Double Dealing: A Menage Romance(71)

I saw what I wanted, grinning at the irony of my find. We had met Jordan due to swords, after all, in trying to steal some of the finest samurai swords ever let out of Japan. I sold out my brother over a Quran that came from the Islamic Caliphate of a thousand years ago. That my first solo heist would be of weaponry and have Islamic connections as well would only be a beautiful sense of completion.

The Museum of Marrakech is one of many within the Moroccan city, one of the places I loved to visit in the world. After all, much of the population speaks French due to the former colonial status of Morocco, and the weather is perfect for my Romani genes. My skin loves the warm sun, soaking it up and giving me what I thought was a perfect light brown coloring that accentuated my body and eyes.

To top it off, the museum is beautiful, a true reflection of Moroccan and Arabic culture. In the spring, just before the summer weather hits and things go to hell tourist-wise, the museum was planning an exhibition of ancient weaponry and armor, ranging from the few remnants that had been dug up of old Carthage through the Crusades and all the way until the end of the Ottoman Empire.

“Perfect,” I whispered to myself, tabbing the page to research more deeply later. My waitress brought me my order and tried to flirt a little bit, but I dismissed her out of hand. Jordan's distrust troubled me, but there was no way I could ever be tempted by another woman. I may be a thief and a backstabber, but I’m not a cheater.

The espresso was dark and rich, just like I enjoyed it, and the croissant was the epitome of French pastry, flaky, buttery, and so tasty that I had to resist the urge to order another. Taking a deep breath, I resolved to take the time during my training and preparations for the Marrakesh job to make sure that I fixed whatever the separation was between Jordan and I. I did love her, and she was going to be my wife. There would be no way I could leave her unhappy.

Perhaps the solution was in Syeira. Felix's mother, she'd been a princess who'd found herself the main advisor to the next King, but was now suddenly nothing compared to her sister. My mother was finally in the position she deserved to be in her whole life, and it had to eat Syeira up inside. Of course, she had no position in which to attack me, and she loved her sister enough to not try and corrupt their relationship. But corrupting Jordan? That I could see.

The challenge, of course, was how to remove Syeira from the equation without arousing more suspicion. I thought about it for a long time, long enough to enjoy a second espresso while the Paris traffic whizzed by. There were plenty of options, of course. A banishment would be the easiest in the short run, considering that it would leave her alive. After all, our family had four properties, and I really didn't have any interest in returning to Albania of all places. It was beautiful, but also, a cultural shithole compared to France.

The problem, of course, would be that by being in Albania, Syeira would be closer to the other heads of the various families that made up our tribe. She knew how to be political, and knew how to make the right connections. The last thing I needed was a traitorous rot spreading through the tribe.

On the other hand, killing her had its own drawbacks. First of all, there was no way that I could be in the area or even remotely connected to the event. If there was any way that a connection could be drawn, distrust of me would grow not from Jordan, but from my mother as well. I could quickly find myself a King without a country, a scenario that I was not willing to entertain.

It would have to be death. The question I asked myself, as I sipped my second espresso, was just how I was supposed to go about doing it? Who could I trust enough to get the job done? And how could I arrange it without having Jordan or Charani being put in danger?





Chapter 35





Jordan




I sat in a chair on top of the barge, Syeira sitting next to me, for all the world looking like two women enjoying the unexpectedly pleasant Paris weather and sipping some tea together. In reality, of course, things were much different. In the week since she had told me that there was a chance that Felix was alive, I had felt the ground shifting under my feet almost constantly. Francois being involved in his disappearance? What about Charani? Could I even trust Syeira, or was I somehow being manipulated by a woman who had just lost her son and was looking to blame someone?

It took viewing the actual message on Syeira's laptop to convince me that, at least on one front, I could trust her. Whether she was being deceived or not, she had reason to tell me about Felix.

Still, despite the hope that was flaring in both of our hearts, she proceeded with caution, moving at what felt like a snail's pace. She'd been involved at some level with both politics and the underworld for nearly her entire life and knew that rushing could quickly lead to ruin. As such, the only time we even discussed it was when the two of us were alone and in the open air.

“So how's the search going?” I asked, trying to act casual in case someone was watching.

“Dnepropetrovsk is a big city, with a lot of area around it,” Syeira replied. “It may not be Paris, but that in some ways makes it harder. There are a lot of dachas, what you call estates, in the countryside surrounding it. And a lot of them are connected to the Russian Mafia.”

“So what have we done so far?” I asked, then sitting back and controlling my temper. “Sorry. Just . . . the idea that Felix could still be alive has gnawed at my heart, and I find it hard to not want to rush.”