“So it wasn’t your leg?”
“No, it was the tablecloth.”
“Cian—”
“Fucking hell, Faina. What’s with the interrogation?” Spinning to face her, where I expect to see twisted curiosity or even judgment in her eyes, there’s nothing but a warm concern that vanishes the moment I snap at her.
Her expression hardens and she slides her sunglasses back into place. “Then let’s hope we don’t have to deal with any more tablecloths.”
She’s worried about me.
Not in a performative way or even a manipulative way to get information out of me. She looked at me the way she used to look at me when I’d fall into her arms after a rough mission. She’d clean my wounds and tell me stories and we’d usually end up fucking until we passed out. So I know her concern is genuine.
But I can’t risk it. The second I start thinking about anything that makes me feel alive is the second my goal slips away from me. I need to hunt down the head of the snake and kill him. For my family. For the cavernous emptiness that exists deep inside me.
Nothing else matters. Not Faina, not the old feelings for her I’ve locked up deep down in my soul, and not the rising urge to apologize for snapping. Emotions won’t win here.
Faina remains quiet and on her laptop for the rest of the sail toward Sardinia which thankfully goes smoothly. No men clad in black trying to kill us. After leaving the ferry, we walk along the pier while discussing our options. I’d rather keep sailing all the way to Spain, but Faina feels that’s too obvious. Running too far ahead can be as dangerous as moving too slowly. We have to find the perfect balance that allows us to slip through unnoticed.
“So, for tonight,” Faina says as she balances her laptop on one leg, resting against a bench, “we’re Mr. and Mrs. Fairway on a small package holiday and we’ll be staying at…” She sucks on her teeth and points down the pier toward a small, unassuming brown building tucked against the cliff. “There.”
“I’m sorry, we’re married?”
She shoots me a narrow glare. “We’re hijacking a booking, genius, not signing papers. The best way to be invisible is to be someone else. Relax. Just pretend we’re dating and you don’t hate my guts, okay?” Her laptop snaps shut and she strides away toward the hotel with her hair swaying and her sunhat tucked under one arm.
Wait… does Faina really think I hate her?
7
FAINA
The hotel is rather cozy. On the outside it looks like a quiet building without anything eye-catching. It could easily be passed over in a glance, but it strikes me as something you’d find in a hidden gem brochure about the island. Cian at least plays the part of the adoring husband in front of the hotel desk and soon, we’re entering our room for the night.
It’s small. The Fairways clearly don’t have a big budget. Straight in the door, there’s a king-size bed against the wall to the left and a television unit on the wall opposite. A small drinks cabinet next to a mini-fridge hugs the far wall next to a door leading to the ensuite, and the television stand sits next to a glass door leading out onto a small balcony overlooking the bay.
“Cute,” Cian murmurs as he wanders the room.
It’s difficult not to look at his leg. There’s more going on there than he’s willing to tell me, but I wish he would get over his macho bullshit and just admit there’s a problem. I can plan for accuracies, not what-ifs. Moving to the edge of the bed, I flop down and toe off my shoes to free my aching feet, thenimmediately dive into my laptop. Just because we want to take a moment to rest doesn’t mean Hexagon will.
“What are you doing?” Cian busies himself at the fridge seeking out a chilled soda, but his attention is split with me. “You’re so busy on that all the time. And here I thought all Russians being hackers was just a shitty movie trope.”
“It is.” I briefly turn the laptop toward him where several programs litter the screen, running anything from tracking the money wire transfer we’re following to Spain, and countless other payments of specific quantities through very specific accounts.
Cian cracks open his drink with one hand and studies the screen, but despite his frown, he clearly has no clue what’s looking at. “I have no idea what any of this is.”
“Honestly, me neither. I’m actually pretty inexperienced in the tech side of things. My espionage relates to tracking real people in real time, not online footprints.”
“But you know where the money is going?” Cian stands over me and drinks deeply for a few long seconds.
The way his throat bobs and a bead of sweat rolls from his jaw to the hollow of his throat is painfully distracting and I can’t tear my gaze away until he lowers his can and meets my eyes.
Luckily, any embarrassment warming my cheeks merely mingles with the heat of the room. “Yes, I do. But Erik set this up. You remember him? Anastasia’s husband?”
“Shit.” Cian drags a hand down his face. “I didn’t know if he was even still…” Cian trails off and a shadow moves over his face. Heslowly sits on the bed next to me. “I never asked properly… How is he? And Anastasia? How are they really?”
I drum my fingers lightly on the laptop, chewing on my lower lip while debating how truthful I should be. Knowing Cian, anything I tell him will be added to his personal responsibility even though we all know nothing about the explosion was his fault.
“Anastasia is surviving. So is Erik. Her uhm… her daughter? Clara?—”
