Page 5 of Savage Hearts
She smiles at me like I’ve just made her whole week. “Certainly! Anything to eat or drink before we depart?”
What the hell. I’m on vacation.“Do you have champagne?”
“Yes. Would you prefer Dom Perignon, Cristal, Taittinger, or Krug?”
She waits for me to decide, as if I have a clue, then suggests, “Mr. O’Donnell prefers the Krug Clos d’Ambonnay.”
I furrow my brow. “Who’s Mr. O’Donnell?”
“The owner of this aircraft.”
Ah. My future brother-in-law. An Irishman, by the sound of it. A veryrichIrishman, evidently. He’s probably ninety years old with dementia and no teeth.
My sister is such a mercenary.
I tell the flight attendant I’ll take the Krug, then ask where in the world we’re going.
With a straight face, she says breezily, “I really have no idea.”
Then she turns and walks away, as if this is all completely normal.
Nine hours later, I’ve polished off two bottles of champagne, watched three Bruce Willis movies and a documentary about famous drummers, enjoyed a nap of indeterminate length, and amslumped sideways in my chair, drooling on my sweatshirt, when Andrea returns to cheerfully inform me we’ll be landing soon.
“Lemme guess. You still don’t know where we are.”
“Even if I did, Miss Keller, I couldn’t tell you.”
She says it kindly, but her expression conveys in no uncertain terms that her job would be at risk if she blabbed.
Or maybe something more important than her job… like her life.
Or maybe that’s the two bottles of champagne talking.
When she disappears down the aisle, I slide up the window covering and peer out. Above are clear blue skies. Below are rolling green hills. Off in the distance, a long strip of blue water shimmers in the afternoon sun.
It’s an ocean. The Atlantic? The Pacific? The Gulf of Mexico, perhaps?
The plane starts to descend for landing. It appears we’re headed for an island off the coast.
Watching the ground rise up to meet us, I have a dark, powerful premonition that wherever I’m headed, there’s no going back.
Later, I’ll remember that feeling and marvel at its accuracy.
TWO
KAGE
The man standing across from my desk is tall, hulking, and silent.
Dressed entirely in black, including a heavy wool overcoat beaded with the evening rain, he stares at me with an emotionless look that somehow also conveys a capacity for extreme violence.
Or maybe I only think that because of his reputation. This is the first time we’ve met, but the man is a legend in the Bratva.
Almost as legendary as I am.
In Russian, I say, “Take a seat, Malek.” I gesture to the chair beside him.
He shakes his head in refusal, which irritates me.
