by Renard, Loki
“Why do I have an offer for two million dollars for you?”
“Maybe I’m worth it.”
“Maybe you’re fucking with me.”
“Maybe you take the money and stop asking questions,” I say, putting a little steel into my tone. I need him to comply, and quickly. The attack on his home in Athens tells me I am being tracked. He needs to move me out of the country before the people who blasted into his home find me and this all turns out to be one big waste of time.
Chapter 6
Siri
It took almost an hour of him cursing and demanding to know what was going on and me reminding him that men with very big guns were on their way before Stavros took the deal in the email. I knew he would.
Money talks and bullshit walks, and he’s going to need a whole lot of money to deal with the bullshit that happened at his place.
I’m happy to finally be on my way, but in spite of the big pay day, he has been cold toward me since the deal was struck.
I don’t know why he’s so unhappy about it. This is his entire business model. Steal a girl, find a buyer, profit. Of course, it’s not happening on his terms, and his home has been damaged in the process, but that’s not my fault. I tried to tell him. He failed to listen.
The afternoon after the attack, two cars arrive at the little cottage. The driver gets out of the first one, gets into the second and leaves, leaving us with the transport we’ll take to the hand-off location. Stavros doesn’t even speak to me as he gets into the driver’s seat. I get in the other side. It’s pretty obvious what’s going on, but a few words wouldn’t hurt.
I suppose he doesn’t owe me anything. The sex we shared was unique to me, but I know he’s been with many women before me. It probably meant nothing to him. He’s probably glad to be rid of me.
Truth is, I don’t know what he’s thinking. He’s retreated behind that professional visage he has, leaving me in the dark.
It’s not like it would make any difference if he did care. He’s just part of my plan. He’s a tool. I can’t risk thinking of him in any other way. I didn’t get myself caught and sent to him just to turn around and try to stay. That can’t happen for so many reasons. So I stay in silence, and we drive through the Greek countryside toward the bay where one story will end, and another will begin.
Two hours is a long time to spend in silence with someone else. I’m relieved when Stavros finally breaks the silence.
“This is really what you want? You want me to sell you?”
“Yes.”
“That’s bullshit, Siri, and you know it.”
“It’s not bullshit at all. It was the whole point of letting you get your hands on me.”
“I see,” he says, his jaw clenching. “You let me get my hands on you.”
“Yep.” I cross my arms over my chest and stare out the window as the cursed countryside flashes by.
The mood is tense, but I don’t care. I am eager to go. The final pieces of this plan are starting to fall into place, but as fast as they do that, the rest of it unravels. I wasn’t meant to be taken back to Athens. The place is full of spies and of course my father’s men knew where I was within minutes of my arrival. Stavros’ place is under constant surveillance. Nothing goes in or out without people knowing. He has to know that, but he obviously thought it was worth the risk. He was wrong.
“Do you really think you get to be shitty with me?”
“Excuse me?”
“You sell women, Stavros. You don’t get to act offended when they’re not entirely forthcoming.”
He gives me a harsh look, then puts his eyes back on the road. “You’re right.”
“Damn straight I am.”
We arrive at a small coastal village. This is the drop off point. There is a big ship off-shore, waiting to take me to my new life. At least, I assume that’s my method of transportation. There could be a helicopter nearby, or a plane maybe. Hard to tell. Whatever it is, it’s going to take me far way from this country and the men who run it.
“See that boat down there on the jetty?” He gestures as we sweep past the small marina. “The one with the Japanese flag on the hull?”
“Yeah.”
“When I tell you, or if something goes wrong, you drive down there. You’ll meet a contact, assuming this transaction is legitimate. I’m going to go into the chapel on the hill and verify it.”
So this is how he does it. Old school. Stavros has a reputation for being nearly untraceable - except when he flies directly into Athens. When he sends a girl out, she’s gone. And now I know why. Everything is handled in person. No digital trail. No electronic communications.
“You’re not going to hand deliver me?”
“You seem like you’ll deliver yourself just fine,” he growls. He’s really not happy. Oh well. It’s a pity, but I don’t have time to plumb the depths of his feelings. I need to get out of Greece.
He drives up near the chapel, parks a few hundred yards away and tells me to stay in the car while he finalizes matters. I agree. I’m close now. So fucking close to finally being free.
I sit there and I wait, and as I wait, I see two more vehicles pull up. Big SUVs, containing big, violent men. They are not part of my plan, and I don’t think they’re part of his.
“Oh no,” I groan.
As soon as they get out I know exactly who they are, and I know exactly why they’re here. Stavros is capital F fucked, and if I’m not careful, so am I.
I look over at the driver’s seat. I could leave. All I have to do is get behind the wheel and go and make contact with whoever is down on the docks. But Stavros is inside the chapel and I know he’s alone, and even if he’s armed, what’s one gun against dozens?
“Fucking fuck fuck,” I curse to myself.
I am literally on the verge of the freedom I’ve had to fight my entire life to get. And here I am, hesitating, because one asshole criminal is about to get killed or worse.
I try to convince myself that I don’t know he’ll be hurt, but there’s no question. They’re going to want information, and he’s not going to give it to them, and then they’re going to get violent. Still, I could leave him. It would be forgivable.
He’s a monster.
But I’m not.
I check the glove box of the car and find the inevitable weapon secreted there. I’m not super familiar with guns, in spite of having studied in the US, but I think I can fake it.
I step out of the car and hear shouts coming from the chapel, sounds of holy things being desecrated. Every step up the path is one in which I question my sanity. This isn’t the plan. The plan was simple. Get taken. Get sold. Get free. There was never any ‘save a human trafficker from my father’s goons’ step in there.
I push through the church doors and as I do I feel the impulse to cover my face, but I don’t. I want to hide badly, but my identity is the most effective shield I can have from these brutes.
Sure enough, they’ve won by merit of their superior numbers. They have Stavros tied to the altar. They’ve ripped his shirt open and fuck knows what they’re planning on doing next, but I don’t intend to wait to find out.
They don’t notice me at first. They’re too busy kicking his ass, pounding on him with their fists and boots, to pay attention to what is behind them.
I raise the gun and clear my throat.
“Let him go.”
A dozen assholes rotate on their axis to stare at me like idiots. Everybody in the church looks surprised by my appearance, but none as much as Stavros.
He’s in a bad way. He’s had the shit beaten out of him. They’ve only had him for a couple of minutes, but it doesn’t take long to hurt a man. That pretty face is swollen and bruised and one of his eyes is closing up. I don’t know what else has been done to him, but I’m guessing from the way he’s leaning to one side and breathing with some difficulty, that they’ve broken at least one of his ribs.
“Sirios!” The leader of the thugs exclaims.
> I fucking hate that name, but of course it is the one they know me by. And now it’s the name Stavros knows me by. I can tell by his expression, bloodied as it is, that he already knows who I am just by that extra syllable.
He’s staring at me with his jaw slightly dropped, probably wondering how he didn’t figure it out before. It probably seems so obvious now he really looks at me and sees me not as his naughty little fuck captive, but as the daughter of one of the most powerful criminals in Italy.
“Let him go,” I repeat. “And nobody dies.”
The ringleader makes an ugly expression at me. “He’s scum, Sirios. Let us kill him. It’s time you were married. Let us take you to your rightful husband.”
“Rightful husband?” I sneer the words back. “No man has a right to me. Certainly not the one you work for.”
“You were promised to him. Of course he has a right to you.”
“It’s not 500 BC anymore,” I snap. “You can’t just promise girls in marriage anymore. They have choice.”
“So you want this man to sell you. So you can have choice?”
He’s confused, but that’s because he’s stupid. I have no intention of explaining myself to him, or to anyone.
“Let him go,” I say for the third, and final time. “Get the fuck out of here, now. Or I’m just going to start shooting you all one by one. Anyone want to guess who will be first?” I sweep the gun back and forth casually around the room. My finger is resting lightly on the trigger. Very poor trigger discipline, but excellent menacing behavior. Men like these always underestimate ladies. They might not believe I would kill them on purpose, but they absolutely believe a hysterical woman is capable of pulling the trigger and killing them.
“We’ll go,” the thug says. “But it’s only going to make him angrier if he has to find you. You should come with us.”
“I don’t care,” I say simply. “His anger isn’t my problem, and I know he has dozens of other girls to stick his old cock into. Tell him to forget about me.”
“They don’t have your blood.”
Men always have to fucking argue.
“I thought you were going,” I say coldly. “And make sure you actually go, or the next person to get shot will be you.”
He calls his men to him and they file out, leaving Stavros hanging from his arms on the altar. This is some fucked up medieval shit. I run to his side and cut the cable ties keeping his arms up. One side seems okay, but the right hand side of his body is more badly hurt. He’s stiff and obviously in pain, as much as he tries to hide it from me.
“We need to go. Now.”
He agrees, rising to his feet. His breathing is halting and short and I can tell he must be in agony. Goddamnit. I almost wish I had shot one of them, but that wouldn’t have changed anything. These are brutal men and they play brutal games and Stavros should have known better than to come here alone.
We leave the church and I do my best to get him back to the car. The SUVs are gone as promised, but they’re probably not that far away, all things considered. If I know the way these people operate, they’ve gone to get more men and more guns. When they come back, if they find us still here, they’ll take me by force and they’ll kill Stavros. The only reason they didn’t kill him right away is because they were trying to find out where I was. Now they know. All his money and all his men won’t help him in this remote town where nothing lawful or holy is respected.
“Why did you come for me?” Stavros grunts the question.
“I thought you might like to not be beaten to death.”
“You could have gotten away.”
“I still intend to, but I couldn’t let my dude-sel in distress die, could I?”
He manages a quirk of his lips, even though he is in obvious pain. Every step must be hell for him, but he makes it to the waiting car before he goes white as a sheet and passes out in the back seat.
“Guess I’m driving then.”
“Sirios,” he says, regaining consciousness long enough to make me jump.
“Jesus, don’t do that! And don’t call me that.”
“You’re Salvatore Medici’s daughter.”
“Don’t say his name.”
He grunts and falls silent. I expected more of an argument, but I don’t think he is in any state to argue with me. They worked him over pretty efficiently. I’d feel sorry for him, but I don’t want to feel anything for him. He and I are about to be done forever.
“You used me,” he groans from the back.
“You were going to use me,” I say. “You still are. You’ll get your money, Stavros.”
“I want the truth,” he grunts as I send the car off at high speed. We need to get as far away from here as possible as quickly as possible. To hell with speed limits.
“You want the truth? Alright. Here’s the truth. My name is Sirios Medici. I was born the seventh of seven daughters to Salvatore Medici - a man whose name is synonymous with crime throughout Italy. I was studying in New York when the man my father promised me to when I was twelve years old decided we should be married in spring.” I’m talking like I’m an encyclopedia, but there’s a reason I speak this way when I talk about these matters. If I let myself feel anything, I might start to break down.
“He decided who you were going to marry when you were twelve? Another boy, or…”
“Don Corelli.”
In the small sliver of rear view mirror, Stavros’ face is a mask of restrained horror.
“Yeah,” I say.
“I was at school in New York when my father called me and told me it was going to be a spring wedding. I’d almost forgotten about the whole thing.”
“You told him you didn’t want to get married?”
“Yeah. He didn’t listen.”
My father literally acted as though I hadn’t spoken at all when I told him on the phone that I wasn’t interested in upholding a promise he’d made on my behalf a lifetime ago. I think he might have actually not heard me. The notion of my refusing to carry out his will was probably so unthinkable it didn’t even make it through to his brain.
“So you decided to come to Athens, pretend to be going along with his plans, and instead you used whatever contacts you had to get yourself picked up and put into my supply line,” Stavros says, filling in the blanks.
“It wasn’t as simple as just running away,” I nod. “That wouldn’t have worked. I would have been found. I needed to work with someone who knew how to erase a woman from the face of the Earth - and that’s where you came in.”
I glance back at him to gauge his reaction. Does he hate me for using him? Or is he casting himself as my hero? Turns out, neither. He has passed out again, either from his wounds or from pain. I’m alone with the man I just saved, the man who I once trusted to sell me.
“I guess I’m going to have to organize that myself too,” I murmur, turning the car further inland. The contact Stavros got an email from is a real person with real money, but he’s not looking to actually buy me. He was just part of the plan, someone I funded to act as buyer. Maybe he’s compromised too, but maybe not. Maybe I can still get the hell out of Greece before I end up at the altar.
Chapter 7
Stavros
It’s like a bad dream - except bad dreams don’t hurt this much when you wake up. I must have passed out in the car, right on the verge of asking her why she wasn’t honest with me. If she’d just come to me in the first place I could have been of service to her without all the lies and the death. I would have taken payment just to transport her without all the rest of it, the selling, the training. She made it so much worse than it needed to be, for both of us.
I lie still, trying to get my mental and physical bearings. The last twenty four hours have been one long whirlwind of chaos. One minute I was being beaten down by men who are not going to last until the end of the week if I have anything to say about it, the next Siri was standing there with a weapon, saving my ass. Now, if I’m not mistaken, we’re at one of m
y safe houses in the south of Greece. I recognize the wall coverings. They’re ugly as hell. I never bothered to replace them, because I never really thought I would need it. I wonder how she found her way here, then I remember Siri knows a lot of things she’s not supposed to know.
I push off the bed with some difficulty, my heart sinking at the idea she might already be gone. She certainly has no reason to stay.
I shuffle out of the bedroom and into the small kitchen where I see a piece of fluttering fabric through the doorway to the outside world. It’s part of a dress and my spirits rise as I realize she’s here, standing in afternoon sun.
Siri is clad in a light patterned dress, one foot resting on top of the other as she leans against one of the poles supporting the balcony, drawing on a foul smelling cigarette.
I don’t know if it is the bright sun, or my relief, but she has never looked as beautiful as she does now. She seems so young, and innocent, but she’s not. She’s a walking mockery of the very notion of innocence.
“You’re awake,” she says obviously.
“You’re smoking.”
“Yeah. Is that your biggest concern right now, really? The smoking?”
“It’s bad for your health.”
She shakes her head and stubs the thing out in a nearby ashtray, her pretty blue eyes lifting to mine.
“You look like shit.”
“I feel worse.”
“There’s no medicine here, but there’s alcohol, if that helps.” She points to a bottle of whiskey on the table.
The bottle has been opened, and there’s a good third or so missing. Part of it is sitting in a glass on the table.
I wouldn’t expect a woman her age to be able to cope with everything she has been through. She’s no doubt been smoking and drinking the trauma away while I lie passed out inside this place she should never have known about, and she’s right, I shouldn’t care about that, but I do.
