“I’m deleting the photo of you, along with the backup,” he says before raising his eyes to meet mine. “This means you’re free, Leira.”
I swallow hard at that announcement. What does this mean? More importantly, why am I so upset about it? Is it because he thinks he might actually be killed? Or is it because this is the end of it—of us?
He has no more leverage over me. And I have no reason to stay. In fact, I could walk a few feet into this police station and tell them everything about what he’s done.
So why don’t I?
I know why, and I know what it means. It means that I actually care about the son of a bitch who has turned my life completely upside down. It means maybe I don’t hate him as much as I claim to. It means that this is so much more complicated now.
Enrique stares hard at me, as though reading every thought in my eyes. He subtly nods as though discovering something there that sits well with him.
“Don’t worry, Leira. I’ll come back for you.”
I let out a breath, feeling my heart settle back into a regular beat.
“But I’m giving you the phone to use if you have to.”
He hands over his phone and I reluctantly take it. Once in my hands, I grip it, as though it’s some beacon that will silently call out to him, so he has no choice but to return.
“Good luck,” I manage to choke out.
“I will,” he says.
It’s the look in his eyes, as though daring fate to defy him that does it for me.
He will come back for me, even if he has to defeat death itself.
Chapter Thirty-One Enrique
The image of Leira in that white dress follows me all the way back to my apartment.
A goddess?
Where the hell did that come from? As though I don’t know damn well where it came from. Everything about her is perfectly ethereal, awesome, untouchable.
Then there was that cross, conjuring up all sorts of unholy thoughts in my head.
On second thought, maybe she’s more like one of those vestal virgins, at least the way I always pictured them in my adolescent head during all those lessons on Ancient Rome. The only difference is, rather than pinned up on top of her head, her hair surrounds her like a shower of thick curls, somehow making her seem even more…raw. She’s like an unpicked fruit—a forbidden fruit. But still so very ripe for the taking.
All thoughts of Leira in that dress, or out of it, disappear as I turn the corner to my street. Once again, I stop, supporting myself and the scooter on one leg as I peer down the street. My eyes scan everything, trying to find what it was that gave me pause yesterday. Finally, my eyes land on it.
A large black Land Rover SUV, shiny and new. In this part of Ibiza, it stands out.
Almost too much.
I stare at it long and hard, deciding on my best course of action. What I told Leira this morning wasn’t a lie. If they wanted us dead, we’d be dead. A car like that spells “professional.” Which means they don’t want us dead. Not yet, at any rate.
If there is anyone in the car, they would have seen me by now, so there’s no use bothering with subterfuge. Might as well play their game.
I push off the street to right the scooter and drive down to meet them. I turn until I’m facing the car head-on and sit idling by the driver’s side door.
Through the windshield, I can see it’s a woman at the wheel. She smirks through the glass and lowers the window. Keeping a somewhat safe distance, I wait for her to speak first.
“We were wondering when you would make an appearance. My colleagues and I were getting quite impatient.” She has an accent—something Eastern European, which matches the light eyes and severe features of her face.
“What do you want?”
“My employer would like a word with you.”
“Is that so? And who is your employer?”
She smiles. There’s nothing friendly about it. “That is not important for now.”
“So, what is important for now?”
“What is important is that you be there one week from now—Friday at noon exactly. Barcelona. That is where you live these days, is it not…Enrique Marín?”
I expected almost anything, so this surprise of her knowing my name and the city that I call home doesn’t garner a reaction from me.
“One week?”
“He is otherwise occupied.”
I narrow my eyes with suspicion
“Marina Port Vell.”
I’m familiar with the port in Barcelona, being that it’s where I usually dock my boat when I head back. They know too much about me.
“What is this about?”
“Again, is not important for now.”
“And if I happen to have other plans at the time?”
Her smile disappears. “You should cancel them. Or the girl can take your place?”
I feel a tic in my jaw at that not-so-subtle threat.
The woman smiles again, now with something gleaming in her eyes that I don’t particularly like. “Not to worry, Pirate. If we wanted you dead, you would not be here talking to me. If you should happen to miss this meeting, I can not say the same.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Good.” The same cold smile reappears on her face.
“Does this mean you’ll be calling your goons from my apartment and boat?”
Her smile shows the first signs of amusement. “We will see you in a week, Mr. Marín.”
The window comes back up, cutting off further communication.
I drive the bike toward the alleyway behind my building and park it back in its spot. By the time I make it to my apartment, whatever men she had in place are gone. Still, I cautiously open the door and do a quick scan before entering and closing it again.
Although nothing is disturbed—there really isn’t much too disturb—I can tell someone has been in here. So, they are looking for something.
That fact hardly eliminates the
