“But that’s not the point,” I continued with a degree of combativeness that belied my genuine apprehension at further upsetting him. “People may have heard. Dave may be plotting your murder as we speak.”
“I doubt it. All things considered, you weren’t very loud ... which is honestly a bit scary,” he added with grudging admiration, casting a brief, barely perceptible smile in my direction. “You’re tough as nails, my girl. I’ve made men twice your size cry with half the effort.”
“Oh, I did cry,” I reminded him with a sadistic relish that rivalled his own of the previous night.
He exhaled heavily, his expression distinctly softening.
“Don’t remind me,” he said, but it sounded more like a plea than a command. “You criedquietly. I didn’t know until after, did I?” His eyes lingered on me for a heartbeat longer than before, and an unspoken apology mingled with accusation in their look. “I’m cross about that too. You broke a promise. You gave me your word you wouldn’t let me drive you to tears.”
“Oh? And whatever happened to your word not to raise your hand to me in anger?”
“Ah. That.” A smug, yet charming smile tugged at his lips. “You’ll recall that I also promised intense suffering to anyone who’d threaten you with harm. And yesterday, that happened to be you yourself. See my dilemma? I only did what I usually do in these situations and landed somewhere in the middle.”
I scoffed, shaking my head as I glanced out of the window. We drove by evenly spaced warehouses on our left while the seasparkled to our right in the midday sun. We were getting close to our destination.
“What possible harm could you mean?” I asked with mock innocence. “You said it yourself. ‘This is very unlikely to be a trap. We could be far too useful for them to get rid of us.’” I imitated his deeper voice.
“Always so bratty,” he tutted, but without annoyance. “Aye, I said that. But I could be wrong.” Amusement laced his grim tone only briefly and quickly evaporated. “I know it sounds incredible, but it can happen, you know.”
“The only incredible thing about that is you actually admitting it,” I quipped, and he glowered at me. “Besides, that’s precisely why I wanted to come.”
“To help me shoot my way out?” He arched his eyebrows in an expression of incredulousness, illustrating what he thought the odds of that were.
“No. To die with you,” I corrected him simply.
The warehouses on our left quite abruptly transformed into houses and blocks of flats scattered in between dusty greenery.
He blinked hard with astonishment.
“I don’t want to live without you any more than you do without me. You’ve always said it’s not fair to ask of others what you are not willing to do yourself.”
“It was Eleanor Roosevelt who said that. I was only quoting her.”
“Whatever. Would you be willing to let me go and risk my life on my own?”
He shook his head slowly.
“See? Then you shouldn’t expect me to either.”
He opened his mouth to speak but then closed it, clearing his throat. He swallowed heavily.
“Perhaps I was too rough,” he said very softly, remorseful lines slashing his face like wounds.
“Yeah,” I affirmed before adding as if under my breath, but with the clear intention of being overheard, “Hottest damn thing ever.”
Einar only swore in reaction as he nearly drove off the road into a ditch. But otherwise we continued the rest of the way in silence, and the city gradually emerged in front of us in all its faded glory of narrow streets and alleys, of buildings that had stood crumbling silently for centuries, their colours paling but not yet faded.
The old town and harbour were sealed off by a makeshift wall, newly erected between the tightly packed, multi-storey houses with shuttered windows. The slapdash construction, made mostly of red bricks, mortar, and cement blocks, stood in stark contrast with the cracked and peeling plaster of various shades of yellow. We parked on a street in front of the manually operated metal gate.
Getting out of the car, I breathed in the warm, Mediterranean air and stretched. I looked up while doing so and saw that some of the wooden shutters were open and that men with automatic weapons were framed by the ancient windows. I self-consciously adjusted the bow and quiver fixed on my back.
The gate opened with a gush of dust, swirling in a brief dance before settling back on the road. A lone man stood there waiting for us. He was tall and tanned, and his hair and full beard were a blend of salt and pepper shades so evenly distributed that I would have judged them to be dyed had we met under any other circumstances. His dark, determined eyebrows arched at a steep angle, and his smile didn’t quite reach his black, predatory eyes as he greeted us.
“Welcome to Bastia, our dear, esteemed guests.” He spread his long arms. “I am Victor Ioan Santini.”
After exchanging preliminary pleasantries, Victor Ioan Santini led us to an erstwhile terrace of a seafront restaurant, shaded by leafy crowns of age-old weeping figs. There were armed men in every other window we passed by, and some even marching through the streets, belts of spare ammunition strung across their torsos. It was an intimidating display of force. I was relieved to find the terrace empty of these guards, as they made the back of my neck tingle with the oppressive feeling of being watched.
In neat little rows seemingly undisturbed by the events of the prior year and a half, tables and chairs made of wood and metal lined the terrace. I barely suppressed the urge to groan with unpleasant anticipation of what it would feel like to sit on that hard surface.
