He doesn’t answer, but I know he wants to know, and I’m sure as hell gonna tell him.
“That you really thought I went on that mission to destroy you.” I shake my head; my heart is heavy. “I mean sure the thought crossed my mind, but I never thought I’d actually do it; it was never a real intention. I went, Victor”—my words are becoming ice—“because I didn’t feel right about Izabel being there. And you know what?” I step toward him—he stands his ground—and I look him in the eyes. I start to say one thing, about Izabel, but decide against it and say another. “As far as killing Francesca Moretti, yeah, there at the end I admit—and I don’t regret it—that I killed her because I wanted to; I did it for the sole purpose of making life more difficult for you.”
I spit blood on the floor and walk away from him.
“But it wasn’t until that moment,” I say, looking back, “not any time before it, that I did anything out of spite.”
I reach into my pants pocket to retrieve the flash drive given to us by Emilio. I toss it to Victor and he catches it.
“Your client,” I say, “can find his daughter easily. We went back for the girl at the last minute and tried to bring her home, but she…in Izabel’s words, was already too broken. Not my problem.” I round my chin and then add, “I’ll pay the client back the money owed, myself. I have plenty of money, and I don’t really give a shit about any of it. I have more important things to care about.”
I start to leave the room when Victor’s voice stops me.
“I am sorry about Claire.”
Every muscle in my body tenses hearing him say her name; not because I want to kill him for it, but because I feel like his apology is sincere.
I shut my eyes softly; my back to my brother.
I say nothing, push open the door and leave.
Izabel and Nora are standing in the hallway; I know they heard everything; the looks on their faces: Izabel is heartbroken; Nora doesn’t have much of a heart to break, but even she seems to feel some kind of remorse.
“Where are you going?” Izabel calls out after me.
“To the bar,” I answer.
She runs up behind me, fitting her hand partway around my wrist, stopping me. I stop but I don’t look at her.
“I…I wanted to tell you on the plane that…I didn’t mean what I said, that you were a selfish opportunist—Niklas, I know you saved Sian because you didn’t want to see her die. And I’m sorry.”
I start to walk away.
“Are you going to disappear again?” she asks.
“If you or my brother needs me you know where to find me.”
She nods, thanking me with her eyes, and then she lets me go.
Izabel
Devastated doesn’t even begin to cover how I feel about the news of Dorian.
“Izabel, I am sorry.” He says, standing behind his chair at the head of the table. “His betrayal ran too deep; I could not let it go.”
“Because you were afraid of what everyone else might think?” I accuse. “Make an example of him so no one will even think of opposing you? That’s very tyrant, Victor.” I regret my words immediately after saying them.
I turn to face him, dropping my crossed arms to my sides, letting the anger deflate out of me. “I’m angry; I won’t tell you that I’m not, or pretend that it doesn’t hurt, but…” I sigh heavily, “…I know you had to do it; it’s just hard for me to accept it as easily as you can. Or Nora. Or Fredrik. I guess I just have a long way to go before I’m like you.”
Victor walks over to me; he touches my botched hair in both of his hands—he was a little surprised when he first saw it, but he never said a word about it. “Izabel,” he says softly, “I have come to realize that being exactly like me—or Nora, or Fredrik—is the last thing I want for you.”
I start to argue, to question what that means exactly, but he stops me.
“Like my brother,” he says, “you are your own person; like Fredrik and Nora and even James Woodard. I do not want you to spend the rest of your life trying to be somebody else—I just want you to be you, use your own strengths and skills to pave your way in this life; it has worked well for you so far.” His hands find my face and he cups my cheeks; I sense that what he’s about to say is painful for him. “And the last thing that I want…is for you to be like me.”
What is he saying? Where is this coming from?
“Victor, what does that mean?”
He presses his lips to my forehead. Then he looks into my eyes. “It simply means that you are better at being human than any of us, that you have not fully given your life over to this life, and I do not think you ever should—just hear me out. Please.”