Page 18 of Tormented Heir

I understand why Mamma hid it. The secrets it holds can do no good. What I don’t understand is why she kept it in the first place. Now here I am doing the same fucking thing. It’s like some sick compulsion.

Hands shaking, I tuck the box away and suck in air. Jesus, that shit torments me every time.

I’m glad that I swore to myself when I was in Italy never to marry, because I will never have children. Not now that I know about my father. And wives want kids.

My phone beeps. The text is from an ex, a girl I dated a few years ago on and off between deployments. She’s in town and wondering if I fancy hooking up. I glance down at my leg. The scar is healing well, and my limp is not noticeable unless you really look.

Why not? I need a distraction from the dread looking at the note has instilled in me.

I reply, saying I’ll meet her later at her hotel and ask for the room number.

Then I make an extra effort dressing. I want to make a good impression. This will be the first time with a woman in many, many months. The first time since the explosion when my life changed irrevocably.

Spraying on aftershave, I check my reflection and head downstairs. Jacob is picking Nataliya up after her tennis lesson, and Mamma and I are meeting them at Zuma Vani for a meal. After which, I’ll head to the hotel.

The light is flashing on the answering machine in the hallway. It’s a message from the hospital, asking if I can call about changing my rehab assessment. I must listen carefully, as it takes effort now to parse words and sentences.

The hearing in my left ear is still affected, which means words don’t always make immediate sense. It’s the strangest thing. I can hear the sounds, but the fact that one ear is more muffled means that it takes longer to understand those sounds. Syllables and vowels and consonants have become like a new language.

The familiar, musical patterns of sentences are a new symphony to me now. Something I must learn anew.

I leave the house to head for North Beach and the restaurant. I’m ten minutes away, crawling in traffic when my phone rings. I press answer, and Jacob’s voice fills the car.

The moment he speaks tension fills my body. My immediate thought is my mother. I’ve never heard his voice this way. Broken.

“Dimitri?”

“Yes, what’s wrong?”

“They’ve taken Nataliya.”

My stomach plummets, and I suck in air. What the fuck? “Who has?”

“Some group we crossed swords with. Mid-level thugs. The bare bones of the old Russian group we destroyed and took over, and a Greek faction they work with.” His voice cracks. “The things they might do to her…”

I veer into a parking lot because I can’t focus on the road. “Tell me everything,” I say.

He does. Some of these men were the ones Jacob pushed out when he took over and consolidated his position in California. That makes it personal, not merely business gone wrong.

“I can find out where they have her,” he says. “I have contacts everywhere. Getting her back though … my men can kill, but this requires a different skillset. I need someone who knows how to extract a hostage.”

I rub my jaw. “You want me?” It feels strange, being asked when I’ve failed at the very thing he is asking of me. After all, I got my friend killed. I failed in my military career. I can’t be that good.

He breathes out severely. “Dimitri, you’re the only fucking person I trust with this.”

His words sit heavy.

“Can you gather some men together? Take some of mine but call around your military contacts. People who know how to get shit like this done clean and quick. If I can get a location, can you have a team ready?”

“I don’t know how long it will take me to get a team together, but I’ll move heaven and earth to try, Jacob. And if I can’t … I’ll fucking bring her home myself.” It’s time to man up. I failed Mickles and my team, but I won’t fail Nataliya.

“You can’t do this alone and guarantee her safety,” he says. “Get a team. I’ll call in favors too. Meet me at the club.”

I hang up and stare at my dashboard, thinking. It isn’t long before I’m placing a call.

“Well then, long time no speak.” The car is filled with a gravely British voice.

“Blade.” I say the name he goes by these days. His real name is Drew, but he got the name Blade because of how handy he is with a knife. He’s a Brit Special Forces operative who did some missions with us and has been living a civilian life for the past three years in California. He set up a security spy firm and installs spyware in rich people’s homes so they can spy on their employees, nannies, wives … whatever.

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