Page 5 of Sinful Beauty

We live in a world run by kleptocracies and criminal enterprises. Eighty percent of the world’s wealth exists in shadow companies. Investigating the wealthiest of criminals, often the most intelligent of perpetrators, thrills like no other career.

And I won’t give that up.

“I’ve spent my life playing the role of a spoiled man, leading a life of leisure. My parents will be disappointed when I walk away, but it won’t surprise anyone. Quitting the company fits my public personality profile.”

“You really want to do this, don’t you?”

The Wagner name may no longer be on the building, but our family name remains embedded in the foundational history. “I do.”

“We don’t need to spread Interpol’s resources further. This is well within the domain of the Swiss authorities.”

“Let me do this, and we’ll catch Anton Solonov.”

The known assassin has been on Red Notice for years. It’s becoming an embarrassment to the organization that he’s still on the prowl. He’s not even in hiding. He’s actively taking assignments around the world. And he’s the bait needed to lure Nigel.

His posture changes, and I’m in.

“Three months.” He holds three fingers up. “In ninety days, we turn everything over to local authorities. Agree?”

“Unequivocally.”

“You’re being considered for a strategic position. See to it this little side project doesn’t diminish your chances.”

“I am flattered, but uninterested.”

“I told them you’d say that. But once we organize our affairs, at least listen to our proposal.”

I narrow my eyes in a way that lets Nigel understand I have no intention of entertaining a desk job. I don’t need money nor a higher title. They have no bait to lure me.

There are two reasons I work. One is to avoid a life of boredom bred from a mundane existence, and another is to lead a worthwhile life. As long as Interpol gives me those two things, I’ll stick with them. When they cease to meet my objectives, I won’t.

My fingers grasp the door lever as Nigel’s authoritative command reaches me. “And Tristan. Get me Solonov.”

Chapter2

Lucia

Geneva, Switzerland

The familiar green and yellow flag flaps in the wind above the stadium. The television screen flickers and with the press of a button a rink of ice and padded men replaces my team. A shout of approval comes from a table of raucous Americans. Charly O’Neills, the pub closest to my work, is known as the best Irish bar in all of Switzerland. As such, it attracts tourists occasionally.

Coming here is a force of habit, and one I’m not too keen to break. It’s convenient and I know the bartender well. As William readies my wine, I tap the What’s App icon on my phone.

Aunt Aline: It’s done! We are now the proud owners of a home with a pool!

A photograph frames my aunt’s beaming face. She and my uncle recently retired and found a home not too far from the coast in Portugal.

Me: I can’t wait to come visit.

As I tap out the response, a heaviness centers on my chest. How many times did Mae promise to come visit? Time is the thief of promises planned for one day.

William slides a glass of wine across the wooden bar. “Long day?”

He’s lived in Geneva as long as I have, but his British accent is as strong as ever. All the Americans mistake William for Irish, which is lucky given he’s found employment in an Irish bar. I answer his daily question with a brief nod and a smile, and then he’s off to fill a drink order.

There’s no response on my screen, not that I expect one. I hope they’re out celebrating. Buying a home, the home they plan to spend the rest of their lives in, is momentous. Aline is my mother’s second cousin, but she’s also a second mother. She was under no obligation to take me in, but she did. She’s not my aunt, but we call all the women our mothers are close to aunts. To her children, all older than me, I was a nuisance. To her, I was undoubtedly a burden. Another mouth to feed and yet another child to look after. But she and Geraldo never made me feel like less. They treated me like a daughter, and I love them for it.

A group of boisterous men shout at the televisions lining the back wall as William approaches with a stack of menus. Charly O’Neills, like most places in Geneva, offers French and English menus. William is fluent in French, but he shares my preference for English. Portuguese, my native tongue, isn’t often spoken in Switzerland. Of course, at twenty-eight, I’ve spent more than half my life in English-speaking countries. Sometime during primary school, I began dreaming in English.

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