Page 23 of The Seller

“I hate you,” I tell him, even though it’s not really true. “I hate you and I can’t wait to be away from you. That’s why I want you to sell me.”

I expect him to get angry, to snarl and maybe even hit me. But he doesn’t. He just smiles down at me, so perfectly collected and calm.

“You’re an awful liar, Siri,” he says, dropping a kiss on my lips. “Settle in. I’ll come for you later.”

Chapter 4

Stavros

She’s scared.

I know she’s scared, because I’m suddenly realizing that I’ve actually not seen her afraid before. Not when she woke up and found herself my captive, not when I whipped her ass, not when she was caged.

Something about this city terrifies her, and I know she’s not going to tell me what it is. If there’s one thing Siri can do, it’s keep a secret. I could beat it out of her, but I admire the trait in anyone, though especially in a woman. She can keep her secret, I’ll find it my own way.

Now I’m in Athens, everyone in my organization is on high alert. It doesn’t look all that much different than regular activity, but it means that I know when a sparrow shits on the Acropolis. Since landing, it’s become apparent that I am not the only businessman with some concerns around the death toll of late.

“There’s increased guard around all the usual suspects,” Markos, my right hand man, tells me. “We’re even seeing increased policing. Something is coming.”

“What are the streets saying?”

“There’s chatter, but nothing specific and most of it is contradictory,” he says. “Haven’t seen anything like this in years, not since the big families were at war.”

“Is there anything from them?”

“Not really.”

“Okay. Let me know if you find anything out.”

It’s an unsatisfying set of answers. Usually, I’m the one who knows everything while others try to guess what’s going on. Right now, I have the very uncomfortable feeling that I’m the one in the dark.

I can’t shake the feeling it has something to do with Siri, but how could a nineteen year old American girl who took a drink from the wrong guy in a bar have anything to do with half of Athens being on high alert?

I go to my office to think, and to make some calls. The first one is to an American contact, a private investigator with links to US databases.

“Liam?”

“Hi, Stavros, hows it going?” He has a laid back Californian drawl which makes everything, even dire emergencies, sound like we’re planning a beach party.

“I need you to look into someone for me. I’m sending you ID.”

“Sure, dude. You missing a girl?”

“No. Just not sure that one I’ve got is who she says she is. How long will it take to run?”

“I can do it right now, man, I’m in front of my computer. Send it through.”

I email a copy of the documents Siri had on her when we picked her up. While I’m waiting for results, Liam passes the time by humming his own version of hold music, tuneless dirge of a song which is only interrupted when he gets a hit.

“Whoa. That’s weird.”

“What is it? Is she a cop?”

“No dude, she’s not a cop. She’s a nobody.”

“You mean she’s not on your databases.”

“I mean that ID you sent has to be a fake.”

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