Page 46 of Koroleva

"What does that say?" She pointed to the phrase tattooed on my pectoral.

"'Never say that dreams are useless, because the life of someone who cannot dream is useless,'" I recited. "It's by Jim Morrison."

"Very poetic. I thought you were more of a 'you'll get crushed if you cross my path' type. Or some line from The Godfather movie."

"I don't like to be that predictable."

I let the soap wash off my body while Nikita traveled over it until she stopped at the three skulls adorning my pubis.

"Let me guess. Those symbolize your three best lays. The kind where you say: after this, I can die happy." Her interpretation made me smile.

"No, but I like that deduction." I turned off the tap and grabbed a towel to wring out the excess water. Bubbles floated around Nikita, who tightened her expression. "Do you want to join me in the sauna?" I invited her.

"I'll pass; more heat is the last thing I need. I'm going to change."

She stepped out of the jacuzzi, approached me, and took the towel I had draped around my neck.

"Thanks for the chat, it's helped me make a decision." For a moment, I thought she was going to tell me she was going to be my fourth skull as her finger began to trace them. "No matter how tired I end up tonight, I'm going to La Marca, I need a guy who can fuck me so savagely that he erases your three skulls to tattoo his own."

20

Medications that Kill

I looked at the message Andrey had sent to my email and couldn't help but let out a string of very ugly words. I put on my shoes and left the room very angry.

I stumbled upon Romeo, who was closing the door to his room. My self-control was epic, given my need for relief and his nakedness.

Some men earned points dressed up, and others should be forbidden from wearing clothes.

Now, he sported a white T-shirt with a skull design, torn jeans, and his hair was damp and perfectly styled.

For my part, I wore a wrap dress that mimicked a dark blazer with golden buttons.

We were suspended in each other's gaze.

"I have to go out, I'm taking the Bugatti," I informed him. It wasn't a question, more of a statement.

"Why the Bugatti?" he simply asked.

"Because I'm in a hurry," I grumbled, with a look of few friends.

"Going to La Marca?" I tried to discern if the question carried any annoyance.

"No, it's closed," I informed him. "I need to address a matter of some importance and talk to someone."

"With whom?" I sighed. Giving explanations wasn't my thing. However, given the nature of the meeting, I didn't hold back.

"Jonás Sánchez."

"The journalist?" he asked, frowning.

"More like the meddler with delusions of a Pulitzer Prize who doesn’t even reach the level of a yellow press hack."

"Uuuh, I detect some hostility in your words. What has he done?"

I walked up to him, entered the security pattern on the phone screen, and showed him the news. Several pages dedicated to it were already echoing the article.

Sánchez had published an article about Mentium and our wedding, suggesting that my marriage was only a smokescreen to divert attention from what was happening. He compared the scandal of my medication to the use of clioquinol for diarrhea by the pharmaceutical company Ciba. It was discovered that the drug in question was neurotoxic after it caused a real tragedy in Japan, where more than ten thousand people developed subacute myelo-optic neuropathy. In other words, paralysis of the feet and legs, and in some patients, it resulted in blindness with serious ocular conditions.

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