Page 14 of Vicious Hearts

“I want to set the record straight.”

* * *

I offerher a fresh change of clothes and show her to a bathroom where she can change and freshen up. When I saw her close up in better lighting, I understood the anguish of her pain. It looks like she’s been crying for hours, and the mascara streaks across her face like battle scars. Her skin is splotchy in places where she rubbed her face raw in her attempts to rub her pain away.

I don’t know anything about her except that she did a damn good job of tainting my image in the media. How does one even damage the reputation of a ghost? I’ve had to field calls all day long as my team went into damage control and Attila threatened to bring his ass over to the US to deal with the traitors that set this smear campaign in motion. Even Dante called, consumed with anger and threatening to take things into his own hands. It’s good to have family and friends in high places.

Ariadne steps in front of me as she moves to the bathroom. Her sagging shoulders give me the impression that she has something weighing on them. She seems restless, and she’s the absolute opposite of what I would have expected of the reporter who’s created so much trouble for me. But looks, I know all too well, can be deceiving.

“You look like hell,” I say, handing her the clothes. This seems to set off a trigger, because a fresh wave of tears surfaces in her eyes. “I mean from all the damage you’ve done to your face.”

She shoots me a disgruntled look before she drops the blanket and enters the bathroom. I bring my phone out and bury my head in it, sending Seven a quick text before I turn to leave. She’ll find me when she’s done; not like there’s anywhere for her to disappear to in the middle of the sea.

11

ARIADNE

We’re on a boat somewhere, out in the middle of nowhere. I realize this the minute I open my eyes because I feel my stomach roil as the vessel tosses from side to side. It doesn’t, really, but I’m that oddity that loses my equilibrium whenever I’m out at sea. Even without seeing the water, I’d know I was on it. Michael used to say it was my subconscious or some such bullshit.

I bite my lip as my mind strays to Michael and Nina and the almost dinner we had. I was three bites into my salmon before Michael opened his mouth and added to my misery. He’s definitely in the doghouse now. As though on cue, my stomach grumbles and I remember that I haven’t eaten all day. Except for those three tiny morsels of salmon. Caleph lifts his head and then lets his eyes slide to my stomach; there’s no way he didn’t hear the avalanche that bulldozed through me.

Caleph Rojas is not what I expect. He’s so far removed from the portrait of him I painted in my article that I can’t help the curiosity building within me to know more about him. HowDOESa man in his thirties climb to such dizzying heights without leaving behind a few dead bodies and several skeletons?

He’s not hard on the eyes either, with his jet-black hair and dark eyes. So dark, they’re fathomless. He has a sprinkling of faint, dark hair on his jawline and cheeks, creating a subtle shadow that adds a touch of refinement to his overall appearance. There’s a scar above his left eyebrow, and my eyes can’t help but linger on it in fascination. Wondering how he got it.

“Maybe we could get a picture?” I ask, forgetting about my singing stomach. It’s almost croaking in pain.

Caleph fixes me with his steely gaze, which gives me my answer. There will be no picture. I’m sure I’ll find out why he’s averse to taking pictures once we dive into the interview that’s going to cement my career and set me up for life.

* * *

He hands me a phone.My boss’s number is already on the screen; this man’s reach is immense if he can get that sort of information.

Mr Hinkelbaum answers on the second ring, curiosity obviously getting the better of him when he sees the unknown number on his screen. I have a theory – if all else fails and I can’t attend the rest of my job interviews in search of greener pastures, at least I can salvage my current job before Mr Hinkelbaum fires me for real.

I launch into my fabricated story, listening to Hinky’s grunts of appreciation as the story gets wilder and wilder by the moment. A source contacted me with a scoop regarding Caleph Rojas. The elusive businessman is in Mexico City, and I’ve secured a meeting with him there. I’ll be off the grid, but I’ll send in a rough draft at the end of every day so he can add any questions he may have. Yes it’s risky, I answer, but I remind him that that’s what sets apart a good journalist from a great one. I promise him this scoop is going to shoot the other one out of the water. He grunts some more and tells me to expect a generous payment in my account to cover expenses. I don’t feel the need to let him know I won’t be able to access my bank account where I’m going.

When I hang up, Caleph takes the phone from my hand and throws it overboard into the sea. I watch as it sinks to the bottom of the sea.

“Was that necessary?”

His eyes are dark as they assess me from beneath lowered lashes. He’s punching something into his phone pad before he pockets the phone and turns toward the lower deck. The yacht is monstrous in proportion, and I haven’t had a chance to go exploring yet, but I bet it’ll make a good addition to the story swirling in my head. So much money; so much excess. This guy is definitely up to his eyeballs in criminal activity.

“Come on,” he says, before he disappears through a door.

“How long did you say I’d have to be here?”

“I didn’t say. You’ll stay as long as it takes you to get the story you need.”

“The storyIneed?” I ask, pointing at my own chest as though for confirmation. “I already got my story,” I remind him. I am desperate to make him understand that I’m not here of my own accord. That he needs me, for whatever reason, more than I need him. But he seems to have other plans, because he shoots me a smirk and quietly leads me into the lower deck.

We walk down a long narrow hallway until we reach the galley, where there are two men wearing aprons and chef’s hats hovering over pots of steaming food. Don’t tell me two chefs come from legitimate enterprises. Just don’t.

“What do you feel like eating?”

I shrug. Anything. I’ll eat anything. He tells the chefs to prepare dinner and bring it to his office as soon as possible. When he turns to leave, he indicates with his head that I should follow him.

He takes two calls back-to-back as we walk through a maze of halls. I’d better not go exploring or I’ll get lost. I am the most uncoordinated person I know, and I’d be chasing my tail if I were left to my own devices in this place.

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