Page 47 of The Crimson Lily
I sigh. “I know, thank you, but I don’t want to be a burden, and…I really want to go home.”
She gives me an understanding nod. The light in her eyes changes a little, and she lays her hand on my arm.
“Come live in Paris,” she proposes. “They’re looking for a professor! I could refer you. You could easily get the job and move here!”
I laugh nervously. “I can’t just leave New York!”
However, I begin to consider the idea for a second. I have nothing in New York, just a job I barely remember, and I’m on sick leave anyway. What if I moved to Paris? I could be close to Béatrice. I could be close to the Louvre. I could go to the Eiffel Tower!
Yeah…I feel sad I didn’t see the Eiffel Tower from up close on this trip. I don’t want to think of the unforgettable sparkles I saw from Maksim’s apartment because that means I’ll have to think of Maksim.
“You know what?” I say. “I’ll think about it.”
She accepts my answer. There’s a flight at 4:20 p.m. leaving from CDG Airport. I can take a taxi now and have time to buy a ticket and relax. Béatrice has to get to work as well, so I shower quickly, pack my stuff, and get ready to leave. I give Marie-Claire a big hug and tell her I’d love to see her again. She assures me in her best English that I am always welcome here. She caresses the side of my face, delicately avoiding my bruise, her eyes hiding a secret plea for me to be careful. I wave at Jérôme, hoping I’ll one day get to see this boy grow into a handsome man like his father. I know he will make Béatrice very proud.
I don’t want to let go of Béatrice when her tram arrives. I realize I don’t know when I’ll see her again, though the idea of moving to the City of Lights still flickers in my mind. We hug for a while until she finally decides to step into the tram.
I turn around, looking at my phone, waiting for the taxi I just ordered. I amble down the street, dragging my suitcase behind, looking for the meeting point. When I reach the little pin on the map, my taxi, which looks like a moving grain of rice, simply vanishes. This is the straw that breaks the camel’s back. I’m already shaken by these past several days. I’m upset about saying goodbye to my best friend, and I’m deeply troubled by theidea of going home, to my old life, whatever life that was, as if all of this had never happened. As if William never tried to kill me. As if all this isn’t linked to this stupid conspiracy Syndicate. As if I never met Maksim.
I am dead afraid, and I dread my return. Nothing will ever be the same. I hear a little voice in me. An intrinsic feeling settles deep within my gut. This is far from over.
I curse at my phone, then at the taxi app, then at my hands for shaking too much. I look up, looking for a car that looks like a grain of rice. Time stops. Against all expectations, I see the figure of Maksim standing at the end of the street, leaning against a large black car with tinted windows.
My heart takes the highest of leaps.
Tears begin to roll out of my eyes. The numbness I believed I’d settle for slowly slips away, out of my reach, like it’ll never return. Maksim is there, just a few steps away from me, watching me. My pace increases with my heartbeat. I can’t name the emotion I feel. Anger. Happiness. Relief. Anguish. Joy. Some kind of mixture of all five.
I run into his arms.
“Oh, thank goodness!” I exclaim, the rapture muffling my cries.
Home. That’s what he feels like.
Maksim hauls me in, his arms pressing on the arch of my back. He squeezes me, diving his face in my hair, inhaling deeply to drench himself in my scent.
“How did you find me?” I ask, my lips trembling, hanging on his neck.
He takes another deep breath of me. “The phone.”
The Bratva phone! I still carry it in my purse. Thank goodness I still carry it in my purse!
“How long have you been here?” I wonder. I let him go and delve into his deep blue eyes.
“All night.”
I chuckle slightly with euphoria. “This doesn’t look like a neighborhood where you’d spend the night,” I said, referring to the fact that Maksim Kovalyov appreciates suites at luxurious hotels and apartments by the Eiffel Tower.
His eyes betray no emotion, but his chuckle shows some humility. “You should see Belarus.”
Yes, maybe I should. Can he show me? No, stupid, I’m not going to ask that. I only have one question left.
“Why are you here?”
He looks away for a second and veers back to me. He releases me and steps to the side, opening the door of the black car. He motions for me to get inside. I comply and wriggle onto the brown leather seats of this expensive car. Maksim takes my suitcase and places it in the trunk. He comes to sit next to me, and that’s when I notice the driver: a large bald man in a black suit who looks like Vladimir back in New York.
I understand where I am and what’s going to happen. I’m going to meet the Parisian Bratva.
Vladimir II rolls up the screen so I can no longer see him, so I can no longer see anything. The windows are pitch black, outside and inside, so I won’t see where we’re headed.
