Double Dealing: A Menage Romance

by Landish, Lauren

  “Well, it seems that a business associate of yours has recently been acting quite peculiar,” De la Rosa said, taking out a smartphone. “When some of my family's men questioned him, he had quite a bit to say. Would you like to take a look?”

  De la Rosa set the phone on the table, turning it toward me. “Don’t worry, your mother and these ladies have already seen it,” he said with a grim smile. “There is nothing to hide here amongst us Romani.”

  With trembling hands, I tapped the screen, starting the video. I saw our Spanish agent, the man I had sold out Felix to on the screen, his arms bound behind his back and his face beaten and swollen. In blubbering, sobbing tones, he described how he'd betrayed Felix, and how he'd transferred him to the Russian mobsters after the fake handoff in Calais. “Now, one last question, and the answer is of vital importance,” the cameraman said, waving a knife in front of the Spaniard. “Did Francois know about or participate in the betrayal of his brother?”

  “Of course he knew, you stupid Gypsy!” the Spaniard spat back, his eyes wide and frightened. “Who the hell do you think contacted me about it? Hell, he talked with my men in Mexico about setting the whole thing up!”

  “Thank you,” the cameraman said. “You have earned some mercy.”

  The Spaniard's mouth widened in a grateful smile, only to be replaced by a shocked gape as the cameraman reached forward, and grabbed him by his hair.

  “It was a hands-free setup,” De la Rosa explained as on the video, the cameraman shoved the knife into the Spaniard's mouth and jerked sideways savagely, slicing open his cheek before repeating it on the other side, giving the screaming man a Glasgow smile. “Mercy, no? We should have killed him.”

  “You can’t believe what this man says,” I stammered, looking up from the video. “He was slime, and we only used him because he had connections for offloading our loot.”

  Jordan, who until then had maintained her silence, slammed her fist down on the table. “Francois . . . how could you?” she cried, her eyes streaming tears. “How could you? He is your brother!”

  “He spent his whole life holding me down!” I yelled back, slamming my own fist onto the table. “I was always second best! Always! Even with you — I was the second one in your heart. Admit it Jordan, whenever you needed tenderness, or comfort, or compassion, it was Felix you turned to, not me! I was good for having fun, and for a good fuck, nothing more!”

  “I turned to you too, you selfish bastard!” Jordan screamed, throwing the napkin that she'd been holding in her hand at me. “I can't even . . .”

  She got up and ran from the barge, out into the Paris afternoon. I turned in my chair to go after her, when the other two men with De la Rosa, as well as Charani and Syeira, stood up. “Don't move.”

  I stopped and turned back, stunned at the tone in my mother's voice. I hadn't heard that tone in her voice to me ever. In fact, I had rarely heard her use it, and only then against those who had hurt the family. “Mother?”

  “A title that I regret to have at this moment,” she seethed, her gray eyes flaring with anger. “A title that means nothing, since by what you have done, you have shown yourself to be nothing!”

  “What I did, I did for you too!” I yelled back. “The phoenix must rise!”

  “This phoenix rose on her own, thank you very much!” She spat back, her tone low and growling. “I was not named to be the mother of a traitor. Your brother has always been your biggest supporter, and you repay him by selling him to the fucking Russians?”

  I wanted to argue, but the look in her eyes was implacable. Finally, I lowered my head and shook regretfully, knowing what I had to say next, even if it hurt her feelings. “It doesn't matter, mother. I’m the King now, and that is all there is to it. The other family leaders — they swore the oath.”

  “You are not the King,” Syeira said, her voice the calmest I had heard since coming into the room. “Felix did not abdicate the title, nor is he dead. He is still King.”

  I laughed harshly and looked at my aunt. “A fact that is not proven. Regardless of how I did it, fratricide is not against Romani law. My title is still mine, as is the power of the oath.”

  Syeira shook her head, indicating the two men who had arrived with De la Rosa. “These men are from our allies in the Black Sea tribes. They have confirmed for me that Felix is being held in an estate belonging to Vladimir Ilyushin, a member of the Russian Mafia. That information has been passed along to the rest of the senior tribe members.”

  “I know the name,” I said. “We have dealt with the Russians before, but never with him directly.”

  “We are waiting, but the Black Sea Romani have promised to e-mail me pictures within twelve hours of Felix, alive and at the estate,” Syeira said. “It took some influence, but they are willing to support us.”

  “On what?” I asked, dumbfounded. “Are you planning to rescue him or something?”

  Charani left her seat and came over in front of me. I looked down at my mother, and in a flash of movement so fast I didn't even see her move, she slapped my face. “If you have any honor left in that black pit you call a heart, you will have answered that question for yourself already.”

  “Mother . . .” I said softly, her anger breaking through my emotional shield. “Please, don't you understand?”

  “I understand that at this moment, I would rather have died with your Father than have seen you betray your own blood like this. I would rather have been childless than to see this day.”

  She turned and followed Jordan out of the barge, leaving me with our visitors and Syeira, whose eyes burned with just as much anger as her sister's, but had remained in control of herself. “You have two options, Francois,” Syeira said, her voice cold and heartless after Charani left. Romani or not, she was an aristocrat, one who'd grown up in the bloodline of generations of ruling people whose code made Machiavelli look soft. “You can either atone for your actions by lending your considerable talents to the rescue of your brother, or you can run. You have enough money in your personal bank accounts that I’m sure you'd make a decent go of it. But know that if you do, after our tribe rescues Felix, we will come after you. No matter if you run to the ends of the Earth, one day you will find my hand on the handle of a knife twisting into your heart.”

  I sagged into the chair behind me, tears finally falling from my cheeks. Her words destroyed every bit of resistance left in me, and I felt hopeless, defeated beyond all measure. “I . . . I've lost it all,” I whispered, ignoring everyone around me. “The title, the position, my honor. Even Jordan . . .”

  “Perhaps, just perhaps, you have a chance to redeem yourself.”

  “And if I try, and I fail?” I ask, looking up at her, who shrugged, crossing her arms. We both knew the answer to that. If I failed, I might as well die beside my brother. “I understand. What can you tell me about this estate?”

  * * *

  By the time De la Rosa and the men from the Black Sea tribes left, it was nearly midnight. Syeira had left an hour after I sat down with the men in order to learn what they knew, going out to get her sister and Jordan. They returned a while after sunset, carrying bags that ended up containing sandwiches they'd gotten from a street vendor. I noticed that when they were divvied out that I got the smallest, but by that point I didn't care. All I wanted was to regain some trust in Jordan's eyes, no matter how unlikely that was.

  I sat up at the kitchen table, staring at the computer screen in front of me. Even I had to admit that I was disgusted by what I'd done to Felix, looking at the way he was being treated. While the reports were jumbled, him being kept in a cargo container was disturbing. I wasn't sure what some of it was, but the people who’d sighted Felix hadn't been able to get close enough to find out for sure. All they knew was that he was being kept like some kind of pet. I was disgusted at how weak I was — at how I let my thirst for greed get the better of me.

  I ran my fingers through my hair and sighed, wishing I'd done things differently. I wond
ered how my jealousy had led me to this point, and what I could have done differently. I wondered if my own ambition and jealousy had ruined my life, and possibly Felix’s life too.

  I was staring a hole in the table when I felt someone standing behind me, very quietly, just watching me and breathing slowly. Considering I hadn't heard them approach, I figured it was Charani or Syeira. “What is it, Mother? Come to say that I don't deserve my name again?”

  “Actually, I came to see if you were sleepy,” Jordan said behind me, putting her hands on my shoulders. “You aren't going to save your brother in one night.”

  I looked up, reaching for her hand before letting my hand fall back to the table. “Why?”

  “A question I've been asking myself,” Jordan said, rubbing my neck, “but I doubt that we're asking why about the same things.”

  I sighed and nodded, relishing the feeling of her touch even as I knew I had betrayed her. More than Syeira, I had betrayed Jordan, for which I was sorry. “You are right. I assume your whys have been more about why I did what I did, and why I deceived you.”

  “Those were two of them,” Jordan agreed, letting go of her massage and coming around to sit next to me at the table. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the wood, and I couldn't help but notice that instead of the simply sexy sleepwear she'd favored most of the time we had been together, she was wearing one of Felix's t-shirts, a blue one that had a high neckline. “Also, why in the world you did it the way you did. Had we never found out, what you did was even worse than killing him. It was beyond low.”

  “When I first had my plan, that wasn’t part of it,” I said, rubbing my temples, a nervous habit I'd picked up in the past few hours it seemed. Even angry and saddened, Jordan was extraordinarily beautiful, her insightful gaze still sending warm tendrils to my heart, each one of them aching because I knew what I was giving up. “That came later, from the Spaniard. I think it was a part of the price he used to set up the deal for the Quran.”

  “So he wanted the book, you wanted the throne, and Felix was the price,” Jordan said, only a hint of anger in her voice. Instead, there was great sadness. “I'm not going to ask you why you wanted to do it. From knowing you, I think I know why. But why are you showing such a sudden change of heart?”

  I wiped at my eyes, trying to blink away the tears. “Because I saw something today that broke my heart. I saw and still see the pain in your eyes, and I listened to my mother say she wished she'd never given birth to me. When I heard that, I realized that the crown, the scars on my back, they're nothing. What I have dreamed of my entire life was acceptance and respect, and what I realized today was that I already had both, right in front of me. I had you and Charani, and in thinking back, yes, I had Felix too. Yet I was too blinded by the hurt in my past to see it.”

  Jordan considered my words for a second, then nodded. “I believe you, but just know that you aren’t forgiven. That’s going to take more from you.”

  I nodded, tears falling from my eyes. “Jordan, I know that it might be impossible for me to ever redeem myself in your eyes. But if there is even a chance, I’ll do whatever it takes. I love you.”

  Jordan blinked, then looked up at the ceiling, taking a shuddering breath. Finally, she looked at me, her own eyes shimmering with tears. “I love you too. I can't help it, which is why this hurts so damn much right now.”

  She wiped at her face, then took a deep breath before standing up. “Enough of that, though. I wanted you to know that your bed is waiting, and you should get to it. You need your rest if you are going to devote your energy in the direction it should be.”

  “And you?” I asked, desperate hope in my heart. Jordan saw what I was asking, and she shook her head. “I should have guessed.”

  “I will sleep on the couch tonight,” she said. “But when we get to Albania, I’m going to need a bed.”

  “Albania? Why there?” I asked.

  Jordan cocked her head as if it was a dumb question. “It’s where your tribe is. They’re angry with you, but in talking with Syeira and Charani, they volunteered to help. If we’re to rescue Felix, then we need backup.”

  Chapter 38

  Jordan

  I couldn’t help but think that, considering the situation I was in, I should have been angrier, or at least less impressed by the situation I found myself in. Instead, I was blown away on an almost daily basis by the beauty of the farm outside Durres, Albania that was the seat of the Hardy family. Situated with a breathtaking view over the Adriatic sea, I woke up every morning to find myself in a Mediterranean paradise. White, rustic walls enclosed an old home that within it held a sense of nobility and refined charm that I had never experienced before. Dark gray flagstones lined the floor of the kitchen, where a real brick oven let Syeira and Charani cook to their heart's content. The seven bedrooms were Spartan in nature, most of them except for the master suites having a simple twin sized mattress, but were amazingly comfortable with breezy linens that let every whisper of the ocean air caress your body.

  With only two days before we started our infiltration of the Ukraine, I was down to my last day of training before taking a final day to mentally prepare myself. If I didn’t want to be completely useless, I had to get in better shape. It was a Tuesday, and if things went right, Felix would be back in my arms by that Saturday at the latest.

  Getting out of my narrow, single bed, I pulled on the dark fatigue pants and vest that I had come to know like a second skin. Overall, it wasn't all that different than some of the stuff I'd put on from time to time, although the rock scene tended to depend on clothing that was more skin-tight. Still, after the weeks of training from sunup to past sundown, I was as comfortable in these as I was in anything else.

  The day started out with a thick oatmeal from Charani and Syeira, who’d appointed themselves the caretakers of our little band of rescuers. The tribe had delivered a dozen men, all young and in their primes, with Francois ostensibly to lead — though he was watched closely. Francois’s plan was bold, it was dramatic, and it was exactly from the Hardy playbook.

  Finishing my breakfast, I met the other members of the team near the barn, where the men were sleeping. With there not being enough bedrooms for all of them to have one, they'd shunned them completely, politely informing me that the house would be for the ladies only. Francois had also given up his bedroom in the main house to sleep with them, at least until the men had deemed him unworthy and had thrown him out on the second night. For the entire two and a half weeks since, he'd slept in a small tent outside in the yard, without any complaints.

  I didn't know if Francois was accepting the difficulties because he was trying to gain the men's respect, or if he was trying to atone for his mistakes. I just knew that when I stepped out of the house that morning, the sun was just thinking of breaking the horizon, and he was already up, cleaning his Kalashnikov rifle in the pink morning light.

  “Good morning, Jordan,” he said softly, not wanting to make too much sound. I could understand why, too. Not only was the rest of the team still sleeping, but there was something about the way the morning was in Durres as spring bloomed. The Adriatic was close enough that you could see it out on the horizon, and the high cliffs that separated the land from the sea let just a hint of the waves pounding away reach your ears. Life in Albania seemed to operate at a slightly slower pace too, as if the night wasn't ready to let go and the people were aware of it. It wasn't the languid start of Mexico, but instead had a hint of older, more primal fears. The power of darkness reigned, even on the Adriatic Riviera.

  “Good morning,” I answered him, coming over and squatting down. “How was your sleep?”

  “Reasonable,” he said, adding no details. I knew from staying up one night that in fact Francois slept terribly, often tossing and turning through most of the night, tortured by nightmares and a hard, unforgiving ground that didn't let his body recover from the rigors of training properly. Still, he never let on, and my heart went out to him. I still
hadn't forgiven him, and had not let him have any moments of tenderness from me, regardless of if the foolish side of me wanted it or not. “Are you ready for today?”

  “Last chance to make any changes to the plan,” I said. “I’m ready. I want to be on those trucks — I don't like what the new reports are saying. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “About Felix being allowed to roam free?” Francois asked, sliding the bolt back into his Kalashnikov and finishing his reassembly. “It doesn’t. There could be complications that we didn’t think about.”

  “Such as?” I asked, fear twisting deep in my gut. “Tell me what you know, Francois. Or at least what you suspect.”

  “Vladimir Ilyushin has connections with some of the deepest parts of the old Soviet and Russian systems,” Francois said, setting his rifle aside and reaching into his tent, retrieving a canned ration that he opened and began spooning into his mouth. “And from what I know of him and his syndicate, he has a penchant for the chemically enhanced interrogation systems they developed.”

  “In plain English, please,” I said, irritation in my voice.

  “I mean that Vladimir has a history of brainwashing,” Francois said, stirring at the dirt between his feet with the end of his spoon. “And if they're letting Felix roam free, then there may be cause to believe that they have at least partially turned him.”