A Million Different Ways to Lose You (Horn Duet 2)

“You still don’t get it. That shouldn’t surprise me. You’ve always been naïve––straightforward. I blame your mother. It’s the American in you.”

Taking the stairs by two, I chased after the voices, finally reaching the room they were emanating from. Charles’ study.

“Then make me fucking understand, Charles!” Sebastian shouted, his temper spinning out of control.

“Who do think allowed me to place the trades through the bank?”

Sebastian swore savagely.

What felt like an eternity later, Charles continued, “The bank was failing. It was in dire need of fresh blood to sustain it. A number of the other boutique banks had already been swallowed up by larger conglomerates. Hen was not the charmer you are––that shouldn’t be a surprise––and set in his ways. I brought in a couple of sheiks, an Israeli arms dealer. But there was only so much even I could do. He thought they should court his favors. Arrogant prick. I loved him dearly, your father, but he was that.

“When the situation finally became dire, I approached him with a deal I’d been working on. They needed someone to take exploding profits earned from the opium production increase in Afghanistan. You know what happened after the American’s pulled out; the trade increased exponentially and all that cash had to be––”

“Washed,” Sebastian finished.

“They came to me, and asked if I could place some trades. Any profits the trade earned I kept, and the losses they paid. In return, I was to send the half the amount of the initial investment to a charity.”

“They?!”

“I always dealt with a middleman.”

The next time Sebastian spoke his voice was so quiet it was barely audible. “They’ve already killed India…they’re trying to kill me.”

“I…I had no idea…not until you were shot…you must believe me.” Charles’ voice was as small as it could possibly be.

“And Vera? They won’t be able to identify your remains if anything happens to her.”

“I’ll make it right…I’ll talk to them.”

“It’s a little late for that.” Sebastian’s fury was back. The silence emanating from Charles explained everything. “That fucking charity was a front,” Sebastian continued. “The money is funneled to Hezbollah. You were directly funding terrorism.”

“I didn’t know.” Charles’s voice faded away, until there was nothing left.

“You son of a bitch––you didn’t want to know!”

The heavy silence that followed devoured time. I couldn’t stand idly by any longer. Pushing the doors of the office open, I stepped inside and scanned the room.

Sebastian stood near the fireplace, his stance defiant, his muscles so rigid he looked as if he was about to shatter. Charles sat slumped down in a leather wing back chair behind a stately antique desk. He suddenly seemed his age, defeat written all over his face and his posture. He barely acknowledged me.

Swirling the liquor in the crystal tumbler he held, Charles stared into the glass with a vacant expression and murmured, “What are you going to do?”

Sebastian glanced up from the empty fireplace and stared a hole through the man he loved more than his own father. The man complicit in his attempted murder and the murder of his wife. Hands stuffed in his pockets, he shrugged his wide shoulders and shook his head as he dejectedly answered, “There’s nothing I can do. The Department of Justice is in charge of it. This is just a courtesy they allowed me. They have everything they need to tie you to multiple terror organizations…a witness willing to testify.”

Charles’s eyes snapped up in surprise. “Who?”

“You know who.”

“Marcus,” Charles volunteered. His eyes falling on the liquor he held. Raising the glass to his lips, he drained it in one gulp.

“You’re surprised he would cut a deal?”

“Not surprised––no.” Charles’ said, resigned of the now clear and inevitable outcome. “How much time do I have?”

Sebastian stared at him, pain etched on his perfect features. “None,” was his soft reply. Walking over to me, he took me gently by the arm and ushered me towards the door. “They’re camped outside. They’ll arrest you by morning.” Then before we walked out, without turning around he said, “I loved you. I loved you in ways I never loved my father.”

Jesus. To be held in contempt by his father for no fault of his own, and betrayed by the man he loved most was a blow I don’t think many could recover from.

We made our way up the marble staircase at a glum pace. Needing to be as close to him as possible, I wrapped myself around his arm and kissed his bicep. “I don’t know what to say. Sorry doesn’t seem enough.” He looked down at me, his eyes soft and loving, accepting anything I was willing to give. He deserved so much more. He deserved the best. He’d received so little support in his life that his standards were sadly low.

And then, as we reached the top of the staircase––a shot rang out, sundering the quiet.