Page 95 of Fire and Silk
****
Light wakes me. My jaw aches. My shirt is stuck to me. My mouth is dry, and the back of my neck smells like wine.
I sit up. I pull in air until it hurts.
There’s a note on the nightstand I don’t remember writing. Just a scribble. Her name, scratched out halfway.
I get up and strip everything off. The shower groans when I turn the knob. The water starts cold and stays that way. I scrub my hands twice. There’s dried wine under my nails.
The beard comes off next. I stare into the mirror and press the blade under my chin. The drag of it is smooth. I rinse between strokes. The man looking back at me doesn’t blink.
When I walk out, the towel is rough around my hips. I open the drawer under the desk.
The files are right where I left them.
I got them last week. Called in a favor from a man I did recon with, back in the navy. He owed me three names. I gave him one.
Severo Dantès.
The rest came overnight. Not just the heir, but the siblings too.
I spread the folders across the desk.
Mina.
Maksim.
Severo.
I open hers first. Political events. Ties to minor council families. Private schooling in Geneva. A public marriage. A very private divorce.
Then Maksim. Casino ties. Leveraged properties. Gambling debts that vanished. Three sealed records.
Then Severo. Sparse. Everything redacted or cleaned. But not all of it. Not enough. Shipping interests. A holding company in Athens. Blood trails buried in tax paperwork.
The ring on her hand flashes in my head again. Her voice, steady. Like I’d never been hers.
I close the folders. I line them up.
I walk to the window.
The city is quiet from up here.
My voice is steady when I speak.
“I’m getting you back, Lira.”
****
The bag is already halfway packed. I don’t remember folding the shirts. One black, one dark grey. A pair of jeans. My knife. The passports—mine and Lira’s—go in last. I zip them into the side pocket and pull the bag over my shoulder.
Downstairs, the woman at the front desk asks if everything was to my satisfaction. I nod , drop the keys, and don’t look back.
The air outside is dry. My car is parked beneath a row of sickly cypress trees. I unlock it by habit. The engine turns before settling. I ease onto the road and head for the outskirts.
The city fades in layers. Stucco turns to fields. The road narrows. Hills swell in the distance. Every few kilometers, a shrine rises from the shoulder, painted in chipped blue and gold. I pass them all.
My grip tightens on the wheel.
