Water laps over the lip of the sinking craft which holds more people than I can count. The bedraggled castaways lie on top of each other, their eyes closed. I am literally dying for a drop of fresh water, but their sunburned faces, and parched lips, tell me they haven’t had any for days.
Kicking, I swim clear of the boat and as they drift out of view, they suck away the last of my energy. I am so motherfucking tired. What if I stop moving and let myself sink? Would Saint Peter say hi? For sure, I’d ask him for an audience with the Almighty. He and I could discuss free will and why He zoned out while someone attacked me.
Laying on my back, I float, partially asleep. At a buzzing overhead, I squint up at a drone. Whoopty doo. My mirages now have surround-sound.
For my next trick, I conjure a white boat. The bright blue letters read Guardia Costiera and on deck, a man shouts, “Attenzione.”
Like my last dozen delusions, I ignore the image, and wait for the scene to morph into a bowl of pasta primavera. Instead, the boat sputters closer, and someone throws me a white life saver, not the mints.
“Aspettare.” The officer motions I should hang on.
Huh. A part of me wonders if I should try to wake up. Other synapses fire and suggest unconscious drowning may be preferable.
Beside the boat, firm hands lift me out of the water and set me on a cushion. As I shiver uncontrollably, a man throws a blanket over my underwear clad body while another places a water bottle in my hand.
Gulping the cool liquid too fast, I cough out water, and say my final prayers.
“Lentamente, eh?” A handsome angel in his twenties squats next to me.
“Don’t you speak English?” How come heaven isn’t multi-lingual? Who fucked that up?
Another seraph, fortyish and tanned, translates, “My friend says to drink slowly. You’ll get sick. Tell us, are you the woman who fell from the yacht?”
Maybe, I’m not dead? If so, who are they and will they hand me back to the Russians? “I, ah…”
“Non preoccuparti.Ah, how do you say… don’t worry. Grayson Patten, he call thepresidenteand asks for us to look for you.” The Italian hands me a phone.
“Lanita?” Recognizing the billionaire’s voice, I heave a sigh of relief.
“Yeah, I’m here.” A Marine does not cry so I hold my shit together as he conferences in Dash.
“Firefly, you there? Are you hurt?” He’s probably been up all night looking for me and sounds frantic.
“Yeah, I’m fine, but the next time you throw me off a balcony, make sure a freakin’ boat is waiting, okay?” My chest and shoulders heave, but I swallow the sobbing about to bust out.
Bounty boy’s voice cracks. “My God, I am so sorry. I never imagined we would lose you. Are you certain you’re alright, sweetheart?”
“Uh-huh, just a little waterlogged. The captain wants to talk to you but before I put him on. Did you find the bombs? Did you catch Egonov?”
“Yes and no. I’ll explain later.” Dashiell’s pitch and volume lower to a whisper. “I was so worried. What if… How could I go on without you?”
“You’re not getting out of a wedding that easily.” We talk for a moment more, then I hand the phone back to the skipper. “Grazie mille.”
A thousand thanks are not nearly enough, but for the moment, it’s all I have to give. Before we get on the way, I remember the refuges, and leave their rescue in their capable hands.
Soon, we arrive at the port in the shadow of Mount Aetna, where I fall in Dash’s arms. As tears run down my cheeks, I kiss him until I’m sure he’s real.
When convinced, I lift my mouth to his ear. “You spoke to me all night. I heard your voice in my dreams. You said to stay strong, and you would find me.”
Our foreheads touch, he cups my cheeks, and his gaze holds me captive. “Thank God, for once, you did as I asked.”
Chapter 23
Dash
Back at the posh villa in Catania, a woman directs the rest of my team to the dining room, while I lean on the door, my arm draped around Landy.
“Food or shower first?” My lips kiss the top of her salty head.
