The door we’d stepped through opened. Two men wearing black tactical gear, the same as the leering guard, stepped through and stood to either side. My father entered next. Not a hair out of placed, he wore a light-colored overcoat with his suit. Like Canute who ordered the tide not to come in, my father expected the elements and nature to bow to him. He’d even worn his Testoni Oxfords. Shoes meant for the boardroom offered little on a ship.
The eyes on his thin face narrowed, the corners of his lips dropped when he saw me. His slow steps clicked on the deck as he approached. Those eyes turned as dangerous as the gun pointed toward me when they focused on it.
“Why are you holding my daughter at gunpoint?” he asked in his quiet monotone.
“She wanted to go change, you told us to keep her here,” the gunman stammered. Even Italian mercenaries knew to fear the man.
Those deadly eyes focused back on me. I could tell he was cataloging everything: the frizzy hair, the shirt I wore, its damage and the bloodstains from when I had bandaged Alexei’s wounds. The frown deepened.
“We’ll talk about this later, but I want you presentable,” he said, nodding to the gunman. “Take her to her cabin and let her get ready. We have time. Our other guest still hasn’t arrived.”
The entire time I walked down to my cabin, followed by the gunman, I wondered who that guest would be. Another man stood guard in front of my door. No, he’d been watching Oleg’s door. My eyes fell on it when the man stepped aside and I entered my cabin. As I closed the door behind me, I wondered if Alexei had been inside.
18
Alexei
The hallway outside Oleg’s cabin held a hint of Gianna’s perfume. My eyes fell to the door across the hall. Had she been inside recently, the source of the noise I’d heard earlier?
A push to my shoulder sent me down the hallway. I scurried faster than the rear guard, winching with every step on my injured leg. A little pain, I could manage. If the guard pushed a few inches lower, he’d feel the tactical knife taped to my back. That’d ruin my plans.
Plans?
Calling what I’d come up with a plan was an insult to the word. Way too many variables remained unknown. Who did these mercs work for? What were their intentions with Gianna? Hell, I didn’t even know where they were taking me or how many men they had. A hidden knife and handcuff keys, even against the three men I’d seen, two armed with pistols, the third an assault rifle, were not equalizers. But they had to have more.
Outside, the predawn twilight couldn’t hide the boat lashed to the side of my yacht – two in fact. A power boat approached in the distance, lights blinking. Great, more men. My plan, as it was, was looking worse and worse.
My captors directed me toward the stairs to the next deck. With my hands bound, I couldn’t use the railing to take the weight off my injured leg. Hissing through the pain, I scrambled up and kept the guard behind me from pushing. At the top, I leaned against the railing, eyes on the boat coming closer.
Only one man sat in the seats behind the pilot. They were too far out and the sun too far from the horizon for me to make the man out. At least it was only one more man to the unknown number on the ship already.
The two guards led me toward the stern. They stopped in front of the side door to the lounge. After pushing the door open, they stood to the sides, waiting for me to step through. I banished any hint of pain from my face, took a deep breath and squared my shoulders before entering.
A false front, perhaps. Injured, unable to run – at least far – with only a knife taped to my back against an unknown number of men, I had little to be confident about. But presentation mattered. I wouldn’t let my captors think they had me scared.
My feet refused to move after I surveyed the room. A single mercenary added a fourth man to their numbers. That would have buoyed my plan but my eyes fell to the other occupants immediately.
The Bastard, a dark pinstriped suit dropped over his thin frame, stood in front of my bar. He held a glass of amber liquor in his hand. When I appeared, his eyes narrowed, lips unmoving, pressed together flat.
Gianna stood next to him. She wore a dress I hadn’t seen her in. It fell below her knees and she covered herself in a blue blazer above. She’d pulled her hair back into a tight bun, applied a little makeup. Her lips mimicked her father’s, flat and unyielding, but her eyes told a whole story in themselves – too many stories.
I saw panic, resolve, sorrow, determination and confusion all in a blink. By her next, the mask of a perfect Mafia princess had fallen into place. Her father’s presence stifled everything vital about her. He’d forced my hand for the last time, no matter how this morning went.
“Alexei Lebedev,” the Bastard said before a sip of my scotch. “I hope you don’t mind that I helped myself to a drink. One always has to toast an occasion like this.”
“I can always buy more,” I replied. The corners of Gianna’s lips curled for a beat before the mask fell back in place. “And replace the glass.”
I kept my tone measured, hid all the anger. At the same time, my eyes never moved from the Bastard. Any look to Gianna might give something away for either of us.
One of the guards stepped in front of me. He held an arm out to keep me from getting closer to their boss. A smile grew on his face, thin and fake. He looked me up and down.
“We are still waiting for our final guest,” the Bastard said with a shrug, “but I wanted to meet with you first, find out why you seem to hate me so much.”
“I’ll answer your question if you answer mine,” I replied, cool and calm. “How did you find my yacht? We were running dark, no transponder.”
“I followed my daughter’s cell phone,” he answered.
Gianna’s eyes narrowed. Her head turned toward the Bastard. Good, he’d started with a lie, one she caught. How many more lies would he tell this morning?
