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Smiling widely, the man who only this morning was cruel and angry, looks carefree and young. Letting go of my hand, he jogs into the water, splashing through the tiny waves that lap at the shoreline.
His eyes crinkle at the sides, and he purses his lips as he watches me cautiously edge closer to the water. I’m not scared to get wet, but I have a healthy respect for the wildness of the ocean and how easily it could consume me.
The sea is cool, but not cold when the first push of the tide coats my toes. Walking forward, I stop and let the sand sink beneath me, while the water fills the gaps covering the tops of my feet. Moving again, I step into the water a little deeper, until my feet are submerged and the waves splash against my calves with each step.
“It’ll be warmer later in the day,” Vik says, pulling my attention. “In the morning and late at night, the water’s still cool.”
“What ocean is this?” I ask, my gaze fixed on the sand and water beneath me.
“Atlantic.”
“I’ve never been to the beach before, but if I had, this could have been the same water,” I muse.
“I guess it could, I’ve never thought of that before.” He chuckles. “Do you want to wade out a little deeper?”
“No.” I shake my head, happy to meander through the shallows, feeling the sand move as the tide sucks the water back out to sea.
Vik doesn’t comment, instead he just keeps walking, glancing back at me every few moments, like he’s checking I’m still there. A few hundred yards down the sand, there are loungers with umbrellas set up, and a large wooden building with a wall of glass doors that go from the floor all the way to the ceiling.
“That’s the cabana, there’s a kitchen, a bedroom and a bathroom in there. We should get some suntan lotion on your skin. Once the sun is fully up, it’s easy to burn without realizing,” Vik says, taking my hand in his and pulling me out of the water and toward the building.
The dry sand has stuck to my wet feet and I pause wondering how to get it off, as Vik opens the cabana and pushes the doors back. The glass easily concertinas, sliding back against the one wall and opening up the entire front of the building. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but inside looks like a feature in a Homes and Gardens magazine, beach house edition. The floors are a soft bleached wood, with a huge white sectional taking up most of the room. Off to the left is an open plan bleached wood cabinet kitchen and a small island, with bamboo stools lined up beneath the edge.
The space is bigger than the apartment Monica and I shared, it’s about the same size as the house I lived in with Aunt Darla.
“Does someone live here?” I ask.
“No.” Vik laughs. “Honestly, we hardly use it, but it’s easier to have a space on the beach, than having to walk back to the main house if you need a drink or to use the bathroom.”
“So, this is basically just empty unless someone is on the beach?” I question.
“I guess, yeah, it is. We did consider moving the rest of our families to the island with us, but once they were here, they wouldn’t have been able to leave, so it’s easier for us to visit them occasionally, than to force them to isolate.”
“Why can you guys come and go, but everyone else here has to stay put?”
“We never travel straight from the island, we have a helicopter that takes us to a yacht, then from the boat we vary our flight departure from Brazil, Peru, Uruguay, Argentina, or a handful of other places. We always travel together under false names and we only ever fly on our own jet, it’s easier to stay under the radar that way. If we had family who wanted to fly to New York to go shopping every few weeks, we’d never be able to keep this place private.”
I nod, because it makes sense, but I have to question why the subterfuge? I know they’re dangerous men, but why all the secrecy, when they’re about to reveal everything to the Bratva?
“There’s some sunblock in the bathroom, I’ll go and grab it,” he says, not caring about the sand on his feet as he strides past the kitchen and through a door. When he comes back a moment later, he’s holding two bottles of lotion. “Come and sit on a stool and I’ll put some on your shoulders.”
“I’m covered in sand,” I protest.
“So?”
“So, it’ll get all over the floors.”
Rolling his eyes, he puts the bottles down on the counter, strides over to me and scoops me off my feet. Carrying me bridal style to the stool, he sits me down on it without my feet ever touching the floor. Sitting reignites the burn in my butt cheeks, but I wince silently.
“Shit, Baby, you’re already starting to burn,” he hisses, carefully lifting my hair up as he rubs lotion into my neck, shoulders and back.
A part of me knows I should be protesting him putting his hands on me, but it’s not sexual, he’s just taking care of me. A dead prisoner is a useless prisoner after all. When he’s done with my back, he walks around to face me and holds out the lotion. “Put some on your arms and chest,” he orders.
Taking it from him, I squeeze some into my hands, then rub it onto my arms, chest, face, stomach and legs. He stands and watches me the whole time, taking the bottle back when I’m done.
“Perfect. Now stand up, turn around to face the counter and push down your shorts and panties.”
“What?” I shriek.
