Consent (The Loan Shark Duet 2)
For life.
Leaving Valentina and Connor is the hardest thing I’ve done after saying goodbye to Carly. It chops away at my insides, leaving me as broken as the people I’d tortured. Keeping Valentina forever was a dark, dubious, and beautiful dream, but that life is over. With the money from my will and the inherited business, she and Connor can live comfortably. I’m one hundred percent sure Rhett and Quincy will stay on in her employ. They love her enough to follow her to the end of the rainbow and beyond. The business is clean. I got rid of the bad elements, cut the ties, and blew the evidence to pieces. Valentina can run the loan office without being arrested or murdered by the Portuguese or Jewish mafias.
I wanted to confide in Michael, but it would’ve been too risky. No one can ever know. To the world, I’m dead. Valentina needs the money and a fresh start—without me.
Damn, the thought hurts. I press a hand on my chest, rubbing away the physical ache where I lie in a hospital bed in Switzerland with my body and face in bandages. New technology allowed for extensive corrective surgery to my face and hip. When I recover, I’ll have new features and an almost-good body.
The self-sustained injuries are not as much a gift to myself as a way of bringing me back to life. I’ve already taken on a new identity. I’ll go back to South Africa to keep an eye on Valentina and my child. This is my new life purpose, and the only motivation that keeps me going. There are too many dangers out there for a woman alone. Not that she’ll be alone, forever. Not a woman like her. She’s much too appealing. Too beautiful. Too strong. Too loving. It will be tougher than burning in the flames of hell, but I’ll endure seeing her in the arms of another man as long as she’s happy. For the rest of my miserable life, I’ll hide in corners and shadows, following the woman I love, ensuring she’s safe on street and in her bed at night. I’ll watch over her and Connor like a guard dog. I’ll always love her, but this time only from afar.
Weekly updates about her welfare reach me via email. My informant is an ex-Recce. The guy is a nutcase, but he’s one hundred percent reliable. Reading the latest report, I utter a loud curse. The nurse, who is changing my sheets, gives me a reprimanding look, but I don’t give a fuck. I pay enough for the private room to swear as loudly and as much as I like. The pain from my surgery that’s usually acute turns unbearable. It happens whenever I clench every muscle in my body.
The reason for my self-directed anger blurs on the screen in front of me. I blink and reread the last paragraph. My assets are frozen, an unfortunate result of the forensic investigation, which I didn’t have the damn foresight to predict. Until the case is closed, Valentina is penniless.
I ache to be there. The need to take care of her is overwhelming, but I’m unable to come near her. All I can do is watch her struggle from a computer screen on a different continent, and it fucking destroys me.
It takes another nine months of excruciating waiting, physiotherapy, and healing before I can close the distance between Valentina and I. Needing a new source of income, I launched an investment company while I waited to heal. It’s awkward not to be able to buy what I want without reflecting on my balance statement, such as airfare to South Africa. By the time I leave the clinic, the small company I manage online starts showing a profit. Before my death I researched various offshore companies and came up with a list of promising startups. I anonymously invested money in a company manufacturing a relaxation drink, more or less the opposite of Red Bull, which proved to be an instant success. A little bird in Johannesburg told me that the gold resources are almost depleted, hence I bought up shares before the crisis hit, and the gold price skyrocketed. By fluke, I stumbled upon and acquired a small insurance firm on the brink of bankruptcy that specializes in diamonds and gemstones. I also went to considerable lengths to create a cyber history for my new identity.
When the bruises on my face are healed, I have enough money to buy a ticket to South Africa and lead a modest life. Standing in front of the mirror of my one-bedroom, rented apartment in Zurich, I study the man staring back at me. Instead of a full beard and moustache, he has a goatee. The skin on his cheeks is smooth. The scar that used to cut from his eyebrow to his jaw is gone, and the gap in the eyebrow once more covered with the same dark brown color as the hair on his head. His cheekbones are higher and his nose straighter. His eyes are green, thanks to contact lenses, and his features are set in symmetrical order. Where his left eye used to sag a fraction, both eyes are now aligned. The man is attractive, handsome even, and a complete stranger.