Mikalo's Fate (The Mikalo Chronicles) (7 page)

I had craved the idea of being accepted into his family. Of being a beloved sister-in-law or aunt or daughter-in-law. Of celebrating big holidays and being the wise, loving one to call when there was a problem and someone needed advice.

After being so alone for so long, the idea of being accepted into a large family kinda sorta appealed to me.

And the fact that this wasn't going happen here was breaking my heart.

I could still turn it around, I think.

"They can still like me," I found myself saying, my voice sounding shockingly weak and unconvinced.

He stopped. I could feel it. His chest pausing as he held his breath.

And then he spoke.

"My Grace," he began, "these are not people we need to see, no? We need not ever come back. They need not be in our lives or even the lives of our children.

"It is not a bad thing to leave them behind and have our own lives. Lives of happiness and love and whatever else we decide. To have you be so sad and so unloved because of them, my family, this is a thing I do not want."

I heard the words coming from his mouth and understood their intent. But I knew they weren't true. And that's something I would never do, cut Mikalo away from his family. I would accept being tolerated, even unloved, if it would keep him in their lives.

Mikalo without his family is a Mikalo I wouldn't want, the thought of him cut off from his world, his happiness, all of these lifelong connections, because of me was too much to even consider.

"I'm going to Paris soon, with Caugina," I began, mentioning the trip she was insisting we take to buy my wedding dress. "Maybe that'll help."

His arm squeezed me, his lips giving the top of my forehead a light kiss.

"Yes," he said, his voice a whisper in the dark. "I think this is a good thing."

I heard him down the hall before I saw him.

Speaking rapidly in Greek, Mikalo spoke on the phone. Business call. From his office, a large, sunny room anchoring one end of the second floor.

Dark polished wood floors gleaming, wide, square open windows open to the air and the sun, white curtains billowing. Mikalo looking impossibly handsome in a white tank top and blue surf shorts as he sat behind his large heavy glass table, his bare feet crossed at the ankles.

He waved as I peeked in, offering me a delicious smile.

God, that man melted my heart.

I wordlessly asked if he needed something to drink. Shaking his head, he indicated the silver pitcher behind him, rivulets of water running down its polished, frosty surface.

He then waved me in, gesturing to the chair opposite him.

I hesitated. I didn't want to seem nosey or like I was trying to insert myself in his business. Or, god forbid, interrupt him or try and eavesdrop.

But then I realized he was speaking Greek, I don't speak Greek, and, because of that, there is no way I would ever make heads or tails of what was being said.

I sat down.

He was listening now, his focus on the papers spread out in front of him, the scratching of his pen quickly writing bridging the silence between us.

The pen was tossed down with a flourish as he leaned back in his chair, his hand briefly running through his thick hair, his fingers scratching the scalp quickly before coming to rest just above his eyebrows, the long digits pinching his temples as if a headache was coming on.

I may not understand Greek, but something told me this call wasn't good news.

A few words later, Mikalo was hanging up.

He sat quietly for a moment, looking at the phone.

I felt like I should go to him. Place my hand on his shoulder, kiss his forehead, snuggle into the crook of his neck or bury my face into the dark locks of his hair.

Instead I remained seated, watching him as he continued staring at the phone.

He cleared his throat and then spoke.

"The Byzan, this Mara, she has made an offer, a strong offer, for the business."

Knowing there were many business under the Delis family umbrella, I asked which one.

"All of them," he answered, quietly, shocking me.

"What do you mean 'all of them'?"

"Everything," he said, looking at me. "Everything."

I wanted to laugh. The thought was ludicrous. I knew how much money the Byzans had. Having been their attorney, having untangled the financial chaos of their lives so I could then piece it together and make some sense of it, I knew how much they were working with and there was just no way there was enough to buy everything.

Impossible.

And I said so.

Mikalo listened carefully, watching me.

After a long moment, he spoke.

"This is a good thing to know."

"They'd have to leverage themselves so steeply to even come up with an offering bid, Mikalo. They are so deeply, deeply in debt that I doubt any bank anywhere, especially here in cash-strapped Greece, would think of underwriting any offer they could make."

Again, his eyes on me, he sat silently, taking it all in.

"Silvestro thinks that perhaps we should consider," he then said.

I almost screamed in frustration.

"He has no idea what he's talking about," I responded, my voice dropping so as not to be overheard.

Mikalo followed my lead, his voice dropping as well.

"But he is convincing others that, perhaps, this is a thing to consider."

"Then these others need to talk with someone who knows the Byzan's financial situation," I quickly said. "They simply cannot be taken seriously as a threat. They don't have the money."

He leaned forward, propping his elbows on the polished glass of the table, his fingers resting on his chin as he thought.

A stray breeze moved through the room, the curtains moving gently, the light on the floor rippling and moving, the sudden smell of sun and sand and sea tickling my nose.

I suddenly wanted to be outside. Walking, sitting, wandering, digging my toes in the sand while I watched the waves slap the shore, this stray bit of breeze enticing me like a sultry merman from the safe, cool shadow of the house into the baking heat of midday.

Shaking whatever thoughts he was having away, Mikalo suddenly stood and stretched, groaning deeply, his face grimacing, as his arms reached high overhead. He stood there for a moment, the hem of his shirt lifting, gifting me with a heart-stopping peek at his stomach, that trail of dark hair leading from his belly button to dip below the waistband of his shorts forever distracting me.

It took everything in my power to not leap across the table, tackle him, rip his clothes off, and lick every inch of him.

He was now watching me watch him, aware of his affect on me.

I averted my eyes, blushing.

He grinned.

Putting his arms down, he lifted his shirt, his hands stroking his stomach.

"You like?" he teased.

"Stop," I said, embarrassed.

He wandered near, his shirt still up.

"Come, touch," he urged me, his voice shaking with laughter.

I stood, moving away.

"Mikalo," I said, trying not to laugh. I swear he was like a child sometimes.

He caught me, bringing me close.

"Touch it," he whispered, suddenly serious.

His eyes watched mine.

He
was
serious.

My hand moved down, my palm meeting the warm flesh of his tight stomach.

He continued to watch me as I felt him, the smooth skin, the soft curls of that intoxicating trail, the surprising firmness of his muscles.

I took my hand away.

Enough. I need to get outside.

"Let's go for a walk."

He shook his head.

"No," he began. "I have something better for us to do."

The sun beat down on my naked arms, my skin gleaming with sweat, the hand holding the hat on top of my head burning in the sun.

I glanced over at Mikalo behind the steering wheel.

White tank top, muscled shoulders burnished bronze and shining, his bare feet slipped into an old, frayed pair of sandals as they expertly worked the clutch and the gas, his muscled thighs partially hidden by his long blue shorts.

He watched the road carefully from behind dark sunglasses, his hair ruffled by the wind as we navigated the slender strip of dirt as it wound up the hill and past the yellowing brush, the dust rising in the air behind us.

I felt grateful for the security of this seatbelt holding me tight in this rusted out old Jeep. Earlier we had left the office, heading outside into the bright sun to trudge toward the garage where the cars were kept. Golf carts, jeeps, all-terrain vehicles, an older Mercedes or two.

Mikalo had chosen a very old, rickety Jeep, the little boy in him excited by the thought of the wind whipping through his hair as the sound of the engine revved.

I would have preferred the air conditioned comfort of one of the Mercedes.

And with the blessings of one of the older Greek men who ran the garage and had known Mikalo since he was a boy, we were off.

I gripped the side of the seat as we now bounced our way along a back road going to god knows where for god knows why. All Mikalo would tell me is I would love it and it was very important to him.

So we climbed up, up, up into the hills of this little island somewhere off the sun-baked coast of Greece.

The clear blue of the sky came closer and closer as we moved up and up. We must be nearing the end, I thought, the trail leveling out, the climb abating as we turned the corner through some brush, the windshield gently grazing the gnarled branches of the olive trees hanging over the path.

We slowed, the trees and brush opening to a large flat space with an unbelievable view over the sea and onto the sky, those small neighboring islands dotting the water between here and the mainland looking like pebbles skimming the surface of all that blue.

In the middle of this large patch of yellowing, overgrown grass it waited, Mikalo turning off the Jeep as he sat and looked at it.

It was small, the walls made of large blocks of stone, the thatched roof bent and broken, the windows open to the ocean air and sea breezes.

A stone house. We had driven for almost an hour into the hill through the brush on a dirt trail to find ourselves in front of a crumbling, derelict stone house.

He sat quietly, his hands now in his lap, the fingers laced, like a little boy.

I wanted to say something. Ask what this place was. Ask where we were. Ask if everything was okay.

Was this where his parents first lived? Where his grandfather was born? Was this just an abandoned home he'd come to and hide out in when he was a boy?

I really had no idea what was happening choosing instead to wait silently and allow Mikalo to take the lead when he was ready.

A moment later, he slipped from the seat belt and slid out of the seat.

I followed.

He stood for a long moment.

Walking around the front of the Jeep, I drew near, standing near, not sure what to do.

He put his arm around my shoulders, dispelling my doubts.

"What is this place?" I finally asked.

"It is my dream," came the whispered reply, his voice breaking.

"Come," he then said, grabbing my hand as we picked our way through the tall grass and broken rock littering the ground.

Up close, the two room house looked even more derelict. The heavy stone of the walls was cracked and flaking. The glass of the windows was either broken beyond repair, great shards jutting up or dangling down precariously, or missing entirely. And from what I could see, the interior had given way to rain and wind, vines snaking along the walls, grass growing up through the weathered, worn boards covering the floor.

Hand and hand, we continued around the back.

A small garden waited, overrun with vines and grass, the precarious edge of a steep cliff lurking just beyond its border. But you could tell it was a garden. Or could easily be a garden, the familiar square shape already mapped out with low, flat stones, easy for the eye to see.

Mikalo turned his head and looked out to the bluer than blue sea.

"This was the dream my father would not allow me," he began. "The dream I shared. That he said no to. That he killed."

He turned to me.

"Do you remember me telling you this?"

I nodded.

"I remember you mentioning you had a dream," I said carefully. "I didn't know what the dream was."

"Now you do," he said with a small, heartbreaking smile.