Page 8 of Roaming Holiday

Possibly because we’re so forgotten on the world stage. Maldana is a low-threat, low-risk country. Most of us cherish that, some of us resent it. We want to be taken seriously.

Working with Santiago, I was.

I was feared as his soldier. Trakas was ready to make me a millionaire because of it. But I was loyal to Santiago—to a fault. Despite the darkness rapidly growing inside of me, I had everything I wanted. I will never be brought to justice for any of it. I caress the burn scar on the back of my left hand, its soft, raised flesh still tender.

“Beck,” Jack says.

I blink. “Sir.”

I clench and unclench my wounded hand as he slides over a work phone. I push down my near-constant self-deprecating thoughts and study the iPhone. It has the appropriate numbers saved, and the case has a built-in, scan-protected wallet with proof of employment and a credit card.

The only times I’ll be off duty are when Nina is on private palace grounds and when the night team—Gregory and Silas—starts monitoring the princesses once they go to bed. Cameras line the hallways of their hotel.

Jack instructs us of safety points and their code names if we’re separated or compromised even though many of these preparations will never be used. A thrill jumps down my spine while we take time to study the blueprints of the hotel. Regardless of how unlikely an attack is, planning for it requires well-rounded considerations that never cease to interest me. It’s a single puzzle piece with many different outcomes. My dexterity in preparation helped me succeed—except I used it for the wrong people for years.

After the long day of meetings and briefings, I flop into bed at seven p.m. Once the Laffleys arrive in the country tomorrow, I’ll sleep even less than I do now. Jack instructed Mason and me to dine at a nearby table during dinner and monitor from a distance until they return to their hotel.

My fear of the inevitable nightmares usually keeps me from falling asleep. Tonight, it’s the anticipation for the future. The money from this contract will last me at least another year. What happens after that, I don’t know. I have to become someone entirely new. Do I want my family to be part of that?

I lie back, staring at the ceiling.

Years ago, I became El Revalté, the Ghost. He was known for his deadly silence, for creating ghosts without a trace.

Santiago gave me that name, thinking I would be thrilled. And it stuck. Underground, I was known solely as El Revalté. Above ground, I was Beck, never Wesley.

El Revalté will never die—he’s already dead. He’s a stain on my soul that I’m forced to carry into every room. Mom, Cora, John, and Joey deserve a family member without such darkness.

I shut my eyes.

Just try.

5

NINA

Maia and I stay arm-in-arm on the short walk to Dominik. The uneven stones trip us up every so often while the evening sun cuts right into my vision. We walk up exterior winding steps that resemble a castle. But it’s Europe; it very well could be. I inhale crisp evening air, reveling in the distant sounds of acoustic guitars and clinking glasses.

The steps reveal a huge restaurant patio with dozens of tables and a hostess who smiles and greets us in Maldanian.

Glass panels line the patio, and our table is along the edge with an umbrella angled perfectly to block the sun. Down below, the ancient buildings of a neighborhood protrude from the cliff. The people in the narrow streets look small, showing me how high up we are.

I shiver and have Maia sit at the edge instead.

“Was it hard to get such a good reservation like this?” I ask, marveling at the ocean view.

“I made them early enough,” Dad says with a smile.

A waitress brings us water and English menus. I stick to the Maldanian one for as long as possible, but it doesn’t take much to decipher that the dishes are thirty euros a piece. Early reservations? An expensive restaurant? I bristle at this newfound side of him.

“They serve veal?” Maia blurts, making a disgusted sound.

“Oh, stop it,” Dad chides as Ruby seems to search for the veal listing.

“No,” she insists. “It’s a baby.”

“Then don’t get it,” he says, his voice sharpening.

She shakes her head and drops the menu in front of her. “I can’t eat at this table if anyone gets veal. I’m sorry.”

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