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, 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. 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 just tourists or 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 many of your line left outside of European. 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 Marlon and 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.