Page 19 of Shark Bait

The chopper pushed through high winds over the Euxine Sea as we avoided Turkey’s main airport in Istanbul and made our way to a coastal town near Ankara. We remained stealthy because, obviously, we had no travel documents.

Even if the birthday girl had a passport, I would’ve burned it. Her family likely reported her missing in the first few days of her disappearance, and her passport might alert the Turkish border control systems. This would mean it would flag me as well, and though I’m a man who doesn’t exist, I’d come into existence.

Should such a thing happen, I would self-destruct. Not because I’m suicidal, far from it, I like living and I’m a survivor, but because apprehending me would open an investigation into Alessio, which is something I cannot allow. If it weren’t for Alessio and his sister, I would be long gone, and I pay my homage by being loyal and staying in the shadows. If I can’t contribute to the wealth and prosperity of me and my friends, then I shouldn’t take away from it either.

That’s not to say I’m not thinking about taking the birthday girl and running away with her. During the flight, I felt bad for her. She vomited several times during the bumpy chopper ride,and I had to remind myself of my friendship with Alessio and Valerina and how they will, if I ask them, help this woman too.

Luckily, the birthday girl recovered nicely once we boarded Alessio’s private jet. But I didn’t get any shut-eye. If it were just me, Alessio wouldn’t have flown us on his personal plane, but since I told him my wife was with me, he did. Chivalry isn’t the reason for the jet. I know him well enough to know this is the jet his family flies on and not the one he uses for business.

By sending us his own plane, Alessio sent me a message. The message is clear: Since I blindsided him with the “my wife” declaration, he wants a briefing in person at whichever location he’s currently staying. He’s curious and likely paranoid about my plus-one. With good reason, since I’m not married.

Once the plane touches down, I reach over the birthday girl and lift the small window’s shutter to let in the light, hoping that’ll wake her up. It doesn’t. Poor thing’s tired, snoring softly. With her lips parted, she drools on the pillow. I give her a minute.

Nah, that’s not true. I give myself a minute to watch her while she sleeps.

She’s very pretty. A nice woman with a lovely upbeat personality that I admit suits me quite well. She’s also a walking disaster, a girl with shitty luck who finds herself, through no fault of her own, in circumstances that must rival her worst nightmares.

In my experience, for some people, life just happens. For others, life is the product of their decisions, whether good or bad. I’ve experienced both. Life that just happened to me, and life that I controlled with the choices I made.

Since I dislike generalization in general, pun intended, I can’t say if I prefer one over the other. For instance, the birthday girl happened to me. I chose to keep her. I feel terrible about her circumstances and that I’ve had to take a choice from her whenso many choices were already eliminated, but I took her because this way, I can ensure her survival.

In a fantasy world, if the chopper dropped her off at the airport in Istanbul, Turkish customs would turn her in at the American embassy, where they would interview her. She’d tell them about her ordeal and about the bald dude she named Shark Daddy who helped her out. She’d fly back home to be united with her family and have her baby. Nobody would ever bother her again.

In the best-case scenario in the world she’s found herself a part of, all of the above would occur, and eventually, when the feds or Interpol poked around enough based on the information she provided, someone would find her. As a witness of my work and having spent months in captivity with people of interest to the governments around the world, she would be silenced. If not by Alessio himself, then by one of the various criminal organizations around the world.

In the worst-case scenario, the mercenaries would simply kill her.

None of those scenarios would preserve her life. Which is why I chose this one.

The one where I get to watch over her while she sleeps like a little bunny with the gun from the safe in one hand and a wad of cash she stole from a mobster in the other. I fist my dick and squeeze hard so that the pain shoots up my belly, cutting off my arousal.

She thinks I saved her, but I’m no hero. Soon, she’ll figure out I’m forcing a marriage on her, and then everything between us will change. She will come to hate me just like she hated her captors.

In that respect, I’m no better than them.

So I take my time and watch her sleep peacefully.

Is there no other way?

I scrub my jaw, running the options that will result in her survival through my head, and again coming up with this as the best one. She must become my wife, for I can’t think of any other way Alessio would let me bring her into our fold this quickly. And my marriage to her is nonnegotiable. It will save her life.

She’s seen me, knows I exist, and that’s an automatic death penalty in Alessio’s book. Since I couldn’t eliminate her before I met her, and I most definitely can’t shoot her now, after I’ve spent time with her, she’s stuck with me.

In the cockpit, I hear the pilots running a series of disembarking protocols. We should get ready. I tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear. Bending, I whisper, “Hey, we landed.”

Her pretty green eyes flutter open, and she rubs them before shifting in her seat. I reach over her to unbuckle her seat belt, and her baby kicks at my wrist. I pause, wait for it again, but when the baby doesn’t kick, I unbuckle her. I go to move when the birthday girl traps my hand under hers and presses my palm to her belly. She uses my fingers to press harder, and the baby kicks.

“Ha!” I say. “Did you feel that?”

Nodding, she moves my hand over her belly, having no clue how hard this makes me. I guess I’m into feeling up her pregnant belly. I’m not one to reject a new kink, so I let the woman guide my hand.

“Yeah, he’s been kicking a lot. Won’t let me sleep.”

I want to correct her by saying she slept deeply but don’t because I don’t want her to know I enjoyed watching her, even though my profession demands I spy on sleeping people quite a bit. It’s just that if I’m watching them sleep, they’re more likely to never awaken.

Under my palm, there’s fluttering of movement. “She’s active.”

The woman looks at me as if I kicked her puppy. “It’s a boy.”

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