Asylum

Chapter 32: Promises

I managed to hold myself together until our cabin door closed behind us, but not a moment longer. Unsure of whether I was going to collapse, puke, or start sobbing hysterically, I threw myself into the small, dark bathroom and promptly did all three.

In a heartbeat, Ivan was there on the floor with me, his broad frame squeezing into the tiny space to kneel behind me, one arm around my waist, one gently pulling my hair back as I hurled spiced mango into the bowl.

"Мне так жаль, мой ангел, Мне очень жаль (I'm sorry, my angel, I am so sorry)," he murmured. I felt his forehead come to rest between my shoulder blades. "I never should have brought you here, never should have exposed you to this."

I struggled to bring my stomach under control; it was empty of what little food I'd eaten, but still the dry heaving kept me pinned in place. When the spasms finally subsided, I fumbled in the dim bathroom for the oversized button to flush the toilet, carrying the evidence of my weakness away to the hold. I wiped my mouth and shifted awkwardly until I was curled in Ivan's strong arms.

"You didn't know he would kill that boy," I assured him, my words quiet and muffled against his shoulder. "And you couldn't have stopped it. I know that. I do."

He wasn't going to let himself off the hook so easily. "I knew what kind of man Emilio is," he countered softly. "Though tonight was ... unexpected ... I've seen him kill before. He is without thought or remorse. The bastard will have no problem sleeping tonight. He may never even think about what he did unless his eggs are a little late to his plate in the morning."

The events of the evening continued to replay in a sickening loop in my head – the sudden heat of Emilio's rage, the sound of his fist on the pulp of the boy's face and the splash as the broken body hit the water, the maniac's fingers gripping my chin, him ordering me minutes later to make him another drink, and Ivan's suggestion that Lana teach the other ladies how to make a Manhattan so Emilio might continue to enjoy the drink in the future.

The women had all been desperate to learn – anything to avoid the fate of the young waiter in the water – but Emilio had twisted their quiet grasping for hope into a harrowing competition, insisting that they each make him a drink so that he might judge which was best. He'd made a dramatic production of tasting – and finishing – each cocktail, watching each woman with narrowed, calculating eyes as he'd poured each concoction slowly down his throat. I knew the drinks had been identical – I had supervised the mixing of each one to ensure no potentially fatal mistakes were made – but Emilio had played up his role of connoisseur, treating each one as though he were a vintner sampling new wine.

When he'd finished Elena's submission, his fourth Manhattan in about 30 minutes, he had considered the three terrified women lined up before him, scrutinizing each on some unknowable criteria, letting their fear build to a rapid boil. Finally, he'd turned on his heel and left the deck without pronouncing a winner, barking "¡Vamanos!" over his shoulder as he went. The panicked trio had followed without a backward glance.

I leaned my head on Ivan's muscled chest, the bitter aftertaste of vomit strong in my mouth. "Do you think they're okay?" I asked quietly.

He hesitated before answering. "I'm pretty sure that none of them are in danger of losing their lives tonight," he said finally. How fucked up was it that something that should be a given was reassuring? "I don't think I could say any of them are 'okay'," he finished as he continued to stroke my hair tenderly.

I felt the trickle of a tear spill down my face, followed by another, and soon I was shaking again with the force of my sobs. Ivan settled into a more comfortable position on the floor and pulled me more tightly to his chest, wrapped as much of me into his long, strong body as he possibly could, murmuring an unintelligible patois of Russian, English, and French endearments into my hair.

I didn't know how long we remained there, entangled with each other on that bathroom floor, but parts of my body were starting to go numb when I finally took a deep breath and wiped my hands over my slick cheeks.

"Please don't deal with him anymore," I pleaded quietly. I felt Ivan stiffen slightly and strained to see his face in the nearly complete darkness. "I don't want your body getting dumped into the ocean someday because profits are down or you disagreed with his business plan or ... he doesn't like your shirt or your joke or your new haircut."

He pressed another kiss to the crown of my head. "Emilio won't touch me," he assured me. "I'm not his man, I'm Esteban's. And no matter how insane he seems when he's in his rage, pissing off his father is a line he'll never cross.

"But I won't bring you near him ever again," he vowed passionately. I felt his arms tighten around me. "It was unforgivable of me to bring you this time."

I shifted my head back onto his chest. "I didn't give you much of a choice," I offered.

He didn't laugh. "I'd rather have you furious with me, or even have you leave me, than put you in that kind of danger again."

I said nothing. Ivan had grown to know me shockingly well – in some ways, better than anyone else ever had – but there were parts of me that he did not even suspect, and those parts would never let him within fifty feet of Emilio Santiago again without backup. He may not know it yet, but his days of walking this lethal tightrope alone were over; I would – somehow – be there for his next meeting with that psycho, and every meeting after that.

I would make sure of it.