by Cassie Wild
My mind whirled, latching onto one scenario after another. Most of them weren’t even plausible.
The one that was the most plausible, though, was the one I didn’t want to believe. It was just too…wrong.
I made myself ask though. “Could Duardo have written the note, or forced her to write it, then made her leave with him? Maybe he found her, and the rest of it was just subterfuge.”
“I considered that,” Duncan said, and his voice sounded tired. “But judging by the way he and his back-up were acting, I don’t think that’s a likely scenario, boss. Duardo was harder to read, but the man with him looked a little too worried for an answer that simple.”
I wouldn’t call the possibility of Daria being missing a simple one. But I didn’t point that out.
“Besides, there are a couple of other things that I wasn’t aware of until after I managed to get free, but I’m thinking she…left. The note was a distraction. If I’d gone to look for her sooner—”
“Tell me about this note,” I said, cutting him off.
He cleared his throat before answering. “I told you she left a note, one indicating that you had taken care of matters and she could return to the US. It also said you were sending the boat back for her.”
“And you believed that?” I snarled.
“Not one bit,” Duncan replied. “But I didn’t see the note until this morning.”
“Why didn’t you check on her yesterday?” I demanded.
“I did, Brooks. About thirty minutes after you left, I knocked on her door. She seemed fine, a little sad, which I attributed to you leaving, so I offered to bring her lunch up. But she didn’t want anything and asked to be left alone. I would have checked on her in the evening before retiring, but…well…as I said, I was tied up. She must have left the island before Duardo got there.”
Blood roared in my ears. My heart raced. The hair on the back of my neck was standing on end, and I wanted to rip something, tear something, break something.
But I had to think, had to focus. Daria depended on it, even if she had been so foolish as to leave.
“Why are you so certain she left?” I asked, my voice slightly calmer.
“The fishing boat is missing,” Duncan said softly. “And we found her phone on the dock. There were messages from Isabel. Isabel told Daria that her father knew where she was and that he was coming for her. Isabel told her to run. I think she did just that.”
Closing my eyes, I blew out a breath. Okay. If she took the boat…
“Have you started tracking the boat?” I asked. It was equipped so that if it was stolen, I’d be able to find it. I doubted Daria had the technological know-how to think to look for a tracking device or to know how to disable it without setting off the fail-safes that Duncan had included when he configured the tracker.
“No. I wanted to contact you first. That was my next action.”
“Start tracking.” I hesitated, the horror of what this man and my other employees had gone through began settling around me like a cloak. “How is everybody? How are you after the beating? And what about Enrique and Justine? My god, I can’t believe you were all beaten.”
“Justine and I will be fine.”
Duncan’s hesitation had the anger rising inside me once more. “And Enrique?”
“I don’t know, boss. He’s old and his heart…shit, he’s already had the one heart attack. He wasn’t looking good when I got him free. I had one of the men I trust implicitly take him in the speedboat to Cuba. Hopefully, he’ll make it.”
If he didn’t, I would make Duardo suffer even more.
But Duncan would already know that. He might even be planning his own revenge.
I might have said something to him, told him not to be rash, and we’d handle it together. But the knock on my door kept me from saying anything else. I moved over to the door and peered through the security hole. A brooding Declan glared at the door as if he could see straight through it.
Softly, I told Duncan, “I need to go. One of my brothers is here. I’ll stay in touch. Do what you can to find the boat and text me once you hear something.”
After disconnecting the call, I opened the door, not giving one red fuck that I was naked.
Declan’s eyes dipped, then he arched his brows. “You’ll probably want pants for this conversation,” he told me.
I turned my back on him, leaving him to come inside and close the door. Finding the jeans I’d shucked off the night before, I pulled them on over naked hips before turning to fix a baleful look on my older brother.
I already had a bad feeling. I knew where this was headed.
Dad had warned me, after all.
“To what do I owe this pleasure?” I asked, sarcasm dripping from every word. “You were supposed to be back in Philadelphia yesterday.”
“That was before you went and shoved your head up your ass. All over a woman.” He crossed his arms over his chest and met my gaze levelly. “What’s the deal, Brooks? Where’s Daria?”
“I’m not following,” I said, lying without so much as batting an eyelash.
“Nice try.” He inclined his head. “I just had my ass handed to me by our father, who just had his ass ripped by Basilio all because you had to go and interfere with a family matter.”
I growled low in my chest. “I didn’t interfere with a family matter. I interfered with some asshole affiliated with the Cuban mob who thought he could put his hands on Daria. She didn’t want his hands on her and defended herself. If anybody ought to be getting their ass ripped, it should be the fucking manager who set her up without telling her what might happen, or that prick, Delgado.”
Declan reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Leon Delgado.”
“You didn’t already know that?”
He lowered his hand and glared at me. “No. Basilio has been pretty close-mouthed about everything. He did tell Dad that Daria insulted a friend of the family and they had to make restitution.” Declan ground his teeth together, then said softly, “I take it Delgado was the man she…insulted.”
“She kicked him in the crotch after he insulted her,” I replied. “How do you think we’d handle it if one of the customers tried to grab Briar or one of her friends? Friends of the family get protection, Declan.”
“Friends of our family,” he said testily. “We can’t expect the Castellanos to follow our rules. This doesn’t involve us!”
“It involves me!” I shouted. I was so pissed, I couldn’t see straight. I was so worried, I almost felt sick. “She’s a sweet, innocent woman who had no idea what she was being asked to do. She didn’t do shit wrong!”
“And now you have to be the white knight?” Declan scoffed. “Think about it, Brooks. This isn’t how life works. This isn’t how our life works.”
“Maybe I’m not as attached to this life as you are,” I said bitterly, turning away.
He was quiet for a long moment before he finally spoke. “I know you’re not happy with things,” he said softly. “This wasn’t ever supposed to be the life for you. It wasn’t what you wanted. But you let Dad pull you back in. Brooks, the family has to be your first priority. If you weren’t willing to accept that, you never should have come to work for Dad to begin with.”
I said nothing, staring moodily out the window. Where was Daria? Was she safe? Was she even still alive? That thought made my throat knot up, and I shoved it aside. I couldn’t afford to think things like that. Daria couldn’t afford it. I refused to think that she might be dead. It wasn’t acceptable. It just wasn’t.
I’d find her. She’d be safe.
Then I’d spank her good for worrying me like this.
“You need to tell me where she is,” Declan said softly. “Basilio is being polite. For now. But she’s expected to make restitution for this insult.”
“No.” I turned back to him and echoed his defiant stance, crossing my arms over my chest as I stared him down. “I wouldn’t stand by if something like this happened to Bria
r or one of her friends. I won’t stand by now.”
“So, you’re feeling…brotherly toward Daria,” Declan said, cocking a brow at me.
“No.” I wasn’t about to tell him just what I did feel toward Daria.
But apparently, I didn’t have to.
I saw the knowledge bloom in his eyes, along with the deepening concern about my priorities.
Let him be concerned, then.
I had bigger problems to deal with.
Chapter Five
Daria
When I left the marina, I found myself in a rather rundown area. I had no idea where I was, other than being somewhere along Cuba’s southern border.
I didn’t even know how big the island was or where the biggest cities were or how far I’d have to walk to get to one. I wished I’d searched the shed for a map before I left.
It didn’t take long to walk from the marina to a part of the little village that looked more prosperous. At least the shops had colorful items in the windows and gardens abloom with flowers adorned the houses along the street. I spent some time circling around, trying to plan what I was going to do from here.
Part of me wondered if maybe I shouldn’t go to the Russian embassy. I thought that would be in Havana, but I wasn’t sure. Geography had never been one of my strong suits, but I was pretty certain Havana was the main city on this island.
But once I got to the embassy, what was I supposed to say?
Hi. I pissed off somebody affiliated with the Cuban mob and this guy from Philadelphia decided to kidnap me for my own safety, and we went to his island, but I can’t stay there because somebody else involved with the Cuban mob figured out where I was.
It was so ludicrous and insane, I was having trouble believing it, and it was my life.
I’d need something believable if I wanted to get anybody at the Embassy to help me. Even then, without my green card or passport, how could I hope to go back to the US? The most likely scenario, after spending several weeks or months in limbo here in Cuba, I’d be sent back to Russia. I didn’t want that.
But I was having a hard time coming up with other options.
There was one other possible avenue to pursue, the one I was leaning toward. It went against my initial plan to try and protect Brooks from Basilio and his family.
Logic told me protecting Brooks was foolish anyway. I had no idea what I was involved in. Even now, I was struggling to make sense of it.
Brooks, though, this was his world.
He’d assured me he would handle things.
I should have trusted him, and I hadn’t.
Now I didn’t know which way to turn, except to maybe…turn back. Get a hold of Brooks and let him know where I was, and why I had run.
Surely, he would understand.
It wasn’t like I really had any true grasp of what was going on. Panicking hadn’t been logical.
Stupid, that annoying voice reminded me. It had been stupid to flee.
Okay, so maybe it had been stupid.
But I could fix it.
I had to fix it.
I ended up wandering into a church service since I could surely find at least one person I could trust in there.
I was so tired, so hot, and the need to get out of the sun, maybe get some water, was more than I could handle.
The small church looked almost as dilapidated as the marina where I’d taken refuge the night before. Still, it was a church. I could hear singing from where I stood on the sidewalk. The pure, clear voices of the choir that drew me closer and eventually coaxed me to go inside.
I was almost positive it was a Catholic church. The words Iglesia Católica on the sign meant Catholic Church, I was certain. I’d seen enough signs in Spanish back in New York to understand a handful of words.
Once inside the building, I knew I was right.
The man at the pulpit was a Catholic priest, I had no doubt about that.
While my adopted mother, Kiska, hadn’t been particularly religious, the teacher who had cared for me after I was taken from my mother, Galina, had been Catholic—very traditionally Catholic. There was something almost soothing about just being inside these walls, even if I couldn’t understand anything the priest was saying.
A few people slid me odd looks as I settled into a back pew, but nobody approached me, and after a few more minutes, nobody bothered to so much as glance my way.
I took my cues from the congregation, rising when they did, kneeling when they did, and taking a seat at the appropriate time.
As the Mass wore on, I stayed in my chosen pew and used those few minutes of relative peace and safety to think.
Somebody there was bound to speak English. Maybe they even had a phone I could use to call Brooks. It was very clearly not a rich parish, but I could give them money for the phone call.
Since I planned to let Brooks know where I was, I wouldn’t need the little money I had for anything else. I had no doubt that once I contacted him, he’d be here in a matter of hours. I’d just go back to the marina and wait for him.
If I could get my hands on a phone.
Once the service ended, I stayed where I was, watching and listening as people began to drift from the church to the beams of hot sun outside. I relished those last few minutes of the relatively cool air as I tried to plot my next course.
As it happened, it was decided for me.
The priest approached me less than ten minutes after the service ended and offered me a smile.
He said something in Spanish.
I shook my head. “English?” I had little expectation that he might speak my native language—Russian.
“Si, si.” He gave me a warm smile. “I am Father Juan. You…you haven’t been here before, senora.”
“No.” I bit my lip nervously, then forced myself to let it go as I rose to stand before him. “I’m…well, I’m having some trouble and need to get to a place where I can use a phone.”
He nodded, as if random, badly sunburned white women wandered into his masses all the time. “I do not have a phone here that you can use, but if you like, I can get you into Santiago de Cuba. It’s only about ten kilometers from here. Surely, there, you can find a phone you can use?” He gave me a critical look, then added, “And I can take you to a friend’s…ah…” He waved a hand in the air as if he could catch the word he was searching for. “His place of business…a restaurante.”
The word was familiar enough that I could guess at what he meant. “That would be fine.” Maybe I’d be lucky and have enough money to cover the phone and some food. It had been a long time since I’d enjoyed that half sandwich I’d stolen last night.
He beamed at me. “Bueno, bueno. Let me finish here, and we will go.”
It should not have surprised me that the owner of the restaurant and his wife were parishioners at the church. Father Juan introduced us, and while the wife spoke a smattering of English, the priest had to translate for the man.
Both of them gave me polite smiles, and when Father Juan enquired about using a phone, the wife nodded.
There was something in her eyes that stung me to the core. It looked like pity. I’d never thought of myself as particularly proud. Confident, yes, but not proud. But it certainly grated on my pride that I was now needing the help of strangers.
I told myself not to think about it as I followed Father Juan along to his vehicle, a rusted-out truck that looked like it belonged to a bygone era. But the engine turned over easily, and once it started, the truck all but purred as we moved onto the narrow, rutted road I presumed would take us to Santiago de Cuba.
We hadn’t traveled more than ten minutes before the road improved, becoming wide and smooth. Up ahead, I caught my first glimpse of Santiago de Cuba.
Off to my right, I could still see the ocean, and it made my heart pang because that was all it took for me to think of Brooks and the island.
I never should have left.
The restaurant was small. A hole in the wall, some of my
friends from New York would have called it. But the moment I stepped inside, my stomach started to rumble, and I worried that if I wasn’t careful, I might start drooling.
The owner and his wife had already arrived, and when we walked inside, the wife came bustling out. She introduced herself as Ximena. I held still as she wrapped me in an exuberant hug that smelled of some soft, delicate perfume and the same spicy scent I’d caught in the air.
“Sit, sit,” she urged us. “We will feed you, then you can make your phone call.”
I wanted to protest, but three things stopped me—the arrival of a lot of food, my rumbling belly, and the bright, happy look on Ximena’s face.
They brought out fried plantains, beans, tamales, dishes of chicken, beef, and pork. I ate until I didn’t think I could fit another bite into my stomach, and still, Ximena brought more food out.
I had no idea how much this would cost, but when I tried to pay her, Ximena waved it off. She insisted that Father Juan was their guest always, and any friend of his was also a guest.
I could have told her that Father Juan and I weren’t exactly friends, but I thought it would somehow be rude.
So, I ate the food offered until I felt like I would burst, then begged off any more.
Ximena shook her head and wagged a finger at me. “You should eat more. You are so…” She paused.
I recognized the look on her face. She was searching her brain for the right English word.
“I know I’m skinny.” I offered a slight smile. “I’m a dancer. Ballet. I have to stay skinny.”
She harrumphed under her breath, but at least she stopped bringing out food.
I almost slumped in the seat as she made her way back to the kitchen, giving Father Juan a wide-eyed look. “I haven’t ever eaten that much food in my life.”
He laughed softly. “They enjoy feeding people, Pedro and Ximena. It’s why they opened this restaurante. They were already feeding people in their home. I convinced them it was time they make a living from it.”
