The Camorra Connection

The sun had already begun its languid descent behind the terracotta rooftops of Rome by the time I finally dragged myself awake. I had slept for the better part of the day—a heavy, dreamless slumber that left me feeling more leaden than rested. As I sat up, the sheets felt damp against my skin. Even with the shutters drawn tight, the Roman heat had permeated the room, and I remained coated in a fine sheen of sweat—a visceral reminder of last night and the excesses that had likely seeped out of my pores while I was dead to the world.

"Enough of that," I muttered to the empty, high-ceilinged room.

I shuffled to the bathroom and took another shower, letting the water run as cold as I could endure. The chill helped snap the lingering fog from my brain. I moved through the motions of a second morning with a clinical sort of slowness. I dried off thoroughly, the towel feeling coarse against my skin, and brushed my teeth until the minty sting finally replaced the stale residue of last night's indulgence. After pulling on a fresh set of clothes that felt crisp and clean, I finally felt like a functional human being again.

An insistent, hollow ache settled in my stomach—a blunt demand for food that I couldn't ignore. I required something to ground me, yet the prospect of a decadent carbonara or a rich ragu felt entirely too taxing for my current state. I pulled up a delivery app on my phone, scrolling past dozens of local trattorias and pizzerias. My thumb hovered over a place called Great Wall Express.

"I know, I know," I whispered, glancing toward the window as if the city itself could sense my betrayal. "I’m in Rome. I should be seeking out the finest pasta in the world."

But the heart—and the hangover—demanded its own particular salvation. Italian food simply held no appeal after a night out. I needed salt, soy sauce, and the familiar, unpretentious comfort of a cardboard oyster pail. I placed the order and waited.

Twenty minutes later, the buzzer rang. I headed down to the street level to meet the driver. A young man on a Vespa, wearing a bright yellow thermal backpack, pulled up to the curb.

"Buonasera! Ordine per...?" he asked, checking the receipt. "Good evening! Order for...?"

"For me," I said, stepping forward.

He handed over the bag, the aroma of ginger and fried rice immediately wafting through the steam. He paused, looking at the restaurant's logo and then up at the ancient architecture surrounding us. He gave a small, amused huff.

"Cinese? A Roma?" he asked, his eyebrows arching in playful judgment. "Chinese? In Rome?"

I offered a sheepish shrug, clutching the warm bag to my chest. "I know. It's a crime, right?"

"Per me? No. Ma il mio nonno? Lui ti butterebbe nel Tevere. Buon appetito,” he said with a smile. "For me? No. But my grandfather? He would throw you in the Tiber. Enjoy your meal!"

"Grazie," I called out as he sped off into the Roman twilight.

I headed back up to my apartment, the weight of the greasy bag feeling like a hard-won victory. I sat by the window, watching the golden hour light hit the cobblestones below, and dug into the lo mein and fried rice. I thoroughly enjoyed every bite, following it up with the fried dumplings, the crisp crunch of several egg rolls, and the savory sweetness of the sesame chicken.

It wasn't Italian, but it was exactly the grounding I needed. As the salt and grease began to settle my nerves, my thoughts drifted to the reason I was here alone. I had escaped my brother, though I knew the reprieve was only temporary. He would eventually find it in himself to forgive me, but I knew that he was hurt; the sting of my departure would be sharp once Santi and Marlon broke the news that I was gone.

After cleaning up the remnants of dinner, I poured myself a large glass of water. As much as I’d enjoyed the cold sodas with the meal, they wouldn’t do much to hydrate a body that had spent the last twenty-four hours dancing, partying, and sleeping through most of the day.

I picked up my phone and sent a quick text to Sera. Landed yesterday but you already knew that. I’m safe. Tell Vic I don't need a babysitter.

Her reply arrived almost instantly, written in her typical, blunt shorthand. Safe is a reach. You have a documented history of chaos and mayhem within forty-eight hours of touchdown. Stay low. No stunts like the ones you pulled in Corfu a year ago.

I knew she just wanted me safe, especially now that I had finally left Russia and the shadow of government work behind. I laughed quietly to myself and typed out a response. Italy is different.

I know it is, she shot back. It’s your connection to the Camorra family by blood. You can’t pick them and the government, friend. It’s one or the other.

Agreed, Sera, I messaged. That’s why I’m here and why I tossed the tracker you put in my stuff. I came here quietly for that reason….I need to end my work with the government here so I can help my family.

Why are you trying to kill me? she replied. I could care less about the damn tracker but I was hoping you’d stick with the government.

No, I’m not trying to kill you, I wrote. Your heart is in your throat because you’re too close to me on this. It’s why I got rid of the tracker and why I sent Vic away. I love you and I don’t want you to get hurt.

Vic can protect you while you’re there, she insisted.

Not while I’m dealing with my family. They don’t take well to outsiders.

But they could hurt you.

They won’t risk hurting me, Sera.

How do you know this?

They know who I am. They won’t risk hurting royalty….or extended members of royalty.

The response was immediate, sharp with the reality of our past. "You know better than anyone that the throne is gone, Lucia. Survival doesn't make you a princess anymore."

I’m well aware of that, I typed, staring out at the Roman twilight. Russia is in a dictatorship and Italy isn’t. Look, I need to go. I need to spend another night making some connections before I see my family tomorrow.

Ok, be safe.

Thanks, I will.

I tossed the phone onto the bed. It was time to start working on the plan. Last night hadn't just been about the partying; I had managed to copy Mario’s phone and the phones of his friends as they moved through the crowd near me. The data was already beginning to paint a map of their movements. I decided that the best way to move tonight was to blend in with the unhoused population I had passed earlier.

I chugged more water to head off a brewing headache, then went to my bedroom to get dressed. I raided my closet and found well-worn clothes that had a few rips and just enough grime to pass inspection. I stripped out of my sweats and started layering the worn clothes, pulling on the heavy boots I’d been breaking in lately. In the bathroom, I added gel to my hair and tied it back into a tight, severe low ponytail.

I grabbed my phone, my Italian passport, and my Italian driver's license. When in Italy, I’d rather be a ghost of who I really am. Sure, I was born and raised here for most of my life and connected to the Camorra family in more than one way. You could say that they were family in two different ways. I was related to Robert Mazzarella by blood and I was raised in the lifestyle.

I’m sure you’re wondering who Robert Mazzarella is and I can tell you what he’s allegedly known for but not right now.

A night out

I couldn’t believe that Vic was here in Italy—and at the airport, of all places, to pick me up. He looked entirely out of step with the hurried travelers and the stern airport security, leaning against a sleek sedan with that same effortless, irritating confidence he carried everywhere. It was a confidence that felt like a physical weight in the air, anchoring him while everyone else was in a frantic rush to be somewhere else. He was still a sexy motherfucker no matter what country he was in and no matter what language he spoke, and the worst part was that he knew it.

"Close your mouth, La Duquesa. You’ll catch a Vespa," Vic said, a crooked smirk playing on his lips as he pushed off the car. He didn't move with any urgency; he moved like he owned the very pavement he stood on, each step measured and deliberate.

"What are you doing here?" I finally choked out. My brain was still trying to process the logistics of him crossing borders this quickly, or why he’d even bother. "Last time I saw you, I told you to go home to your wife and that I wanted nothing more to do with you.”

He took a step toward me, the shadow of his sunglasses hiding his eyes, though I could feel the intensity of his gaze right through the dark lenses. "Change of plans, darling. Before you say anything else, let me explain why I’m here.”

“I don’t want to know nor do I care to know,” I snapped, turning away as I adjusted the heavy strap of my duffle bag. My eyes were already scanning the line of vehicles for a sign of escape, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I was ready to whistle for a cab and disappear into the winding, ancient streets of the city before he could utter another syllable.

“Sera knew I was in France for the nude beaches," he said with a half-smile that didn't reach his eyes. "She’d been tracking your flight path after you told her your flight plan. Apparently, she didn’t trust you to navigate the arrivals terminal without starting an international incident. Again."

I just glared at him, my blood beginning to simmer. "Sera needs to mind her own business and stay out of my GPS."

Determined to end this, I stuck two fingers in my mouth and whistled loudly. The sharp, piercing sound cut through the cacophony of shouting travelers, the roar of departing planes, and the low, rhythmic thrum of idling engines. A sedan acting as a private hire began to peel away from the curb down from us and came toward me.

"She texted me," he said, unfazed by my dismissal. "She told me to go to Italy and make sure that you behave for the next forty-eight hours. She seems to think you’re a magnet for trouble the second you step off a plane."

I scoffed, smoothing my clothes as the sedan pulled to a stop. "I am perfectly capable of staying out of trouble for two days. And since when does Sera coordinate with you of all people?"

To be honest, I was surprised. Sera had never been subtle about her opinions; in the past, she had been incredibly clear when she stated that Vic wasn't good enough for me. She had listed his faults like a grocery list—too reckless, too rude, and too tethered to a life that didn't involve me. And the worst part? I agreed with every word. It didn't matter how perfect his dick was, how much he made me cum, or how easily he could read the thoughts I try so hard to hide.

"She’s desperate to keep you safe, I guess," Vic said, shrugging his shoulders. "Or maybe she just knows I’m the only one who can keep up with you when you decide to go rogue."

“I’m not on a mission, Papa,” I told him, my voice sharp and final, cutting through the humid Italian air. “Those days are behind me.”

Vic stepped closer, the scent of his expensive cologne and lingering cigarette smoke invading my space. He reached out as if to touch my arm, but I flinled back, the movement sharp and defensive.

"Don't," I hissed.

"You're shaking," he noted, his voice dropping to that low, gravelly register that used to make my knees weak. "Is it the jet lag, or are you actually happy to see me?"

"It’s the urge to commit multiple felonies in front of Interpol," I retorted. "Get out of my way, Vic."

"You always were a terrible liar," he murmured, leaning in just enough that I could feel the heat radiating off him. "I'll give you your space for now but don't think for a second you're actually getting away. I know your moves better than you do."

I looked at him one last time against the backdrop of the vehicle he’d rented and the sprawling skyline. He was a ghost from my past and a current complication I didn't need, especially not now. Yet, here he was, acting as my self-appointed shadow, looking like he had all the time in the world.

"Forty-eight hours, Vic," I warned. I didn't wait for the driver to help; I grabbed my own bags and threw them into the car myself before sliding into the back seat, the leather hot against my skin. "That’s how long you have to find me. If not, that’s on you. After that, you're back to France, and I'm back to being invisible!”

I slammed the door before he could respond, but through the glass, I saw that smirk widen into something predatory.

"Whatever you say, La Duquesa," he replied, his voice loud enough to penetrate the window as the driver pulls away. “I’ll find you. You know that I always do.”

Vic was going to find me. Eventually.

That thought was a rhythmic drumbeat in the back of my skull, steady and inevitable. He always did. He had this way of using our mutual connections – usually my brother, Bob. But this time, Sera was the leak, the soft spot in my perimeter. The love was still there between us, but she was currently nursing a martini in a different time zone with her wife, playing puppet master.

As the car accelerated, I didn't just sit back. I performed a standard sweep of my person. Sera was clever, but she had a signature style—she liked to hide trackers in the lining of things. I felt the slight, rigid abnormality in the seam of my duffel. I didn't pull it out yet; that would alert her that I’d found it. Instead, I waited until we crossed a bridge over a massive storm drain. I palmed the small, adhesive disc, rolled the window down two inches, and flicked it into the darkness.

"Step on it," I told the driver. I needed distance between my current position and the last ping on Sera’s screen.

I settled deeper into the back seat of the sedan, the interior smelling faintly of pine freshener and old, stale tobacco. The driver, a man with tired eyes that had seen too many late-night runners and desperate tourists, didn't look back as I rattled off an address of a hotel that was so far off of government employees’ radar on the far side of the city.

"How fast can you get here?" I asked, my voice sounding more tired than I wanted it to. “I know it's about a thirty-five minute drive without traffic.”

He glanced at me through the rearview mirror. "Traffic’s fairly light at this time of day. Maybe forty minutes, signora."

"I’ll double the fare if you do it in twenty," I said, my pulse still racing. "And I'm not looking for a scenic tour. I need to get somewhere away far from my past.”

The driver shifted gears, a glint of recognition appearing in the rearview mirror. I could tell by the way his posture straightened that he was a tsarist who knew exactly who I was. "Twenty minutes it is, ma’am. Hold on to your bags."

He drove like a man possessed. He treated red lights as mere suggestions and took corners with a screeching, centrifugal force that would’ve thrown me against the door if I hadn’t worn my seatbelt. Every time we jerked through an intersection, I checked the rear window. No sight of Vic's sedan. I made him take three hard lefts and a U-turn—a basic SDR (Surveillance Detection Route). If Vic was back there, he’d have to break cover to keep up. The road behind us remained empty.

We hit the curb of the address I gave him—a decoy hotel—in exactly nineteen minutes. I handed a stack of bills over the center console—a few more bills than double. "Stay here for five minutes with the engine running, then leave," I instructed.

I waited until he was idling, then slipped out the side door and into the shadows of a nearby piazza. I didn't go inside the hotel. Instead, I shouldered my bag and headed a block west, cutting through a narrow alleyway slick with debris. I performed a "cleaning" run—walking through a high-end department store with multiple exits, checking my reflection in the glass to see who was following. Clean.

My real destination was a third-floor walk-up that didn't exist on any public registry. The building was a "dead" asset, registered to a shell company in the Caymans that hadn't seen a tax return in a decade.

I used my fingerprint to gain entry, and the heavy security door immediately shut and locked itself behind me with a reassuring mechanical thud. The air in the hallway was stale, smelling of floor wax and silence. Despite how drained I was, I climbed the three flights. I didn't take the elevator; elevators were boxes that could be remotely disabled.

I reached the door of the apartment and checked the hair I’d left across the frame six months ago. It was still there, undisturbed. My fingers hovered over the digital pin pad. I punched in the eight-digit code—a sequence that rotated based on the date.

Click.

The door swung open to a vacuum of perfect order. My contact knew my neuroses. The air was chilled to exactly sixty-three degrees—optimal for keeping the server stack in the closet from overheating. There wasn't a speck of dust on the charcoal-grey sofa.

I let my duffel bag hit the floor, but I didn't relax. I went straight to the window and check the street from behind the reinforced blinds.

I stripped off my clothes in the middle of the living room, leaving a trail of "the old me" on the hardwood. I checked my body for any new marks, any bugs Vic might have planted during our "near-touch" at the airport. Nothing.

I stepped into the shower and turned the handle until the water was scalding. As the steam filled the room, obscuring the mirror and the world outside, I leaned my forehead against the tile and let the heat wash away the city, the sedan, and the lingering scent of Vic. For tonight, I was invisible.

As I was showering, I used my burner phone to access a localized dark-web forum for the Roman underground. I wasn't looking for news; I was looking for the "color of the night." I needed to know which clubs were being raided and which were safe for a "ghost" to haunt. The consensus was "neo-grunge"—a look that allowed for loose layers, perfect for concealing a small blade or a secondary burner.

I went to the closet and pulled out the gear I had cached. I found jeans that fit my waist perfectly but were baggy and strategically ripped throughout. I put on a pair of neon green thongs, slid on the ripped jeans, and applied pasties to my nipples. I followed that with a neon green mesh shirt—the kind that confused low-res security cameras with its high-contrast pattern. I layered a hunter green and black plaid flannel shirt over the top.

Since my hair was still damp, I worked in some mousse, blow-dried it for volume, and styled it into messy waves. I reached into my jeans and adjusted the straps of my thong, pulling them up high over my hips to be seen at the top of my waistband, creating a sharp “Y” to mimic a whale’s tail. It was the perfect distraction; most men would be looking at the neon string rather than my face.

I searched the hidden compartment in the desk for my passport and driver’s license. I checked the holograms under a UV light. Still good. I grabbed a signal-blocking pouch for my phone and slipped out.

I moved through the streets using "gray man" tactics—staying in the shadows, leaning into the crowd, never looking directly at a camera lens. I reached the first club, an unmarked steel door. Before entering, I tied the flannel shirt around my waist, just below the neon whale tail.

The bouncer took one look at me—the mesh, the thong, the sheer audacity of my presence—and simply stepped aside.

"Welcome back, Duquesa," he muttered. I threw him a look.

“Keep it down, dude,” I hissed. I didn't pay. In this world, the Duchess was currency enough.

When I entered, the bass hit me like a physical blow. I didn't go to the bar. I went to the back, found a corner with a clear view of the entrance and the fire exit, and waited for my eyes to adjust. Only then did I let Mario approach me. He was young, loud, and the perfect human shield.

Mario and I spent the hours drinking and dancing. I used him to move through the floor, always keeping him between me and anyone who looked too closely. But eventually, the kid ran out of steam. I kissed his cheek, checked my watch, and slipped away.

I exited through the front, passing the bouncer. "Forget that I was here tonight," I told him, my voice low and commanding.

He looked at me for a long beat. "I'll forget that you were here," he replied slowly. "But I won't ever forget who you are. I was born near the Ipatiev House, Duchess. I know a Romanov when I see one."

I didn't answer. I just headed to the next club. This time, I used the back entrance, moving through the kitchen. I traded a pack of cigarettes for a clean exit path later.

I entered the main area of the second club, a deep crimson cavern. I dove into the crowd, using the strobe lights to mask my movements. Luca and Matteo caught me—two locals who were clearly looking for a thrill. I let them flank me at the bar. They were handsy, but I kept my "work" hand free.

"Home is wherever the music is loud enough to drown out the silence," I told Matteo. He leaned in for a kiss, and I used the moment to check his pockets—nothing but a wallet and a lighter. No wire, no badge. I let myself go then, the three of us a blurred knot of motion. I flirted, I drank, but I never once stopped scanning the room for a tall man with a smirk and a hidden agenda.

I stayed on the floor until 6 AM, when the music died and the house lights stripped away the glamour. I walked out into the dawn, my flannel shirt back on, my posture shifting back to that of a nondescript tourist. I had survived the first twelve hours. Only thirty-six to go.

Opus

The hum of the airplane engines had become a low, rhythmic lullaby that finally pulled me under, but sleep was a fleeting luxury. When I woke up from the few hours of sleep that I had, the cabin lights were dimmed, casting a soft, blue hue over the rows of passengers. My neck was stiff, a familiar consequence of transcontinental travel, but as I blinked away the fog of exhaustion, I noticed something new resting on the empty tray table beside me.

There was a book titled “Opus: The Cult of Dark Money, Human Trafficking, and Right-Wing Conspiracy inside the Catholic Church” authored by Gareth Gore. It was a heavy, daunting book, the kind that demanded attention. A small, yellow adhesive note was attached to the cover, the ink slightly smudged as if written in haste.

I picked up the note, reading the elegant cursive. “I finished this on my last long haul flight and found it gripping. Given your work and thoughts of the systemic rot of Catholicism, I thought you’d enjoy the loaner. Safe travels.”

As I was looking at the book, a flight attendant—a tall man with a kind face and a neatly pressed uniform—passed by and paused. He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice so as not to disturb the sleeping passenger across the aisle.

"I hope you don't mind the intrusion," he whispered with a small, knowing smile. "You're Lara Beck, right? The author?"

I felt a sudden heat rise to my cheeks. "I am. Are you the one that dropped off the book?”

“Yes, I am,” he said. “I was pretty sure of who you were but we all look differently crossing time zones in awful lighting.”

“Thank you for loaning the book. That's very kind of you."

"You’re very welcome. I've followed your work for a while," he continued, his expression turning more serious. "I’ve also seen you at a few TedTalks. What I appreciate most is that you aren't just 'anti-Catholic' for the sake of being provocative. You treat it like a cult because you have the legit proof to back it up because you lived it first hand and witnessed some awful stuff. It’s rare to find that kind of intellectual honesty."

"I try to let the evidence speak for itself," I replied, feeling a genuine spark of pride. I was kind of flattered that I was recognized so far from home, and by someone who truly understood the nuance of my writing. It wasn't about hate; it was about exposure.

"Well, Gore is a bit of a kindred spirit, I think," the attendant said, nodding toward the book. "Let me know what you think if I'm still on shift when you finish. Can I get you anything before you dive into the book?"

"Just some ice water, please," I said. “Maybe something stronger as well?”

He returned a moment later with a cold bottle of water, a cup of ice and four of the tiny TSA approved bottles of vodka. Before opening up the book, I had some of my water and started eating the last of my bagels, chewing slowly as I stared at the aggressive subtitle on the cover. Dark money. Human trafficking. It felt like I was about to stare into a mirror of the very world I had escaped. I was thankful that the flight attendant brought some vodka…it was going to be a heavy read.

I grabbed the book, got a bit more situated in my comfortable seat, and proceeded to open the book. The spine cracked satisfyingly. Based on the weight of it and the praise from the attendant, I knew it was going to be an interesting book.

As I was reading the forward by the author, Gareth Gore, I felt a surge of professional respect. I learned that he is also an investigative journalist who was sent to cover the sudden collapse of Banco Popular in 2017. Initially, he thought he was chasing a standard story of corporate greed—the kind of dry, financial reporting that fills the back pages of the Wall Street Journal.

Instead, the text described how Gore stumbled into a massive conspiracy orchestrated by Opus Dei, an ultra-conservative Catholic sect. I felt a chill run down my spine as I read his account. His investigation revealed how members of the group had secretly stolen billions of money from a major bank to fund a radical global expansion.

The details were harrowing. From the recruitment of children to the quiet bankrolling of major political shifts in the U.S., it was a narrative of absolute power and zero accountability. It was certainly a chilling look at how a secret religious order used a super large bank to pull the strings of power from the shadows. I found myself highlighting passages, my mind racing as I compared his findings to my own experiences.

The cabin remained quiet, the only sound the occasional rustle of a page or the distant chime of a call button. I lost track of the altitude, the time zones, and the miles. It took me two and a half hours to read the book, my eyes darting across the pages until I reached the final acknowledgments.

I closed the cover and let out a long, shaky breath. It was definitely an intense but interesting read. I leaned my head back against the headrest, staring up at the overhead compartments. As someone who is a former Catholic Cult member and trying to unearth the truth to share with those deep in the “church,” the weight of the book felt like a weapon I hadn't known I was missing.

I looked at the note the flight attendant had left. He was right - Gore had captured the systemic rot with surgical precision. I clutched the book to my chest, a singular, recurring thought echoing in my mind: I wish that this book was given to those in and considering becoming Catholic. If they could see the ledger—the literal cost in lives and dollars—perhaps the spell would finally break.

After closing the final page of the book, I glanced at my watch. There were still a few hours left of the flight, stretching out before me like an empty highway. I stared at my phone for a moment but tucked it back into my pocket; I didn’t want to use it and risk messing up the technology in the plane. With no other books to read and the cabin falling into a dull silence, my options were limited. I knew for a fact I wouldn't be fucking Xander while he was in the cockpit nor while he was on the clock—professionalism had its place, even if my body felt otherwise.

The only thing left to do was lean my head back against the seat, close my eyes, and let my mind drift. I decided to think back on my former partners—both the romantic and the sexual ones.

My mind first wandered to Vince. A small, involuntary smirk touched my lips as I remembered the way he worked. He certainly made me cum with his tongue and dick for days on end. I remembered when we were first together; we were a literal force of nature. We couldn't stop fucking. Headboards would splinter and break under the force of our rhythm, and the neighbors complained so frequently it became a running joke, all because I couldn't stop screaming in pleasure. The man has a magical tongue and ick

"God, Vince," I whispered to the empty cabin, the memory of his weight on me feeling almost real.

I recalled one specific winter vacation before he retired where we were snowed in for an additional three days. It turned a eight day trip that turned into a sex marathon. We fucked nonstop for those eight days, the heat from our bodies the only thing keeping the chill at bay.

Then, my thoughts drifted to K. I thought about the few times that we fucked. The dude definitely knew how to work his dick; he had a precision that was hard to forget. But thinking about Boris? That made my panties wet instantly. He had a massive dick in all the best ways. He always made sure I came as he destroyed my pussy and rearranged my guts.

I can still feel him stretching me, I thought, shifting uncomfortably in my seat. The amount of cum that Boris produced was incredible even when he was drained

Then I remembered C. A different kind of thrill. He loved fucking me while I was unconscious, and he had my full permission to do so. There was something about waking up to the sensation of him already deep inside me that hit a different nerve. The dude not only fucked me like the sex addict that I am, he ate my pussy so intensely that I nearly drowned him on multiple occasions.

"You're going to kill me one of these days," he’d gasp, coming up for air, only for me to pull him back down. He always returned the favor by flooding my pussy with his cum until I felt like I was overflowing.

Finally, I thought back on Vic. Vic was a contradiction. Not only was he passionate as we fucked, he was rough as well. He certainly fucked me like the side piece that I was to him—with a certain kind of reclaimed hunger that left bruises and memories. I loved how much cum he consistently shot in my pussy, no matter how tired he was. Once, due to bad weather, we were stuck in a hotel together for thirty-six hours. It was a fever dream of sweat and friction. He barely pulled out of my filled pussy the entire time, keeping me claimed and soaked until the weather cleared.

By the time I was done thinking back on these men, the plane’s descent had begun. The vibration of the wheels hitting the tarmac snapped me back to the present. I took a deep breath, smoothing my hair and calming my pulse. I grabbed my stuff, my hands fumbling slightly as I checked for all three of my passports. I left my seat and left the book on the table.

I knew that my ticket would match my Lichtenstein passport, but I wasn't worried about the discrepancy. I knew Sera had called the airport customs ahead of my arrival to let them know who I truly was. The transition had to be seamless.

When I finally reached the customs hall, the air was thick with the scent of espresso and jet fuel. I scanned the lines, but the decision was made for me. The lead agent, a tall man with sharp eyes, called out over the crowd: “The lady with the navy blue duffel bag. Come through this line.”

I did as he asked, my boots clicking against the polished floor. When I got to his station, he held out a hand. “Ticket and passports, please.”

I handed all three passports and my ticket over. He flicked through the pages with practiced ease, his expression neutral for the benefit of the cameras and the crowd. Then, he leaned in just an inch.

“Welcome to Italy, Grand Duchess,” he whispered as he stamped my Lichtenstein passport, using my preferred title. The corner of his mouth twitched into a respectful half-smile. “Glad to have you back in our country.”

“Thank you,” I replied, keeping my voice low. I glanced back at the growing queue of travelers watching us. “If you need to keep up with the false spectacle of pulling me to your line, you can search me. I understand the optics.”

He nodded, appreciating the cooperation. “I need a female agent for a quick search!” he hollered, his voice echoing off the high ceilings. He looked back at me. “I believe you’ve done this before.”

“More times than I can count,” I said with a slight nod.

A female agent made her way over to us, looking bored and efficient. She gestured toward a designated area just off to the side.

“Step aside, stretch your arms out and spread your legs a bit,” she huffed, not unkindly, just doing her job. She snapped on a pair of latex gloves. “Do you have anything sharp on you or any weapons on you that I should know about?”

“No,” I said firmly.

“I’m going to perform a pat search now, ok, ma’am?”

“Ok,” I replied.

I stood still as her hands moved over my frame, checking my waistband, legs, and torso. The search took less than two minutes. Once she was satisfied, she stepped back and nodded to the lead agent.

“You’re clear,” she said.

The lead agent handed back my documents. “Enjoy your stay.”

I grabbed my stuff, slung the navy blue bag over my shoulder, and walked through the final gates. It was time to get lost in Italy but things were about to change. The second I stepped outside of the airport, onto the cement sidewalk and there was Vic standing out like a sore thumb. Tight black jeans, tight black t-shirt and navy blue cowboy boots.

“La Duquesa Marie,” he said in his sexy voice.

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” I said as I put my face in my palm.

The pilot's protection

The anticipation of seeing Xander was a fever dream I couldn't shake. I couldn’t wait to see him again as it had been over twenty years. I felt somewhat attracted to him on and off over the years and I knew he felt the same as well. Though I’d probably be on his flight to Italy, I didn’t want to say nor assume anything because I was sure that there’d be multiple flights out to Italy during the rest of the day and he wouldn’t necessarily be the pilot.

I hoped that we’d both have time for a quick fuck before us getting on our planes. We fucked only once before in the past and Xavier almost caught us but thankfully he didn’t. A month later, Xavier left and spent twenty odd years hiding from me.

Halfway through the flight, I put my headphones and phone’s charging cord away in my small bag. I closed my eyes and fell asleep. I wasn’t necessarily tired but I knew that I was going to need all the sleep I could get before landing in Italy as I was going to find a former fuck buddy to spend time with before hiding for a bit.

About twenty minutes before we landed, I woke up and headed to the bathroom to brush my teeth. I’m a firm believer in brushing one’s teeth anytime one wakes up and I also enjoy having fresh breath. I sat in my seat just before the “buckle your seat” sign came on. We landed and taxied to the gate.

I immediately got up, grabbed my shoulder bag and my duffle bag and headed towards the gangplank to go through customs. Thankfully, it was quick as I was the third or fourth person off the plane. After going through customs, I continued my way to the main part of the airport. Seconds later, I saw Xander handsome as ever in his pilot’s uniform. He rushed towards me and ignoring all the glares he was getting from the airport staff. Once we were close enough, I dropped my duffle bag and ran into his open arms.

As soon as I was in his arms, he picked me up and spun around a little bit until we both got dizzy. When he put me down, he kissed me then whispered in my ear that he was happy to see me again after all these years.

"Lara," he groaned against my lips, his hands gripping my waist tightly. "I haven't been able to think about anything else since you texted me that you had a layover here in Toronto. I’ve been thinking about you for hours."

He pulled away and then kissed me again but this time a little harder and a little deeper. My panties got wet and I moaned as he slid his tongue down my throat.

He leaned back, his eyes dark with intent. "Listen to me," he said, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. "I've been planning this since your text identifying who you were came through. There’s a windowless boardroom that I reserved for an hour before I fly into Italy. It's private and it's exactly what we need right now."

"An hour?" I asked, a smirk playing on my lips. "You think that's enough time to handle me, Captain?"

"It’s an hour more than I thought I'd get," he countered, pulling me closer so I could feel his arousal. "And I plan on using every single second of it. What do you say?"

I told him to lead the way. "Lead on, Xander. Don't make me wait."

He hefted my heavy duffle bag, took my hand and lead me to the boardroom. He used his ID to get us in there. Once the door closed behind us and clicked, he locked the door.

"Finally," he breathed, turning to face me. "I've wanted you against a wall since the moment you hit 'send' on that text."

We dropped my bags, strip and he pushed me tits first against a wall. I spread my legs and push my hips towards him. In one quick thrust, his glorious dick is in me. He starts fucking my aching pussy like I was a sex deprived woman. Minutes later, we both cum and he shoots his load in me. He catches his breath then starts slamming his dick in me. When I told him: “Harder!”, he started fucking me harder and faster as he was pulling my hair with one hand. We both came and he spent several minutes shooting his load in me.

He pulled put, carried me to the table and laid me down on my back. I spread my legs and he mounted me. He moans: “That’s one amazing pussy. You drain me fast but I want to fuck you for days on end!”

"Then don't stop," I whispered, pulling him closer. I wrapped my legs around him and tell him to cum. He does and shoots more cum in my pussy as he’s squeezing my tits as hard as he could.

"I'm not finished with you yet, Lara," he panted as he pulled out. “I have another load for you.”

I get off the table, turn around and bent at the waist before being tits first on the table. I spread my legs and he mounted my pussy. He fucks me. He cums hard and fast then caught his breath. He was officially drained.

He pulled out, helped me off the table and we got dressed. "You okay?" he asked softly, adjusting his tie.

"Never better," I replied.

I let him leave alone before I left a few minutes later. I wanted to make sure that I still had the passports of my home country, the Russian Federation and my Lichtenstein one. Thankfully, I did so I grabbed my bags then I left the boardroom and headed to international departures.

When I arrived at the ticket counter, I explained to the ticket agent that I’d paid for my ticket to Italy with the layover here in Toronto while I was in Cuba but wasn’t given a physical ticket for the flight to Italy. She asked for my passport so I gave her my Lichtenstein one. She pulled up my name and was able to print out my ticket. She gave it to me and I thanked her.

As I turned to find outlets to charge the headphones, my phone and the portable charger, there was Xander. He approached.

"Lara! Is that really you?" he exclaimed for the benefit of anyone listening. “Where are you headed to?”

“Yes, it is,” I said. “I’m off to see my great aunt.”

"No way!" he said, playing his part. "I wish you had told me sooner so we could catch up. I'm piloting a plane to Rome."

“Had I had your information, I would’ve reached out,” I said. “Numbers and emails change and who knows if you would’ve checked an old email address?”

"Well, let me make it up to you," he said. “Let’s see if I can get your ticket upgraded.”

He brought me to the ticket agent, hands her my boarding ticket then leaned over the counter giving the agent a charming but serious look.

"Listen," he said quietly, "Lara is a very dear friend of mine going through a bit of a rough patch. She doesn’t have a ton of funds and trying to see her great aunt who isn’t doing well, and it would mean a lot to me if we could make this trip a little easier for her. She deserves to have some luxury from time to time, doesn't she?"

The agent looked between us and nodded, tapping away at her screen. "I think we can find a seat in the front for her, Captain. Just this once."

The agent was able to upgrade me. I thanked her as she gave me my new ticket. I took my old ticket and ripped it up before tossing it out.

“Captain, it was a pleasure seeing you again and thank you so much for the upgrade. Knowing you’re piloting the plane I’ll be in makes me feel safer since I’ll be in your hands,” I said. “I appreciate the kindness.”

Xander nodded and left me to do his inspection of the plane, get it fueled and ready before takeoff.

I find several outlets that are close to each other so I can charge everything all at once. It took several hours but that was ok. As I waited, I noticed that a few restaurants near the gate weren’t open when I first arrived to the gate but now are slowly opening I put all of my technology into my shoulder bag and then headed to the closest restaurant. It actually was a coffee shop but it’s what I wanted. Coffee by the buckets, bottles of water and bagels any way I wanted.

I ordered two extra-large iced coffees with plenty of sugar and cream with hazelnut syrup added, three of the largest bottles of water and a few bagels with a variety of schmear. It would be a few hours until my flight and I was thirsty and hungry. I chugged both coffees but took my time with the bagels.

When it was time to board the plane, I was thankful. Thanks to Xander tiring me out as well as the coffee, I’d be able to sleep. I found my seat without a problem. As I sat down after storing my bags, a flight attendant asked me to follow her to the cockpit and I did as she asked.

Inside, Xander looked up from his instruments. "Close the door as you leave," he told the attendant. Once we were alone, he handed me several of his credit cards and several thousand dollars casg in Euros.

"Take these," he said firmly. "I want to make sure you have some luxury while you're here. I’ve already called the credit card companies to add me to the account and told them not to flag any purchases no matter what the limit is."

"Xander, I can't take all this," I said, though my hand tightened around the cards and the Euros.

"You can and you will," he insisted. “When I was asked your name to add to the account, I had to be honest and shared who you really are- Marie Alexandrovna Romanov – but I received pushback when I told them to add you. I told them that they can’t limit who I do or do not add and when I told them that they’re risking losing a significant card member, they said it wasn’t a problem. It came to that as I explained that though you have the family name, you don’t have the family money as the family doesn’t know that you exist as of yet,”

“Xander, I can’t thank you enough,” I said. “I’ve been going through my personal stash lately and its dwindled fast.”

"Don't thank me," he said, taking my hand. "It's my pleasure. My accountant will be paying the bills for the credit cards, but don't worry about being tracked. The locations of the purchases will be blocked so neither he nor I will know exactly where you are."

"Why go to that much trouble?" I asked.

He gave me a serious look. "I did this so in case anyone asked where you were, both he and I would be truthful in their answers when they say they don't know. Stay safe, Marie."

I thanked him again and headed to my seat. Once situated, the signage stating to buckle one’s seat was lit up and the flight attendants went through their safety procedures. I ignored the safety procedures due to the fact that I had more air miles than all of the staff on board the plan combined – both as a passenger and as a pilot. As we were in the air and at altitude, I took out an emergency contraceptive pill and took it with some of my bottled water. I had to be careful over the next few days as I had so few left. It’d been five days since the Depo-Provera birth control injection and I’d technically be protected on Day 7 though I considered myself protected on Day 8. I could always go to a local pharmacy to pick more up but at the same time, I didn’t want to waste Xander’s money. I figured that I’d play it by ear.

I closed my eyes and fell asleep for a few hours. It wouldn’t take up the full eight and a half hours but it took a few hours of the flight time. I didn’t have claustrophobia or anything but I hated breathing recycled air with a few hundred people over eight hours without having the opportunity to have access to fresh air. This was the price to pay to end my work for the Italian government. This process would be easier than leaving the Russian government but I had to do this alone.

The Lichtenstein passport

The engine of Sera’s sedan hummed a low, steady rhythm as we blurred past the outskirts of the city. Sera drove with a focused intensity, weaving through the slow moving traffic with a precision that felt almost desperate, her knuckles white against the leather steering wheel. Beside her, Elena remained unusually quiet, her gaze fixed on the passing landscape of grey concrete and flashing neon. We were making incredible time, especially considering the distance from the hotel, but the silence inside the car felt heavy, stretched thin like a wire about to snap under the weight of everything left unsaid.

My mind wandered back to the others. I could already picture the fallout at the hotel. Bob would be absolutely livid; he was a man of protocols, a man who always said goodbye with a firm handshake and a look in the eye. Leaving without a word was a personal affront he wouldn’t forgive until the next millennia. Boris would simply shrug it off, his eyes never leaving his newspaper. He’d be aloof, as per usual, treating my disappearance as just another predictable variable in our worlds. This wasn’t the first time I had disappeared on him, and I knew he’d likely have my replacement scouted before my plane even cleared the tarmac. That was always us; looking for a replacement love when we left the other whenever our paths would cross. And then there was Polina. We had only known each other for  about two weeks—hardly enough time to build a bridge. She wouldn't have a single word to say, her expression as unreadable as a closed book found in the ruins of a library.

The terminal loomed ahead, a glass-and-steel giant rising from the tarmac, reflecting the pale morning sun. As Sera pulled into the departures lane, the reality of the moment finally settled in. The smell of jet fuel and the distant roar of engines signaled the end of this chapter.

"We're here," Sera whispered. She didn't look at me, but I could see the tension in her shoulders.

Elena was out of the car before I could even reach for the door handle. She moved to the trunk, her movements sharp and efficient. By the time I stepped onto the curb, she had already hoisted my duffle bag onto the sidewalk, the heavy fabric thudding against the pavement.

As I reached for my bag, Elena surprised me. She pulled me into a tight, fierce hug. It wasn't the polite embrace of an acquaintance or a rival; it felt like she was trying to apologize through a hug.

"I’m sorry," she whispered against my shoulder. "I was so blinded by my jealousy of you. I spent every waking moment trying to compete against you, measuring my worth against yours. Even after Sera and I married, I felt like I was standing in a shadow you didn't even know you created. I wanted her love to be mine alone, and I hated you for the space you occupied in her heart."

I stayed still, stunned by the sudden transparency. The jealousy I had sensed for years was finally laid bare, stripped of its venom and replaced by an exhausted honesty.

"But when the generous gift you sent me arrived," she continued, pulling back just enough to look at me, "it forced me to stop. I realized I was fighting a war you weren't participating in. You weren't my enemy. I was just my own."

I didn't know what to say. The weight of the gift had apparently built a bridge instead of the wall I had expected. I simply nodded, a slow, silent acknowledgment of her peace offering. There were no more words needed between us.

"Take care of yourself," she said, finally letting go. She stepped back toward Sera, who was watching us with a soft, knowing expression.

I gathered my things, the handle of my duffle bag was rough against my palm, grounded and real. I didn't look back. I turned toward the sliding glass doors, the conditioned air of the terminal swallowing the heat of the morning as I stepped into the anonymity of the crowd.

I walked past the bustling crowds, the frantic travelers checking watches, and the high-end duty-free shops, pushing deeper into the labyrinth of the airport. I wasn't looking for the grand halls or the luxury lounges where people like Marie Romanov were expected to be found. I kept walking until the floor tiles changed from polished stone to worn carpet and the noise faded, heading toward the furthest, smallest gate in the building—the one reserved for the long, quiet flights that crossed oceans and left everything else behind.

At the near-empty counter, I approached the ticket agent. He looked tired, his uniform slightly rumpled from a long shift. I cleared my throat, shifting my weight and leaning into the persona I had practiced until it felt like a second skin.

"Grüezi," I said, my voice adopting the Liechtenstein accent, precise and slightly formal. "I am looking for the least inexpensive ticket to Europe you have today. I wish for the one with the fewest layovers possible, please."

The ticket agent tapped at his keyboard for a moment, his eyes scanning the monitor in a rhythmic dance. "The cheapest option with the least layovers would be to Toronto first, then on to Rome, Italy," he informed me, looking up with a shy smile.

"Yes, that will do, thank you. How much is the total, please?" I asked, keeping the accent steady and my gaze direct.

"It will be twelve hundred, including the taxes," he said. “Credit card or check?”

"I will be paying by cash," I said, reaching into my bag and pulling out a thick envelope. I counted out the bills carefully on the counter. “I know that the WiFi in Cuba is spotty at best. I need to get to my great aunt as soon as possible.”

As he processed the transaction and handed me the printed ticket, I slid a gift card across the counter to him before I turned away.

"Wait, you forgot this," he said, trying to hand it back, his brow furrowed in confusion.

"No, it is for you," I stated, my voice soft. "A small thank you for your help. Please, take it."

He looked surprised, his face softening with a rare moment of genuine gratitude as he tucked it away into his vest pocket. "Thank you," he said quietly. "Have a safe flight, ma'am."

I nodded my head in thanks and headed to my gate. It was a few minute walk through corridors that felt increasingly isolated, and I was grateful for that. When I arrived at the gate, however, the peace was shattered. There was so much noise from the sheer volume of people there waiting for the plane—business travelers shouting into phones, families corralling toddlers, and the constant chime of gate announcements.

Thankfully, there was a gift shop a few feet away from where I was standing. Through their glass wall, I could see the sleek packaging of electronics. I walked into the shop, the chime above the door momentarily cutting through the terminal's roar.

"Excuse me," I said to the clerk, who was busy restacking magazines. "I am looking for the best noise-canceling headphones you have."

The clerk pulled a box from behind the counter, presenting it like a prize. "These are the top of the line for sale at airports but still super affordable," she said. "They'll block out everything from jet engines to screaming babies."

"Excellent. I will take two pairs," I told her, thinking of a backup just in case. "I also need a portable charger, a universal charging cube and several charging wires that are compatible with the headphones and my phone."

“Charging cables to charge the headphones are in each package as is the charging cable to charge the portable charger, and here are the charging cable and universal cube” she said as she led me to the electronics corner.

“Thanks,” I said.

"Going somewhere far?" she asked me a few minutes later as she was ringing up the items with practiced speed.

 “I just hate the sound of screaming kids and the sound of other people eating,” I replied simply.

On the way out of the gift shop, I realized that it was an expensive purchase—nearly as much as a second ticket—but I felt it was important. My sanity during the long haul to Italy was worth every cent. I went back to the gate to find an outlet to charge my new arsenal. The gate area was crowded, but I scanned the baseboards with a hunter’s focus. Thankfully, I found two outlets next to each other behind a row of chairs.

I slid onto the floor, my back against the cold metal, and plugged everything in. As the charging lights began to pulse, I felt a slight release of tension. I had enough power to turn my phone on to text Sera.

"I'm flying to Toronto. From there, I'm flying to Rome, Italy. Once I land in Italy, I'll let you know. Don’t tell Bob where I am until I ask you to."

The reply was almost instantaneous. “Understood. Be safe. Don’t make us come get you, Highness.”

I decided to put my phone on airplane mode immediately so it could charge faster and last me until I landed in Toronto. It was a short flight, and once connected to the headphones, I knew I could disappear into my favorite podcast and ignore the chaos around me. I closed my eyes for a little bit, practicing the "half-sleep" I had learned over years of international travel—a state where the body rests but the mind remains alert to the environment.

Forty-five minutes later, the gate agent's voice crackled over the speaker. I was up in an instant, the new technology coiled and tucked away into my smaller shoulder bag. As I moved, I reached into the hidden, silk-lined compartment of my shoulder bag and felt the embossed cover of my Liechtenstein passport. I knew a flight like this would require identification.

Thankfully, the name listed had nothing to do with Deppgrl Smith or Her Imperial Highness Marie Alexandrovna Romanov. To the rest of the world at this moment in time, I was Lara Beck.

The gate agent barely looked at me, her eyes glazed over from checking hundreds of passengers, as she scanned my boarding pass and directed me toward first class. I easily found my seat—1A, the sanctuary of the front row. I stored my duffle bag in the overhead bin and sat down, the leather of the seat cool against my skin. I opened up my smaller bag to get out a set of the headphones, a charging cable for my phone and my phone. I was grateful that there were outlet plugs for the wire at my seat.

I got myself set up, the noise-canceling technology engaging with a soft hiss that deleted the world. I was already watching the opening credits of one of my favorite shows before the cabin door even closed. The precision was perfect. I couldn't hear the flight attendants' safety instructions, nor the frantic energy of the boarding process.

Just before the "close doors" signal, I took my phone off airplane mode one last time and sent a quick text to Xander—my ex-husband’s twin brother.

“Hey, Xander. I’ll be in Toronto in about three and a half hours. I’m wondering if you’ll be at the airport today in between flights.”

“I’m sorry…who’s this?”

“It’s Lara Beck but you knew me as DeppGrl Smith. Xavier was my husband.”

“Yes, I will be at the airport in a few hours. I’ll be piloting a plane to Italy. I’ll be able to see you briefly.”

“It'll be good to see you.”

“It'll be good to see you as well. Where are you flying from? I’ll be at your gate to greet you.”

“I’m flying from Cuba. We’re about to get air bound momentarily. See you in a few hours. Can’t wait to see you.”

“Can’t wait to see you either.”

I smiled a genuine smile and threw my show back on as the airplane took off. Just three and half one hour episodes and I’d see my ex-husband’s fraternal twin.

Escape from Cuba

The limestone walls of the museum seemed to press inward as Santi and I finally emerged into the humid, salt-heavy air of Havana. The sun was beginning its descent, casting long, bruised shadows across the cobblestones that felt like stains on the city's vibrant facade. We wandered aimlessly for a while, the silence between us thick and suffocating.

"You're awfully quiet," Santi remarked, his voice tight with an edge of defensive guilt.

"I’m disappointed in you," I replied without looking at him. “We fucked and you weren’t bothered to tell me that you have a very pregnant girlfriend.”

We eventually stumbled upon a hole-in-the-wall Cuban Creole bar tucked into a narrow alleyway. It was a dimly lit sanctuary that smelled of charred cedar, garlic, and decades of stale tobacco smoke trapped in the rafters. Hunger was a dull ache, a necessary distraction from the cold knot tightening in my chest.

"Let's just order," he muttered, pulling out a heavy iron chair that scraped harshly against the floor. “We don’t need to talk.”

We ordered without much enthusiasm. For drinks, the waiter brought two Cancháncharas—potent mixes of aguardiente, honey, and lime served in traditional clay pots. The sweetness of the honey did little to mask the medicinal burn of the alcohol as it slid down my throat. When the food arrived, it was rustic and rich: Ropa Vieja with the flank steak shredded into tender, savory ribbons in a deep tomato and pimiento sauce, served alongside Moros y Cristianos—black beans and rice seasoned heavily with cumin and bay leaves. There were also golden, fried plantains, their edges caramelized to a sugary, blackened crisp.

The clinking of silverware against ceramic was the only rhythm we shared for a long time. The announcement Santi had made the previous day—that his pregnant girlfriend would be arriving the following morning—still vibrated in the air like a physical blow.

I set my fork down and finally met his eyes. "I need to know the logistics of the evening, Santi. Are you spending the night with me, or will you be spending it in your own hotel room?"

Santi didn’t meet my gaze. He traced the condensation on the rim of his clay pot with a calloused thumb. "I think it's better if I spend the night in my own room, Imperial Highness. Given everything."

"Given everything," I repeated, my voice a flat echo. I nodded once, a sharp, clinical movement. "I see. A sudden bout of propriety."

"It's not about that," he started to argue, but I cut him off with a raised hand.

"I don't need the explanation. I’ve had enough of those lately."

I simply continued to eat, the flavors of the Creole spices turning to ash in my mouth. When the last of the black beans had been pushed around the plate, he signaled for the bill. He paid in silence, the transaction feeling final. We walked back to the hotel through the gathering dusk, two shadows moving in parallel but never touching.

As soon as we crossed the threshold of the lobby, the cord was cut.

"Goodnight, Highness," he said, hesitating at the elevator.

"Goodbye, Santi," I replied, walking toward the stairs instead.

When I entered my room, I found a neat, brown paper bag resting on the bed, containing my freshly washed and folded clothes. The scent of neutral detergent was a small, clinical comfort. I pulled my heavy leather duffel bag onto the mattress and began to pack with a methodical, almost frantic precision.

I reached for my phone and called Marlon asking him to my room. He arrived a few minutes later, knocking with a rhythmic, cautious cadence.

"You look like a woman who's already halfway out the door," Marlon said, leaning against the doorframe as he watched me shove a sweater into the bag.

"I am," I said, smoothing out a silk shirt before tucking it away. "I need a favor, Marlon. I need you to hand Bob a note from me. Personally. Not left at the reception desk."

Marlon’s brow furrowed, his eyes scanning the room. "What’s in it, Deppgrl? If I’m carrying messages from you, I should know the weight of what’s in my pocket."

"I can’t and won't disclose that," I replied firmly, stepping closer to him. "I don’t want you caught in the crossfire of Cuban officials if things go sideways. If you don't know the contents, you can't be an accomplice to the words. I just need to get out of Cuba. Now."

He searched my expression for a long moment, then gave a slow, understanding nod. "You always were good at the vanishing act. Write your note and I’ll finish packing these bags so you can focus."

I sat at the small desk, the hotel stationery feeling flimsy under my pen. I wrote with a hand that didn't shake.

Bob,

By the time you get this, I’ve left Cuba and am using my third passport to get out of here. Please let everyone know that I needed to leave and it had nothing to do with them. Tell Boris to move on as I don’t think that I’ll ever remarry—Xavier’s fault, of course. You have my blessing to marry Polina, but I know you would even without my blessing. Sera and Elena will let you know where I am when it’s time. Oh, and don’t give Marlon shit once you’ve read this.

Love you forever, bro.

Marie Alexandrovna.

I folded the paper, slid it into an envelope, and sealed it with a firm press of my thumb. On the front, I wrote Bob’s true name: Duke Artem

As I handed the envelope to Marlon, the weight of the secret I had been carrying felt too heavy for the flight ahead. I looked at him as he saw Bob’s real name.

"Marlon, before you take that, there’s something you should know about who Bob and I truly are. We aren't trust fund babies."

He paused, the envelope halfway to his pocket. "I gathered that much."

"We are descendants of Tsar Alexander III," I said softly. "We are some of the last of the Romanovs.”

Marlon’s jaw tightened in visible shock. He looked at me as if a ghost had just materialized in the center of the room. "Romanovs? I didn't think there were anyone from your family line living outside of Europe. I thought the history books closed that chapter."

"The books only close the chapters the public isn’t allowed to read," I told him. "Considering what happened to my distant relatives one hundred eight years ago, Russia leaves a bad taste in our mouths. We’ve learned to be ghosts because it's safer than being icons."

He nodded, the gravity of my heritage finally sinking in. "I’ll get this to the Duke. You have my word." He turned and slipped out of the room.

I pulled out my phone. There was only one person who could facilitate a disappearing act of this magnitude. I pulled up my encrypted messages with Sera.

”Sera, how soon can you get here? I need to get back to my second home,” I sent.

The reply came almost instantly, flashing on the screen with cold, military efficiency.

“Elena and I will be there in five minutes. If you’re not down in six minutes, we won’t be here.”

I shoved the phone into my back pocket. I did a final sweep of the room, ensuring that I hadn't left a single trace of my existence behind. I grabbed my duffel and my smaller bag then headed for the stairs, avoiding the lobby cameras as much as possible.

The night air hit me like a wall of wet velvet as I stepped onto the curb. Sera and Elena’s car was idling in the shadows, its engine a low hum. The trunk was already popped and a back seat door was already opened for me.

"You're at five minutes and forty seconds," Elena said as I was throwing my stuff in the trunk. "Cutting it close, Marie."

"I had a lot to pack," I replied, tossing my bags into the trunk.

I slammed the trunk shut and slid into the back seat. The moment the door latched, Sera shifted into gear.

"No more distractions?" Sera asked, looking at me through the rearview mirror.

"No more," I said. "Just get me to the airfield."

The tires screeched against the pavement as we tore away. Sera didn't look back. She simply steered us toward the local airport, leaving the ghost of Santi and the weight of Havana behind in the rearview mirror.

Sunburn and secrets

I stripped and hopped into the shower again, needing to wash the morning’s sweat, sun, dust and pollen off of me as well as washing the weariness of the travel off. As the water hit my skin, the lukewarm spray felt like a relief. It was the first time in a long time that I didn’t have to look after my shoulder. The freedom of moving without having to be careful or guard myself  felt like a weight was being lifted from me. I knew that I had more work to do with leaving the work of other governments behind me but Russia was my biggest adversary.

"Need some help with that?" Santi asked, stepping into the shower a few minutes later, the steam swirling around us in the small space.

I turned slightly, letting the water run down my tits briefly. "I think I can manage, but I won't say no to the company."

He reached out to touch my arm, intending to pull me close, but he paused. His eyes scanned the heat radiating from my back, noting the angry red hue.

"Deppgrl," he murmured as he leaned in and kissed the back of my neck, his breath warm against my damp skin. "You're really red. I don't think shower sex is something that would be good for your skin at the moment. Your skin is sensitive from that sunburn."

I chuckled and agreed, leaning my head back against his shoulder as the water ran over us. "I think you're right," I said. "It’s definitely not the time for that. As much as I’d like to, I think the friction might make me cry."

"Then let's just focus on getting you clean," he whispered, picking up the soap.

We took our time showering, enjoying the quiet proximity and the slick slide of soap over skin, and when we finally got out, we toweled off.

I threw on one of the casual outfits that I just purchased—linen shorts, a cotton shirt, and cute sandals. Santi dressed in jean shorts, a polo shirt, and sneakers. As we headed downstairs, we stopped at the desk and asked reception to have our bedding changed and the room cleaned.

"We can certainly do that for you," the clerk said, looking up from his ledger.

"If I gathered my clothing, would you wash those for me as well?" I asked.

"We would," the clerk replied, "but please add them to the bag that designates items are personal so they stay separate from the in-house laundry."

"I'll be right back down," I told Santi. I headed back up to the room to gather my clothing. Once I had everything, I tossed my clothing in the bag mentioned by the clerk. It was a tight squeeze, the fabric bulging against the drawstrings, but it was fine. I knew that some of my clothing was extra dirty and needed a thorough cleaning, but at the end of the day, I was grateful that my clothing was getting cleaned.

When I got back downstairs, Santi was waiting by the door. We decided to take a cab to a local museum. Even though we knew that the cabs didn’t have air conditioning, we were okay with that as the cabbies drove with the windows open in the summer which made the air a little cooler as we moved.

In no time, we arrived at the museum. We thanked the cabbie and paid him well, then entered the museum after paying an entrance fee. The air conditioning felt great on my burned skin, instantly taking the sting out of the heat. It was only a few dollars for each of us but since we both cherish museums and appreciate history, we paid a few dollars more.

"We want to pay a little bit extra in case someone can’t pay," I told the employee as I handed over the extra bills.

The museum employee looked surprised and grateful for the extra money and the employee was clearly thankful for it. They knew that there are some locals who come to the museum to get out of the heat and the cold but don’t have the money to enter.

Santi and I spent the next few hours in the museum and lost track of time. The museum had wonderful displays, it was well organized, and we were blown away with the artifacts that it held.

"Look at the detail on this," Santi said, pointing to a centuries-old carving. "It’s incredible it’s survived this well."

"It really is," I replied, though my mind was already shifting to my plan. I knew that I would step away from Santi—claiming to need to use the bathroom—but rather than heading there, I wanted to head back to the museum employees accepting payment to make a donation.

"I'll be right back," I told him. "I just need to find the restroom before we move to the next wing."

"No problem," Santi said, smiling. "I'll start looking at the colonial era exhibit."

I excused myself and headed back to the employees. I found the one that accepted the payment for Santi and I then explained to her what I would like to do. She was happy that I was making a donation.

"What is the largest donation amount you are aware of?" I asked her.

She said that it was two thousand Cuban pesos. I knew that was approximately equivalent to ninety-five dollars from many other countries. I looked at her and told her that I would like to donate forty-five thousand Cuban pesos—the equivalency was about one thousand nine hundred dollars from many other countries.

The employee was stunned, her mouth opening slightly as she processed the amount. She was incredibly grateful for the generosity.

“What name can I put down for the administration?” she asked. “They like to know who donated so they can send a thank you note."

"It’s an anonymous gift," I said, wary of the possible real reason why the administrators needed my name. “No note necessary.”

She nodded her head to acknowledge what I said. I smiled and thanked her after providing the money.

As I left her to head to the bathroom, I took out my phone and texted Sera, my spy friend and former lover. I knew at this point, I was asking for far too much.

"Hey, Sera. I know you know where I am. I just made a large cash donation at the museum. It’s heavily guarded with security cameras. Can you please do your magic and make me blurry for my most recent interaction with the staff?" I sent.

I waited by the sinks for a moment. The phone buzzed.

"Of course. Give me five to ten minutes. Cuba’s cameras are old technology and hard to manipulate but I’ll get it done for you. Elena sends her thanks for your generous gift that was delivered and released me from dog house. She said that you’re welcome to text us any time you need us," Sera replied.

I put my phone away, went to the bathroom, and headed back to where I left Santi. Once he saw me, he smiled, walked over, and kissed me.

"Did you miss me?" I asked, looking up at him.

"I did," he said, his voice warm, then kissed me again.

I smiled a little bit. I had some guilt, though. I was enjoying my time with Santi when Boris wanted to spend the time with me as well, and I did wonder why he wasn’t fighting Santi for time with me.

As we walked, I decided to ask Santi that. "Santi, why isn't Boris fighting you for time with me? It feels strange that he's just letting us have this time without an argument."

Santi slowed his pace, his expression turning thoughtful. "He realized that you were right, Deppgrl," he said quietly. "We both did. You’ve been through so much in such a short amount of time. Having confirmation twice now of who you truly are, it's a lot for anyone to process. He understands now that marriage to anyone isn't in your best interest at the moment."

I looked at him, surprised by the sudden clarity.

"Boris does love you very much," Santi continued. "He does want to marry you and have kids with you, eventually. But he knows that right now, you need space to breathe and just be. He’s willing to give you that space, though he did make one thing clear—he won't wait for you forever."

I nodded my head.