TWENTY-EIGHT
Marissa
I sit, stunned, with my phone in my lap. I find myself doing this a lot lately.
I don’t know what is making me feel short of breath—the fact that Cash just told me everything Nash has done to secure the RICO case, the fact that I’m going to have to make some very tough career and life choices in the very near future, or that Nash is gone.
Gone.
Without a good-bye.
Without another word.
Just gone.
He left things like they were.
Like I demanded he do.
I don’t know what I would like for him to have said, or if there was really anything left to say. But I wish he had. I wish he had tried. I wish he had fought. For me. For us.
But he didn’t. He respected my wishes and he left. Now he’s gone. Forever. Never to be a part of my life. Ever. In any way.
I didn’t expect it to end this way. I mean, I’m no idiot. After the things that happened over the last day or so, I figured it would end sooner or later, that we didn’t stand much of a chance. Even after our one beautiful, surreal night, I knew we were a long shot. But I guess I thought there would be more time or more words or more . . . something. But, instead, there was nothing.
And that’s where I am. Here. Now. With nothing.
And Nash is gone.
I close my eyes. The tears spill between my lashes and down my cheeks. I don’t even try to stop them. There’s no point. These are the first of many that will fall, I feel sure.
There’s no doubt my life is getting ready to become much more difficult. There’s no doubt there’s a hard road ahead. There’s no doubt the day-to-day details of my existence will be dramatically different, as will the people who fill them. But I won’t shed tears over any of that. I feel no sense of loss; only dread and anxiety.
For the most part, I’ll be going it alone. I will have the support of Olivia, of course. And Cash, such as his support will be. And maybe one or two more people, but in the end, I’m alone. When the dust settles and I’ve alienated all the horrible people in my life and I’ve abandoned the only career I’ve ever known and thought I ever wanted, I’ll be left with the fallout.
There may be a great guy who will cross my path one day, but even then, I’ll still be alone. He won’t be Nash. And I’ll never be satisfied with less. There will always be a hole in me, one that no one else can fill.
And that’s the cold, bitter truth. The harsh reality of falling in love with a man who doesn’t want to be held and who can’t be tamed or contained.
The thing is, I never really wanted to tame him or contain him. I just wanted to be a part of his freedom, to fly with him. I wanted to be more like him, not try to make him more like me. I’m trying to escape me, not drag someone into my hell.
Maybe that’s what I did, anyway, by making him a part of my escape. I pulled him into my struggle.
Maybe I expected him to save me. I know I wanted him to. But he did all the rescuing he was going to do the day he brought me home from a Russian mafia prison of sorts. Anything more than that would have to be his idea, something his heart is in. He’d have to come to that conclusion on his own. There’s no swaying or forcing or convincing Nash to do anything. He’s his own man. One hundred percent.
Maybe one day I can be my own woman. One hundred percent.
Maybe today, I’ll be taking the first step.
Cash doesn’t want to be involved in the prosecution because he’d have to assume Nash’s identity again, which he’s opposed to now for some reason, but also because of his father’s involvement. But he wants to be in the loop, so he asked me to request to be a special prosecutor on the case so I can sit second chair and be involved every step of the way.
I think he knows what he’s asking. He knows my father, knows the kind of life I’ve led. He knows that taking on a criminal case would be the social equivalent of moving to the ghettos. It’s something I’d never be forgiven for, that would never be forgotten, and that would change the course of my life irrevocably.
But it’s also just what I need.
And I think it’s what I want.
There’s nothing for me in my old life anymore. I’m not even sure law is where my future is. But I know this is important and it would be the most personally courageous, definitive thing I’ve ever done. And I need to be courageous. I need to embrace the new me. Fully. Publicly. Proudly. If I can’t do that, the new me will shrivel and die in the shadow of the old me. That’s my only other option—to go back to the life I knew, the life I had.
But that’s no option at all.
I think of Nash. He goaded me, as though he thought I couldn’t do it. Or wouldn’t. But in a way, I think he was prodding me to do it, like he wanted to see me succeed and be the different person that I so longed to be. And if he were here, maybe he’d be a little bit proud of me for doing it, for being strong. Maybe stronger than he thought.
My heart speeds up.
I’m really gonna do this. I’m really gonna be the person I want to see in the mirror, the woman I can live with and be proud of.
I’m looking at a fragile, onetime opportunity to put away three upper-level members of a Russian criminal organization that operates out of Georgia. Not only that, but I have the opportunity to see justice served to the men who kidnapped me. At least I hope we can get them in the process. I don’t even know who they are, but maybe I’m one step closer to finding out. At least we’ll get the guy who ordered it done. Cash assured me the man responsible is one of the three targeted. There will be some satisfaction in that.
As I think of what’s to come, legally speaking, I feel relieved to have something so consuming to focus on. Something other than Nash. Or the lack thereof. I also feel a little overwhelmed. I’m smart enough to realize when I’m out of my depth. And I am.
As I consider what my first step needs to be, I scroll through my list of recent calls. I stop on Jensen Strong’s number, my thumb hovering there. As a prosecutor for the DA’s office, he seems like the perfect place to start.
I press the square and hold the phone to my ear, listening to it ring. A shadow of dread overcomes the determination of my new endeavor. I know that after I talk to Jensen, I’ll have another call to make.
Daddy.
TWENTY-NINE
Nash
I didn’t sleep much last night, so I’m a little groggy as I thumb through some bills to pay the cabbie who brought me from the motel to the docks. The fare isn’t nearly as exorbitant as the one I paid last night to the guy who brought me from Atlanta to Savannah. But I expected that. He drove me a long, long way.
The cab pulls away and I glance down at the envelope again before I begin my search. The boat name that Dmitry scrawled across the front is the only thing I have to go on. Budushcheye Mudrost. My Russian isn’t perfect, but it translates roughly to “future wisdom.”
Dmitry said I could find the boat at port here in Savannah. He gave me the letter to give to the captain, a man he called Drago. He asked that I hand-deliver it. That’s all. That’s the only thing he wanted from me. He’s giving up so much to help me, to help my father and my family, and the only thing he asked in return was that I deliver a letter for him.
Of course, I agreed.
He can’t deliver it himself. The only thing he’s leaving the motel for is to meet Konstantin, the man who will hopefully rise into leadership with the local Bratva. Otherwise, he and Duffy will be hiding out at the motel until Cash and Marissa can get the ball rolling, get indictments going, all that technical shit. After that, I’d say Dmitry and Duffy will be deposed and then put in witness protection or something like that. I think that’s how it works, anyway. I wouldn’t know for sure. I’m not the Nash that attended law school.
It takes me nearly an hour to locate the boat. I was expecting a commercial vessel, something similar to what Dmitry and I have worked on all this time, not the private yacht I’m staring at. The damn fine private yacht I’m staring at.
I see one person walk by on the upper deck. I call out to him and ask for permission to come aboard. I get no smile or friendly greeting, only a very short, very clipped “yes.”
I climb onto the deck and wait. In less than a minute, the same guy is standing in front of me. He’s frowning and looks annoyed, like I’m an unwelcome interruption. Physically, he looks like a washed-out, nondescript version of Dmitry.
“I’m looking for Drago.”
“I’m Drago,” he says abruptly. His accent is thick and his disposition is surly at best.
“I have a letter for you from Dmitry,” I say, holding up the envelope.
His frown deepens and he snatches the letter from my fingers. I watch him run his thumb under the sealed tab of the envelope and remove the piece of paper from inside. He unfolds it and, from between the creases, takes out another sheet of paper. Holding the second piece in his other hand, Drago begins reading the first.
He looks up at me several times as he reads. I don’t know what that means, but I assume Dmitry is explaining who I am and why I’m delivering it. That or he’s telling the other Russian something he doesn’t like.
I hope it’s not bad news and this as**ole doesn’t go all Boondock Saints and shoot my ass.
When he finishes the letter, Drago glances up at me again, narrowing his eyes on mine. After staring at me for God knows how long, like he’s trying to figure something out, he hands me the second folded piece of paper, the one from inside the first letter.
I’m a little surprised that it’s for me. If Dmitry’d had something to say, I would’ve thought he’d have said it to my face, when I was there yesterday. But looking at the page, with its sharp creases and wrinkled edges, it’s easy to see this was written some time ago.
I unfold the paper and read Dmitry’s neat print.
Nikolai,
Many years ago, I met a teenage boy. He was the son of a friend and one of the strongest young men I’ve ever known. He gave up his life, his future, and his family to honor his father and to one day find a way to bring justice to his dead mother.
I grew fond of this boy. I loved him like a son, like my own family. Over time, I watched him grow and struggle and become a most trusted friend, a man any father would be proud of.
I feel I’ve played a part in your hardships, Nikolai, even though indirectly. More than anything I want you to find happiness and peace.
I pray there will come a day when you can escape this life. If you’re reading this letter, today is that day. Most likely, Drago is giving you this note. It has been hiding safely inside the instructions I wrote to him today. I don’t know how many years have passed until you’re reading this, but know that I’ve been planning this gift to you for a long, long time.
I bought this boat to one day take me to retirement, somewhere far away, but I want you to have one year of freedom on it. Freedom to find yourself, find your place in life, find happiness. And peace. Dearest God, I hope you find peace, my friend.
The crew and the captain are paid annually. That is taken care of through an account I keep for them. They do some small yet legitimate importing and exporting for me. But for this year, for your year, you need only tell them where you want to go and they’ll take you. I suspect I know your first destination and I’ve told Drago as much in his letter. If you go there, give my best to Yusuf’s wife. Tell her I’m deeply sorry for her loss.
Go, Nikolai! Take this gift and turn your life around. You deserve a second chance. More than anyone I know.
Sem’ya.
Dmitry
Stunned, I look up at Drago. He’s watching me with suspicious eyes. Regardless, he honors Dmitry’s letter. I’m not surprised. Dmitry inspires that kind of loyalty in those who know him.
“We leave in two days. You must give me your first destination tomorrow morning. Supplies must be bought.”
With that, he turns and walks away.
For a few seconds, I stand and watch him go, still shocked, before I snap out of it and move to follow him.
“If you’ll just show me which room is mine . . .” I say loud enough to stop him before he can get out of earshot.
Drago pauses, turning his head just enough that I know he heard me. He grunts once and then starts off in another direction. I follow him inside, through a lush living room to a staircase leading to the lower deck. He turns left down a short hallway and stops in front of a closed door. He opens it and steps aside.
“It’s clean,” he says gruffly before he walks away.
Obviously, I don’t have to worry about him talking my ear off during the trip.
The trip.
I admit I’m a little relieved to have this as an option. When I left the restaurant yesterday, I just knew I had to get away from Marissa, that she deserves to have someone better than me in her life. I didn’t really consider where I’d go. I mean, I’d never willingly go back to running guns. But staying in Atlanta wasn’t an option. I’d be too tempted to pay Marissa a visit. At least now I have a place to go. For a year, anyway.
It’s not exactly what I’d always dreamed. I figured once I put an end to all this shit with my family, I’d end up back in Atlanta. I never really considered what I’d do—maybe open a club like Cash or . . . or . . . Hell, I don’t even know. I guess I never got that far. Maybe on some level I didn’t think it would ever be over. This anger, this hunger is all I’ve known for seven years. I’m not sure how to plan a life without it. It’s been my purpose for so long, I feel a little lost without it.
But now I have this. This gift from Dmitry. All I have to do is be on this boat in two days and I’ll be sailing away from my problems.