The Mister

I feel her feather-light touch, everywhere.

Everywhere.

Fuck.

And before I can stop myself, I pull her into my embrace and wrap my arms around her. She melts against the length of my body, her warmth leaching into me.

Oh, man, the feel of her.

I slide my fingers under her scarf and gently slip it off her head. Clasping her plait at the base of her neck, I tug lightly, bringing her lips up to mine. “Alessia,” I breathe, and kiss her again, softly, slowly, so as not to frighten her. She stills in my arms, then brings her hands up to clutch my biceps, closing her eyes as she accepts me.

I deepen the kiss, my tongue teasing her lips, and she opens her mouth.

Fuck.

She tastes of warmth and grace and sweet seduction. Her tongue hesitant and faltering against mine. It’s captivating. It’s arousing.

I have to hold myself back. I want nothing more than to bury myself in this girl—but I don’t think she’ll let me. I draw back. “What’s my name?” I murmur against her lips.

“Mister,” she whispers as I run my thumb down her cheek.

“Maxim. Say Maxim.”

“Maxim,” she breathes.

“Yes.” I love the sound of my name in her accent.

See, that wasn’t so hard.

Suddenly there’s a loud, insistent banging on the front door.

Who the hell is that? How did they get into the building?

Reluctantly I step back. “Don’t go anywhere.” I hold up my finger in warning.

“Open the door, Mr. Trev…an!” a disembodied voice bellows from outside. “Immigration!”

“Oh, no,” Alessia whispers, and she clutches her throat, her eyes wide with fear.

“Don’t be afraid.”

The knock rattles the door once more. “Mr. Trev…yan!” The voice is perceptibly louder.

“I’ll deal with this,” I mutter, pissed off that we’ve been interrupted. Leaving Alessia in the darkroom, I head down the hallway.

Through the peephole in the front door, I assess the two men outside. One is short, the other is tall, and both are dressed in cheap gray suits and black parkas. They don’t look particularly official. I pause, debating whether or not to answer. But I should find out why they’re here and if it’s anything to do with Alessia.

I thread the sturdy security chain through the catch and open the door.

One of the men tries to burst in, but with my body pressed against the door, the chain holds. He’s the short one. Thickset and balding, he oozes aggression from every pore in his body and from his sly, shrewd eyes. “Where is she, mister?” he barks.

I recoil.

Who are these lowlifes?

Baldy’s partner looms behind him: thin, silent, and menacing. The hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention.

“Can I see some ID?” My voice is equally menacing.

“Open the door. We’re from immigration, and we believe you have a failed asylum seeker in your apartment.” The stocky guy speaks again as his nostrils flare in anger. He has a distinct Eastern European accent.

“You need a warrant to search these premises. Where is it?” I hiss with the authority that comes from a life of privilege and several years at one of the best public schools in Britain.

The large man hesitates for a moment, and I smell a rat.

Who the fuck are these men?

“Your warrant, where is it?” I snarl.

Baldy looks uncertainly at his cohort.

“Where is the girl?” The tall, thin bloke speaks.

“There is no one here but me. Who are you looking for?”

“A girl—”

“Aren’t we all?” I sneer. “Now, can I suggest you fuck off and come back with a warrant or I’ll call the police.” Taking my phone out of my back pocket, I hold it up in front of them. “But just so we’re clear. There are no girls here, let alone illegal immigrants.” I lie easily, a skill that’s also a product of several years at one of the best public schools in Britain. “Shall I call the police?”

Both of them take a step back.

At that moment Mrs. Beckstrom, who lives in the neighboring flat, opens her front door, holding Heracles, her yappy lapdog.

“Hello, Maxim,” she calls.

Bless you, Mrs. Beckstrom.

“Very well, Mr. Trev…Trev.” He can’t pronounce my name.

It’s Lord Trevethick to you, fucker!

“We shall be back with a warrant.” He turns on his heel, jerks his head at his colleague, and they brush past Mrs. Beckstrom on their way toward the stairs. She glares at them, then smiles at me.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. B.,” I say with a wave, and close the door.

How the hell did those thugs find out that Alessia was here? Why are they chasing her? What has she done? There’s no “immigration” department. It’s called Border Force and has been for years. I take a deep breath in an effort to damp down my anxiety and head back into the darkroom, where I suspect Alessia will be trembling in a corner.

She’s not there.

She’s not in the kitchen.

My concern mushrooms into full-scale panic as I race through the flat calling her name. She’s not in the bedrooms or the drawing room. Finally I search the scullery. The fire-escape door is ajar, and her coat and boots are missing.

Alessia has fled.

Chapter Nine

Alessia flies down the fire escape, her heart racing as adrenaline and fear fuel her body. Once she reaches the bottom, she’s in the side alley. She should be safe here. The gate to the street at the rear of the building is locked from the inside. But to be sure, she ducks between two of the dumpsters, where the residents of Mister Maxim’s block dispose of their trash. She leans against the brick wall and drags air into her lungs, trying to catch her breath.

How have they found her? How?

She had recognized Dante’s voice immediately, and all her suppressed memories had surfaced in a terrifying rush.

The dark.

The smell.

The fear.

The cold.

The smell. Ugh. The smell.

Tears well in her eyes, and she tries to blink them away. She has led them to him! She knows how ruthless they are and what they are capable of doing. She lets out a loud sob and puts her fist in her mouth as she cowers on the cold ground.

He could be hurt.

No.

She has to check. She can’t flee if he’s hurt.

Think, Alessia. Think.

The only person who knows she is here is Magda.

Magda!

No. Did they find Magda and Michal?

What have they done to them?

Magda.

Michal.

Mister…Maxim.

Her breath comes in short, sharp bursts as panic closes her throat. She thinks she’s going to faint, but suddenly her stomach roils, bile rises in her throat, and before she knows it, she’s doubled over and vomiting her breakfast onto the ground. As she retches and retches, she splays her hands on the brick wall until there’s nothing left in her stomach. The physical effort of throwing up leaves her wrung out but a little calmer. Wiping her mouth on the back of her hand, she stands, feeling dizzy, and peeks into the alley to see if anyone has heard her. She’s still alone.

Thank God.

Think, Alessia, think.

The first thing she has to do is check t

hat the Mister is okay. Taking a deep breath, she leaves her refuge between the dumpsters and makes her way back up the fire escape. She moves cautiously as a sense of self-preservation kicks in. She needs to know the coast is clear, but she cannot be seen by them. It’s six stories high, so by the time she reaches the fifth story, she’s winded. She inches her way up the next staircase and peeps through the metal railings into the penthouse apartment. The laundry door is closed, but she can see into the living room. There’s no sign of life at first, but then, all of a sudden, the Mister barges into the living room, and she can tell he’s fetching something from his desk. He’s there for a moment before he bolts back out of the room.

Her body slumps against the metal balustrade. He’s safe.

Thank God.

With her curiosity appeased and her conscience reassured, she staggers back down the fire escape, knowing she has to check that Magda and Michal are okay.

At ground level in the alley once more, she changes into her boots and makes her way to the gate at the rear entrance of the apartment block. It opens onto the backstreet, not onto Chelsea Embankment. She pauses for a moment. Perhaps Dante and Ylli will be there waiting for her? They will be out front, surely? With her heart beating a frantic tempo, she opens the gate and peers into the street. The only sign of life is a dark green sports car speeding to the end of the road; there’s no sign of Dante and his sidekick, Ylli. Taking her woolly hat out of her bag, she tugs it on, tucks her hair inside, and sets off for the bus stop.

She walks briskly along the street, fighting the urge to run, knowing that might attract unwanted attention. She keeps her head down and her hands in her pockets, and with each step she prays to her grandmother’s God to keep Magda and Michal safe. She says it over and over again, alternating between her native tongue and English.

Ruaji, Zot.

Ruaji, Zot.

God keep them safe.

* * *

I’ve stood paralyzed in the hallway for what seems like an age. I’m filled with dread, and my blood is thundering in my ears.