by Jasmin Quinn
Now that he was here he was doubting himself. He needed Nika’s help to find Isabelle. He needed to tell Jackman something, but should he tell him everything? Jackman was his friend, his protector, Michael would give him yet another reason to hate Savisin. He leaned toward Jackman, dropping his elbows to his knees and twisting his glass with his hands. “I made a serious mistake. I was seduced by a woman. She played me and then she betrayed me.”
Jackman’s face went blank, then a flicker of understanding, and then his laughter. “I don’t believe it Michael! Of all the men I know, you would not be taken in by anyone, woman or man.” He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and still chuckling, took a swallow of the scotch.
Michael didn’t laugh with him. “With Anto’s help, she disappeared before I could catch up with her. I’ve asked Nika to track her down. She is a loose end I need to tie up.”
“Anto helped her disappear?”
Michael nodded. “She holds dangerous information. She knows that Anto and I are associates.”
Jackman slammed his glass on the coffee table and stood up abruptly. “What the fuck? Why would Anto help her disappear? Why didn’t he break her neck and bury her?” He paced away from Michael and then turned back to him, his shoulders tensed like he was getting ready to spring.
Michael let Jackman have his moment. “She was under Savisin’s protection. Anto was following orders.”
“Fucking Anto!”
Michael nodded, but didn’t agree. He would never want Isabelle dead. Anto would not have killed her no matter what Savisin’s orders, because Anto was loyal to Michael.
Jackman dropped himself back into his chair, swallowed the remainder of his scotch, then slammed his glass on the table again. “There’s more to this story. What’s the punch line, Michael?”
“She’s Jack Creed’s wife.”
Jackman’s anger seemed to be contained as he didn’t outright shoot Michael. “Did you know?”
“Of course not. She’s good at the con, Dimi. As good as me. She led me by the nose and I followed like a lovesick lemming. It’s a first for me.” He shrugged carelessly. “Apparently when it comes to women, I do have a weakness.”
Jackman reached for the bottle of scotch and replenished both glasses. “You’ve always had a weakness for women. But I never thought I’d live to the see the day when you were whipped by one.” Then he asked the question Michael was expecting but hoped he wouldn’t ask. “What else does she know about you, about us?”
Michael threw back his scotch and pinned Jackman with a withering glare. “Not a fucking thing! You know me better than that. She got me mixed up in her business. Rusya got Anto mixed up in her business. And it collided. But the organization never came up.”
Jackman dropped his eyes to his hands. “Creed and Savisin are in bed together. How did Savisin know about you?”
Michael shrugged; Jackman didn’t need to know everything. “Maybe he recognized me.” He leaned back on the sofa, settling into the soft cushions. “But he and Creed have made me the goat. And I won’t stand for that, Dimi. I won’t wait until you’re ready to move on Savisin. It’s time to bring the fight to Savisin’s doorstep. He’s already killed your Russian operatives, he almost killed Dean. I can’t even promise you Anto’s safety.” Or his sanity, Michael wanted to add, but decided not to raise that now.
Jackman looked sideways at Michael, shifting in his chair and crossing his legs. “What are you planning?”
Michael straightened his back and pulled the scotch bottle to him. As he poured, he said. “I want Vegas, Dimi. I’m no longer content to stay in the shadows – not after this. I have the money, I have the means. I’m here to ask you to support me on this.” He stared at Jackman over the rim of his glass as he raised it to his lips. He’d thrown the challenge out. It was Jackman’s turn.
Jackman raised his chin, his face unreadable. He rubbed the light growth of whiskers on his chin with his fingers. “Is there more to tell, Michael?”
Michael nodded. “In time, Dimi. Not now.”
“Who’s helping you?”
“Burak.”
Jackman sighed. “Why do you trust me, Michael? Why share that information with me? It gives me the power to stop you.”
“Because you are my brother, Dimi. I’ve always let you lead because I was happy with my role. I liked the freedom, the trust you gifted me with to do what I needed to do to undermine from the inside. But now it’s personal. It’s no longer just about your organization. Rusya ordered me out of Vancouver. He thinks I left like a dog with my tail between my legs. I won’t be thought a coward and I won’t be made a fool. And no one treats me as Creed’s woman has and walks away.” Michael spewed the words at Jackman, not caring that his hurt and his vulnerability were threaded through them. Not caring that Jackman heard.
Jackman nodded. “I agree. You cannot walk away from this fight. We cannot walk away from this fight. Taking over Vegas will be the first domino. Savisin will lose an important connection. And you are the man to rule Vegas. It’s time to step out of the shadows.”
Michael sank back against the cushions, tension dropping from his shoulders. “Thank you, brother,” he said softly, raising his glass in a silent salute, then taking a swallow.
“What first, Michael?”
“The woman. I track her and find her. She’ll be my pawn.”
One corner of Jackman’s lips quirked upward. “Women will always be the downfall of men, Michael.”
Michael wasn’t so sure Jackman was wrong about that.
Chapter Thirty-One
Isabelle was restless. She felt as though a storm was coming despite it being July in Venice. Dead suffocating humidity and heat that was overpowering – the hottest month in Italy. Even tourism wilted in the summer. She was sitting at a lovely little table in St. Mark’s square, drinking an espresso and nibbling on a cannolo.
She loved Venice. She’d been here eight weeks now. First Paris, then Geneva, then Reykjavik, and then she crisscrossed to Hong Kong. Funny though. Hong Kong felt too big and bustling for her. She felt small and vulnerable in the crush of people, the glare of the lights, the cacophony of sounds. She had two IDs now and that made her less visible. Easier to hide. Safer. She’d never been to Venice before but it had always appealed to her and so she flew to Naples then took the train to Venice.
It was awe-inspiring. At first, she drank in its uniqueness – a city on water, huge marble churches built upon posts driven into mud banks, ancient arched bridges and cobble streets scattered with bars and trattorias. And the vaporetti and gondolas ferrying tourists and locals through the canals. As she delved further, she discovered the delightful contrasts, the modern alongside the ancient, the twining of innovation and tradition. An extraordinary city that ebbed and flowed with the tide of the water that surrounded it.
She knew she couldn’t stay forever but decided she would stay for as long as she could, for as long as she felt safe. It made her sad that she was here without Michael. Her heart ached when she thought of him and that was almost all the time. Her tears ran out in Reykjavik, but her heart was still shredded. Even now, she was raw and in emotional turmoil. Yes, she had the freedom she so desperately wanted. But what did that matter without Michael? The only man she’d ever met who offered her everything – his regard, his affection, his protection. And all without expectation. He never said he loved her, but he would’ve. She could see it in his eyes when he gazed at her, when he held her, when they made love. She could hear it in the desperation of his voice in that last phone call.
And fool that she was, she ended the call letting him think that she and Jack had reconciled. It was inexcusable. True or not, Michael would never forgive her for even allowing the implication of it. He’d asked, she’d hung up. She played that last part over and over in her head. No matter the good memories she tried to conjure, the bottles of wine she drank, she couldn’t kill those last few moments, their last exchange. She tried to forgive herself, tr
ied to rationalize it by reminding herself that those crazy few days had been the worst and the best days of her life. She found the love of her life and lost him in less than a week.
How could she have been so wrong and so foolish, fearing the future Michael offered? He promised her everything and she refused to take it out of fear. Afraid that she was walking back into another destructive relationship. But fuck. She knew better. The other men in her life showed their stripes right away, using her as an end to their means. Michael never treated her like that. He let her pave the way, gave her his patience, his respect, his love, his solicitude. He gave himself to her willingly, offering her his protection.
She shook her head. She was going in loops again, self-blame, self-forgiveness, self-pity, then back to self-blame. Circling like a vulture. She was a husk of her former self. Dried out, numb to everything but sadness. How could she have known it would be like this? But then, how could she think it would be any other way?
She stared across the square, her sunhat shading her eyes. After she arrived in Venice, she thought about trying to reach out to Michael. Tell him she hadn’t left him for Jack. Beg his forgiveness. Beg him to come to her. But she had no idea how to find him. She had his name, three names, Black, Hamilton and Eastaugh but she knew him well enough to know he wouldn’t travel under any of them. She’d discarded the burner cell back at Jack’s suite. It had been her only connection with Michael and she stupidly left it behind. But she knew even if she still had it, there would be no connection. Michael was too careful. He wouldn’t have left the country with it.
The only person she could turn to was Anto and she dared not do that. He terrified her. She could use her knowledge of who he was to force him to help her find Michael. But as desperate as she was, she didn’t want to die. And Anto would surely track her down and kill her before she had a chance to whisper a single doubt Rusya Savisin’s way. Anto helped her leave, let her go, knowing she held his fate in her hands. Ironically that made her loyal to him.
Loud laughter floated across the cafe and her attention was drawn to a table of six men and women. Obviously cheerful, drinks in hand, enjoying the sounds and sights of Venice. A sense of belonging. Lovers and friends. As she got lost in their moment, she was distracted by a cold sense of foreboding creeping up her spine, lifting the hairs on the back of her neck. Her eyes shifted to the Cathedral. People walking lazily, some lingering, some resting in the shade. But nothing that seemed unusual, not there, not by the tower, not in the outdoor cafe. But goosebumps raised on her arms as she shivered. She dropped her eyelids closed and sighed. She’d been feeling uneasy these last few days, knew that she should leave, but she hadn’t been ready to give up Venice. And she hadn’t yet decided where next.
She dropped a few euros on the table and stood up, making her way through tables of tourists. She waved at the waiter as she caught his eye and then elegantly walked away. She would never have a home, she would never be safe, and she doubted very much that she would ever fall in love again. Sadness cloaked her as she walked through the city, over the many bridges and cobble-stoned paths to the small hotel where she was renting a room.
As she made her way upstairs to her room, panic was starting to race through her. Danger seemed to hang in the hot, shiftless air, brutal and suffocating. Maybe it was an overactive imagination, maybe it was because she knew she’d stayed too long. It didn’t matter. She needed to leave Venice now, today. She had no one here to say goodbye to, no reason to linger.
It didn’t take her long to pack. She’d picked up a suitcase and a few items of clothing and other necessities along the way. She’d left her jewelry and her Little Dancer in the safety deposit box in Geneva and withdrew a small amount of cash. Her credit card sufficed for her spending. She knew that she should close her account and shift everything to another bank under a different name. The bank was how Jack would eventually find her if he wanted to. But she didn’t think he wanted to. And she didn’t have the energy right now to do anything but run and grieve.
She took a last look around the little room, her eyes distant. Then she went down to the lobby and checked out. The sun was high in the sky when she entered the alley leading to the road that would take her to the Santa Lucia train station. A quick and easy walk. As she turned towards the train station, the sun was directly in her face and even with her sunglasses and hat, it was blinding. She lowered her head so that her eyes could find some relief and bumped into a man. She apologized quickly and tried to step around him, but he shifted with her. Startled and afraid, she jerked her head up as his hands closed around her upper arms and held them tightly.
“Michael!” she gasped as she recognized him. “Oh my God! Michael!” Her suitcase clattered against the cobblestones as she tried to throw herself into his arms, but he held her rigidly, keeping her at a distance.
“Isabelle.” His eyes were dark, his face stony. “So good to finally find you.” So formal, so distant. Isabelle’s eyes shimmered. But she swallowed down her self-pity. He was angry with her – why would she think it would be any other way? But he came for her, anyway. Or did he? She felt a prickle of dread as she reminded herself that Michael was a killer. She tried wrench away from him, but his hands kept her rooted.
“Michael,” she stammered. “Why are you here?”
“I came to collect you. We have unfinished business.”
Isabelle swallowed, could hear the fear in her words. “I’m sorry I left things the way I did. I was stupid.”
Michael regarded her darkly. Her words seemed to have bounced off him. “I’d prefer we have this conversation on the train.” He dropped one of his hands from her arm and reached to set her bag upright, passing Isabelle the handle. “Our train leaves in 10 minutes.” He pulled her alongside him, his vice-like grip biting into her flesh.
Isabelle had no choice but to stay in stride with him. “Train to where?”
He didn’t answer. He walked the length of a train until he reached the first-class car, took her suitcase from her and prodded her up the stairs in front of him. He carried it with him pushing Isabelle down the narrow walk way until he stopped outside a private cabin, opened it and pushed her inside. She walked a few steps into the cabin and stopped.
It was luxurious, nothing less than she would have expected from Michael. Wood paneling on three walls, a large window with velvet drapes. A table with two soft chairs by the window, a fully stocked bar. A double bed made up with fine linens against the wall opposite the door, a three-piece bathroom to her right, and overhead shelves and bins for bags and clothes.
Michael was behind her, she could smell his musk, hear him latch the door, feel his movement as he pushed her further into the cabin. “Michael,” she said turning and came face to face with him. He was inches from her. She saw the flame of lust in his eyes, the flare of his nostrils, a sharp intake of breath. And her body responded, heat pooling in her belly, snaking its way lower.
But he didn’t move. Didn’t touch her. “Sit in the chair by the window, Isabelle. And don’t talk.”
“Michael,” she tried again.
He brought his index finger up and pressed it lightly against her lips. “Not one fucking word, Isabelle. Not until I say.”
Hurt filtered through her, but she stepped back from him and sat down on the chair he’d indicated, taking off her hat and sunglasses and discarding them on the table. Michael walked the length of the cabin and shoved her bag onto the overhead shelf over the bed. His was already there – she wondered how long he’d been in Venice. How long he’d been watching her?
He turned toward her, his eyes openly raking her body. For the first time since she met him, she felt vulnerable under his scrutiny and had to resist the urge to tug down her dress. She was confused by him. Was he being careful? Was he afraid someone was following them? A light rap at the door made Isabelle jump. Michael opened the door and had a brief conversation in Italian, stepping to the side so the porter could glance inside the cabin. The porter s
miled at Isabelle, said to them both in English, “I hope you enjoy Berlin.” Then he punched their tickets and walked off.
Michael closed and locked the door, jerked the curtains closed, then pulled the chair opposite Isabelle around the table so he had full access to her. He sat down, his knees almost touching hers. She barely registered the train’s whistle, the movement of the train as it lumbered out of the station. Her attention was focused on Michael, on his strange behaviour, on her growing doubts. He was the one man in the world she thought she was safe with. Now she wasn’t sure about anything.
Michael leaned forward and gripped her knees bruisingly. “Were you fucking him Isabelle?” One question said with ferocity.
“No,” she whispered.
“Convince me.”
Isabelle wrapped her fingers around the arms of the chair. Michael’s eyes bored into hers, forcing her to look down. Convince him? How could she do that. Would it matter what she said? Would he believe any of it? But the truth was all she had, so she said it.
“I love you Michael and I was wrong to leave you, but I was afraid of stepping back into that dark world. So I ran. But I’ve missed you so much – you have no idea.” She paused for a breath. Tried to still her pounding heart. “I didn’t know how to find you, to ask you to forgive me, to tell you I wanted to be with you under whatever terms you wanted.” She inhaled deeply, searching his face, his dark eyes for a hint of warmth.
“The divorce papers Jack passed to me, the settlement was too large. I didn’t want it. I didn’t want any part of him. That’s how he got me to go to him. He knew I’d have to see him so I could tell him to fuck himself and his settlement.”
Michael’s hands tightened on her knees. “What did you talk about?”
