big ones.”
“All right.” I had to smile at that last part. “I’ll just be a few minutes.”
She checked her watch. “I’ve got a meeting with one of the contractors in about forty-five minutes. You’ll come with me. I think it will be good for you to work.”
A familiar sadness I’d barely managed to conceal crept back up, stealing me into its darkness. I forced myself to stand and plastered a smile I didn’t feel onto my face. At least Nikki thought I was upset because of my father, and I didn’t have to explain anything about Adam to her. I don’t know how I would have done that.
“Okay,” I said, more to myself than her. SafeHouse would be my focus. We were moving fast, and I could bury myself in the work.
“SHIT HIT THE FAN this morning,” I said into the phone as I studied the morning’s headlines while sipping coffee at Alex’s kitchen counter.
“Not exactly unexpected,” Clay said. “Everything okay there?”
“Yes, Alex is fine. She’ll stay fine. I’m calling for a favor, Clay.”
A quiet pause filled the space. I didn’t often ask favors. Never, in fact.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Send some men to watch over Elle. She will refuse anyone her father sends, and I’d feel better knowing she was protected.”
“You know I can’t do that in a professional capacity. She’s the enemy’s daughter.”
“Yeah, I know what you can and can’t do in a professional capacity. But I also know a lot depends on what you want to do.” Clay could be a dick sometimes. “She’s innocent, a victim. You and I both know that.”
“Maybe, but it would put me in a difficult position.”
“You’re the only one I trust.” That was true. I wanted her protected from the reporters, but I also wanted protection from anyone thinking she had anything to do with the things her father dealt in. “I would do it myself, but keeping Alex safe is going to be a full-time job.” Her relationship with Manuel Vega was different than that of any other witness the feds had been able to convince to testify. And she had come forward herself rather than being coerced. The rest had taken a plea deal. Alex was a victim, not a perpetrator. The moment she’d decided to step forward, she’d painted a big, fat target onto her back, and I’d do everything in my power to make sure she came out of this in one piece.
“Do I tell her who sent the men?”
Men. That was good. He would send more than one. “I think you may have to for her to allow them to stay.” I smiled, remembering how stubborn she could be.
“All right. I’ll do it for
you, Adam.”
“Thank you, Clay.”
“You can thank me by keeping Alex alive.”
“I have no intention of allowing anything to happen to her. Trust me.”
“Who’s that?” Alex asked as I disconnected the call. She wore a gray suit jacket with a pencil skirt and a ruffled blouse. Patent leather knee-high boots finished the ensemble. We had a meeting with prosecutors today that would take the whole day.
“Clay.”
“You’re sending someone to keep an eye on her?”
I nodded.
“Life is full of irony,” she said, pouring herself a cup of coffee.
“Yeah, it’s a mother fucker, if you ask me.” I stood, checking the time. “We have to leave in fifteen.”
She ignored me. “If Clay had said no, would you have asked me for help?”
“She’s the enemy’s daughter, Alex.” Clay was right about that.
“And the woman you love. You think I would say no?”
Love.
I didn’t hear anything beyond that word.
Alex chuckled, and I cleared my throat.
“Come on. Let’s go get this over with.”
I REGRETTED THE DONUTS as soon as we got to SafeHouse. If there were reporters outside, I didn’t see them as Nikki parked within the enclosure of the fence and I ran inside to the first floor bathroom and vomited. Nikki rushed in behind me and grabbed my ponytail to hold it out of the way.
“I feel like shit,” I said once it was over. Luckily, I kept a toothbrush and a small tube of toothpaste in my purse and I brushed my teeth.
“Is this the first time that’s happened?”
“First time I threw up, yes, but the nausea isn’t new.” I wiped my face, not quite feeling myself just yet. “It’s the stress of the last few months.”
“Any way you could be pregnant?” Nikki came out and asked, shocking me. She stood behind me, fixing my hair, our eyes meeting in the mirror.
“Pregnant?” I almost wanted to laugh outright, but something held me back. “Of course I’m not pregnant!” I swept past her but caught her expression in the mirrors spanning the three sinks at the counter. She grinned and had a “whatever you say” expression on her face.
Retribution Page 17
