Mister and Missus By E L James - 10

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 that 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.

Where the fuck is she?

What the hell is she mixed up in?

What do I do?

How can she face those guys on her own?

Fuck it. I have to find her.

Where will she go?

Home.

Brentford.

Yes.

I dash down the hall to the drawing room and snatch the car keys from my desk, then run to the front door, stopping only to grab my coat.

I feel sick, my stomach churning.

There is no way those guys were from “immigration.”

When I reach the garage, I press the electronic key, expecting the Discovery to open, but instead the Jag beeps to life.

Shit. In my haste I’ve picked up the wrong key.

Fuck it.

I don’t have time to go back upstairs for the correct key. I clamber into the F-Type Jag and press the ignition. The engine roars to life, and I ease the car forward out of its parking space. The garage doors rise gradually, and I exit to the left onto the street and race to the end of the road, turning left again toward Chelsea Embankment. But that’s as far as I get. Traffic is slow because it’s Friday afternoon and the beginning of rush hour. The crowded roads exacerbate my anxiety and do nothing for my temper. I run through my interaction with the thugs repeatedly, looking for any clues as to what might have happened to Alessia. They sounded Eastern European. They looked rough. Alessia bolted—so she either knows them or believes they’re from the “immigration” department, which means she must be in the UK illegally. This doesn’t surprise me. She’s brought every conversation we’ve had about what she’s doing in London to an abrupt end.

Oh, Alessia. What are you up to?

And where the hell are you?

I hope that she’s gone back to Brentford, because that’s where I’m headed.

Alessia sits on the train nervously fingering the small gold cross that hangs around her neck. It was her grandmother’s, and it’s the only possession she has that belonged to her dear nana. She treasures it. In times of stress, it brings her comfort. Though her mother and father are not religious, her grandmother was… She fiddles with it now and keeps repeating her mantra.

Please keep them safe.

Please keep them safe.

Her anxiety is overwhelming. They found her. How? How do they know about Magda? She needs to know that Magda and Michal are okay. Normally she likes traveling by train, but today it’s too slow. As the train reaches Putney, Alessia knows that it will be another twenty minutes before it reaches Brentford.

Please hurry.

Her thoughts turn to Mister Maxim. At least he is safe, for now.

Her heart stutters.

Maxim.

He kissed me.

Twice.

Twice!

He said lovely words. About her.

You’re beautiful.

You’re stunning.

And he kissed her!

That’s how I feel.

If circumstances were different, she would be ecstatic. She touches her fingers to her lips. It was a bittersweet moment. Her dreams were finally realized, only to be shattered by Dante—again.

There’s no way she can be involved with the Mister. No. Maxim. His name is Maxim.

She has brought such terrible danger to his home. She has to protect him.

Zot! Her job.

She will be out of a job. Nobody wants trouble coming to their front door and criminals like Dante threatening them.

What will she do?

She needs to be careful when she returns to Magda’s. She cannot let Dante find her there.

She cannot.

She must protect herself, too.

Fear grips her throat, and she shudders. She hugs herself, trying to contain her distress. All her vague hopes and dreams are lost. And in a rare moment of self-pity, she rocks to and fro, trying to find some comfort and alleviate her fear.

Why does the train have to take so long?

It pulls in to Barnes station, and the doors open.

“Please. Please hurry,” Alessia whispers, and her fingers find her gold cross once more.

I speed down the A4, my mind hopping from Alessia to those men and then to Kit as I dodge through the traffic.

Kit? What would you do?

He would have known. He always knew.

I remember our Christmas holiday. Kit had been in such good form. Maryanne and I had joined him and Caroline at a jazz festival in Havana. A couple days later, we’d all flown down to St. Vincent and taken a boat to Bequia to spend Christmas together in a private villa. Maryanne had gone on to Whistler to ski and to spend New Year’s Eve with friends, and Caroline, Kit, and I had returned to the UK for Hogmanay.

It had been an amazing week.

And the day after New Year’s Day, Kit died.

Or killed himself.

There. I thought it.

My unspoken suspicion.

Damn it, Kit. You fucker.

The A4 becomes the M4, and I spy the high-rise towers that dominate the Brentford landscape and signal that I’m near. I come off the motorway hitting the slip road at fifty miles per hour. I slow down, but fortunately, the lights at the junction are green, and I cruise through them thankful that I’d brought her home earlier in the week and know where she lives.

Six minutes later I pull up in front of her house, leap out of the car, and dash up the short pathway. There are still clumps of snow on the grass and the sad remains of a snowman. The doorbell trills somewhere inside, but there’s no response. The house is empty.

Fuck.

Where is she?

Apprehension overwhelms me. Where could she be?

Of course! She’ll be coming here by train.

I’d seen the sign for the station as I’d turned in to Church Walk. I sprint back down the path and turn right on to the main road. The station is less than two hundred meters on my left.

Thank God it’s so close.

As I dash down the station stairs, I see a train waiting on the far platform, but it’s heading into London. I stop and focus my attention. There are only two platforms, and the one I’m on is for trains traveling out of London. All I have to do is wait. An electronic display hanging overhead announces that the next train arrives at 15:07. I check my watch; it’s 15:03 now.

I lean against one of the white iron pillars that support the station roof and wait. There are a few other commuters waiting for the train, too. Most of them, like me, are seeking shelter from the elements. I watch as the frigid wind blows a discarded crisp packet in gusts along the station platform and across the train tracks. But it doesn’t hold my attention for long. Every few seconds I glance at the empty track, praying for the London train to materialize.

Come on. Come on. I will it to arrive.

Finally the train appears around the bend, and it slowly—oh, so fucking slowly—pulls in to the station and stops. I stand up straight, my stomach churning with anxiety as the doors open and a few people alight from the train.

Twelve of them.

But not Alessia.

Fucking hell.

As the train leaves the station, I check the electronic sign again. The next train is due in fifteen minutes.

That’s not too long.

It’s a fucking age!

Hell.

I’m glad that even in my haste to leave the flat, I remembered my coat. It’s bloody cold. I cup and blow on my hands, stamp my feet, and pull up my coat collar in an effort to keep warm. Thrusting my hands into the pockets, I pace up and down the platform while I wait.

My phone buzzes, and for some insane reason I think it might be Alessia, but of course she doesn’t have my number. It’s Caroline. Whatever she wants can wait. I ignore the call.

After an intolerable fifteen minutes, the 15:22 from London Waterloo comes into view around the bend. It slows as it approaches the station, and after an agonizing minute it stops.

Time suspends.

The doors open, and Alessia is first off the train.

Oh, thank fuck.

Relief nearly brings me to my knees, but just the sight of her calms me down.

When Alessia sees him, she stops short in complete astonishment. The other disembarking passengers stream past them as she and Maxim stare at each other, drinking each other in. The doors close with a hiss of compressed air, and the train gradually pulls out of the station, leaving them on their own.

“Hello,” he says, breaking the silence between them as he approaches her. “You left without saying good-bye.”

Her face falls, and her eyes fill with tears that spill down her cheeks.

Her anguish rips through me.

“Oh, baby,” I whisper, and open my arms. She puts her face in her hands and begins to weep. Feeling at a loss, I fold her into my embrace and hold her. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you,” I whisper against her green woolly hat. She sniffles, and I lift her chin and plant a tender kiss on her forehead. “I mean it. I’ve got you.”

Alessia’s eyes widen, and she pulls away. “Magda?” she whispers, alarmed.

“Let’s go.” I take her hand, and together we hurry up the metal staircase and out onto the road. Her hand is cold in mine, and I want nothing more than to whisk her away to somewhere safe. But first of all I have to know what’s going on. What trouble she’s in. I only hope that she’ll open up and tell me.

We walk quickly but in silence across the road and back to 43 Church Walk. At the front door, Alessia fishes out a key from her pocket, unlocks the door, and we both step inside.

The front hallway is tiny and made more crowded by the two packing boxes that stand in the corner. Alessia removes her hat and anorak, and I take them from her and hang them on one of the pegs on the wall.

“Magda,” she calls up the stairs while I shed my coat and hang it beside hers, but there’s no answer. The house is empty. I follow her into the tiny kitchen.

Jesus, the place is a shoebox!

From the threshold of the dated but tidy 1980s kitchen, I watch Alessia fill the kettle. She’s in her tight jeans and the green sweater that she wore the other day.

“Coffee?” she asks.

“Please.”

“Would you like milk and sugar?”

I shake my head. “No, thank you.” I loathe instant coffee and can only tolerate it black, but now isn’t the right time to tell her.

“Sit,” she says, and points to the little white table. I do as I’m told and wait, watching her while she prepares our drinks. I am not going to rush her.

She makes tea for herself—strong, with sugar and milk—and eventually hands me a mug inscribed BRENTFORD FC that bears the team logo. Taking the seat opposite me, she gazes down at the contents of her mug, which is emblazoned with the Arsenal shield, and an uncomfortable silence settles between us.

Finally I can bear it no longer. “Are you planning to tell me what’s going on? Or do I have to guess?”

She doesn’t respond, but her teeth worry her upper lip. Under any normal circumstance, this would drive me crazy, but seeing her this distraught is sobering.

“Look at me.”

At last her big brown eyes meet mine.

“Tell me. I want to help.”

Her eyes widen with what I assume is fear, and she shakes her head.

I sigh. “Okay. Let’s play twenty questions.”

She looks puzzled.

“You answer each question yes or no.”

Her frown deepens, and she clutches the little gold cross that hangs at her neck.

“Are you a failed asylum seeker?”

Alessia gazes at me, then gives me the briefest shake of her head.

“Okay. Are you here legally?”

She blanches, and I have my answer. “Not legally, then?”

After a beat she shakes her head again.

“Have you lost the power of speech?” I hope she notices the trace of humor in my voice.

Her face brightens, and she half smiles. “No,” she says, and her cheeks color a little.

“That’s better.”

She takes a sip of her tea.

“Talk to me. Please.”

“You will tell the police?” she asks.

“No. Of course not. Is that what you’re worried about?”

She nods.

“Alessia, I won’t. You have my word.”

Placing her elbows on the table, she clasps her hands together and rests her chin on them. A range of conflicting emotions crosses her face as the silence expands and fills the room. I hold my tongue, silently begging her to talk. At last her dark eyes meet mine. They’re full of determination. She sits up straight and places her hands in her lap. “The man who came to your apartment, his name is Dante.” Her voice is a pained whisper. “He brought me and some other girls from Albania to England.” She looks down at her mug of tea.

A shiver runs up my spine to my scalp, and I have a horrible sinking feeling in my stomach. Somehow I think I know what she’s about to say.

“We thought we were coming here to work. For a better life. Life in Kukës is hard for some women. The men who brought us here… We were betrayed—” Her soft voice halts over the word, and I close my eyes as revulsion and bile rise in my throat. It’s as bad as it could possibly be.

“Human trafficking?” I whisper, and I watch her reaction.

She nods once, her eyes tightly closed. “For sex.” Her words are barely audible, but in them I hear her shame and her horror.

Fury like nothing I’ve felt before ignites inside me. I clench my fists trying to control my anger.

Alessia is pale.

And everything about her falls into place.

Her reticence.

Her fear.

Of me.

Of men.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“How did you escape?” I ask, trying to keep my voice even.

We’re both startled by the rattle of a key in the front door. Alarmed, Alessia leaps to her feet, and I jump up, knocking my chair to the floor.

“Stay here,” I growl, pulling open the kitchen door.

A blond woman in her forties stands in the hallway. She gasps in alarm when she sees me.

“Magda!” Alessia cries. Dodging around me, she runs to embrace Magda.

“Alessia!” Magda exclaims, and hugs her. “You’re here. I thought… I thought… I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” Magda babbles, anguish in her voice, as she begins to cry. “They were here again. Those men.”

Alessia takes Magda by the shoulders. “Tell me. Tell me what happened.”

“Who is this?” Magda turns her tearstained face to me with suspicion.

“This is… Mister Maxim. It is his apartment that I clean.”

“Did they come to his apartment?”

“Yes.”

Magda gulps and holds her hands up to her mouth. “I’m so sorry,” she whispers.

“Perhaps Magda would like some tea, and she can tell us what happened,” I say gently.

The three of us are sitting at the table while Magda puffs on a brand of cigarette that is unfamiliar to me. I’ve declined her offer to try one. The last time I smoked a cigarette, it set off a chain of events that led to my expulsion from school. I was thirteen and with a local girl in the grounds at Eton.

“I don’t think they were from the immigration department. They had a photograph of Michal and you,” Magda says to Alessia.

“What? How?” I ask.

“Yes. They found it on Facebook.”

“No!” Alessia exclaims, and clamps her hand over her mouth in horror. She looks at me. “Michal has taken the selfies with me.”

“The selfies?” I ask.

“Yes. For the Facebook,” Alessia says, frowning. I quickly mask my amused expression.

Magda continues, “They said they knew where Michal went to school. They knew all about him. All his personal information is on his Facebook page.” She takes a long drag of her cigarette, her hand trembling.

“They threatened Michal?” Alessia’s face is ashen.

Magda nods. “I had no choice. I was scared. I’m sorry.” Her voice is little more than a whisper. “There was no way I could contact you. I gave them the address where you were working.”

Well, that clears that mystery up.

“What do they want with you, Alessia?” she asks.

Alessia gives me a brief, imploring look, and I realize that Magda doesn’t know the full details of how Alessia came to London. I run my hand through my hair.

What to do? This is far more than I bargained for…

“Have you contacted the police?” I ask.

Magda and Alessia both speak at once: “No police.” They are emphatic.

“Are you sure?” I can understand Alessia’s reaction, but not Magda’s. Perhaps she’s here illegally, too.

“No police,” Magda says, banging her hand on the table, startling both Alessia and me.

“Okay,” I say, raising my palm to placate her. I’ve never met people who don’t trust the police.

It’s obvious that Alessia can’t stay in Brentford, and neither can Magda and her son. The thugs who turned up on my doorstep were bristling with barely contained violence. “Is it just the three of you living here?” I ask.

They both nod.

“Where is your son now?”

“At a friend’s house. He’s safe. I called him before I got home.”

“I don’t think it’s safe for Alessia to stay here, or you for that matter. These men are dangerous.”

Alessia nods. “Very dangerous,” she whispers.

Magda’s face whitens. “But my job. My son’s school. We are only here for another two weeks before I leave—”

“Magda, no!” Alessia tries to silence her.

“For Canada,” Magda continues, disregarding Alessia’s objection.

“Canada?” I look to Alessia and back at Magda.

“Yes. Michal and I are emigrating. I’m getting remarried. My fiancé lives and works in Toronto.” Her brief smile is a fond one. I offer her my congratulations, then turn my attention to Alessia.

“And what are you going to do?”

She shrugs as if she’s got everything under control. “I will find another place to stay. Zot! I am to see a place this evening.” She glances at the kitchen clock. “Now!” She stands up, panicked.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I interject. “And frankly, that’s the least of your worries right now.” She’s illegally in the country—how is she going to find somewhere to stay?

She sits back down.

“Those men could come back at any time. They could easily snatch you off the street.” I shudder. They want her.

Evil fuckers.

What can I do?

Think. Think.

We could all hole up in Trevelyan House in Cheyne Walk, but Caroline would ask questions, and I don’t want that—it’s too complicated. I could take Alessia back to my flat—but they’ve already been there. One of the other properties? Maryanne’s place? No. Perhaps I could take her to Cornwall. No one would find us there.

And as I contemplate my options, I realize I don’t want to let her out of my sight.

Ever.

The thought surprises me.

“I want you to come with me,” I say to her.

“What?” Alessia exclaims. “But—”

“I can find you somewhere to live. Don’t worry about that.” Jesus, I have enough property at my disposal. “But you’re not safe here. You can come with me.”

“Oh.”

I turn my attention to Magda. “Magda, as far as I can see, you have three options since you don’t want to involve the police. We can move you to a local hotel for now, or we can put you up in a house in town. Or I can organize some close-protection security for you and your son, and you can stay here.”

“I cannot afford a hotel.” Magda’s voice fades while she gapes at me.

“Don’t worry about the money,” I reply.

I do the calculations in my head . It’s not much in the scheme of things. And Alessia will be safe.

Worth every penny.

And maybe Tom will give me a discount. He’s a mate, after all.

Magda scrutinizes me, her fixed stare intense. “Why are you doing this?” she asks, bewildered. I clear my throat and wonder why myself.

Because it’s the right thing to do?

No. I’m not that altruistic.

Because I want to be alone with Alessia? Yes. That’s the real reason. But given what she’s been through, she’s not going to want to be alone with me. Is she?

I run my hand through my hair, uncomfortable with my thoughts. I don’t want to examine my motives too closely. “Because Alessia is a valued employee,” I answer.

Yes. That sounds convincing.

Magda eyes me with suspicion.

“Will you come with me?” I ask Alessia, ignoring Magda’s doubtful expression. “You’ll be safe.”

Alessia is overwhelmed. His level gaze is sincere. He’s offering her a way out. This man she barely knows. Yet he came all the way from Chelsea to check that she was okay. He waited for her at the station. He held her while she cried. She can only remember her grandmother and her mother doing that for her. Apart from Magda, no one else in England has treated her with such kindness. It’s a generous offer. Too generous. And Dante and Ylli are her problem, not his. She doesn’t want to drag him into this mess. She wants to protect him from them. But she is illegally in England. She has no passport. Dante has it and all her belongings, so she’s stuck.

And Magda is leaving soon, bound for Toronto.

Mister Maxim is waiting for her answer.

What will he want in return for his help?

Alessia knows so little about him. She doesn’t even know what he does for a living. All she knows is that the life he leads is very different from hers.

“This is just to keep you safe. No strings attached,” he says.

Strings attached?

“I don’t want anything from you,” he clarifies, as if he can read her mind.

No strings attached.

She likes him. She more than likes him. She’s a little in love with him—but she understands it’s a crush. And yet he’s the only person she’s told about how she came to England.

“Alessia, please answer me,” he persists. His expression is anxious, his eyes wide and open and honest. He radiates concern. Can she trust him?

Not all men are monsters, are they?

“Yes,” she whispers before she can change her mind.

“Great,” he says, and he sounds relieved.

“What?” Magda snaps, looking at Alessia in surprise. “Do you know him?”

“She’ll be safe with me,” he says. “I’ll take good care of her.”

“I want to go, Magda,” Alessia whispers.

If she goes, Magda and Michal will be safe.

Magda lights another cigarette.

“What do you want to do?” Mister Maxim turns his attention to Magda, who looks from Alessia to him, confounded.

“You haven’t told me what those men want, Alessia,” Magda says. Alessia had been vague about how she came to England. She had to be. Her mother and Magda are the best of friends, and she didn’t want Magda e-mailing her mother to tell her what had happened. Her mother would have been devastated.

Alessia shakes her head. “I cannot. Please,” she pleads.

Magda huffs. “Your mother?” she says, pulling at her cigarette.

“She cannot find out.”

“I don’t know.”

“Please,” Alessia begs.

Magda sighs with resignation and turns to Maxim. “I don’t want to leave my house,” she says.

“Okay. Close protection it is.” He stands up, long, lean, and impossibly handsome, and fishes his iPhone out of his jeans pocket. “I need to make some calls.” He leaves them staring after him as he closes the kitchen door.

When Tom Alexander was invalided out of the army, he set up a security company based in central London. He deals with high-profile, high-net-worth clients. And now me. “What have you got yourself into, Trevelyan?”

“I don’t know, Tom. All I know is I need 24/7 security for a woman and her son who live in Brentford.”

“Brentford? This evening?”

“Yes.”

“You’re bloody lucky I can help you.”

“I know, Tom. I know.”

“I’ll come down myself and bring my best man. Dene Hamilton. I think you’ve met him. Served with me in Afghanistan.”

“Yes. I remember him.”

“See you in an hour.”

Alessia stands in the hallway wearing Magda’s son’s anorak and holding two plastic shopping bags.

“Is that everything?” I sound as bewildered as I feel.

I can’t believe this is all she has.

Alessia pales and lowers her eyes.

I frown.

The girl has nothing.

“Okay,” I offer. “I’ll take those, and let’s go.” She hands me both bags and still won’t look me in the eye. I’m astonished at how little they weigh.

“Where are you going?” asks Magda.

“I have a place in the West Country. We’ll go there for a few days while we work out what’s to be done.”

“Will I see Alessia again?”

“I hope so.” But there’s no way on earth she’s coming back here while those bastards are on the loose.

Magda turns to Alessia. “Good-bye, sweet girl,” she whispers.

Alessia hugs Magda and clings to her. “Thank you,” she says as tears begin to trickle down her face. “For saving me.”

“Hush, dear girl,” Magda murmurs. “I would do anything for your mother. You know that.” She releases Alessia and holds her at arm’s length. “You are so strong and brave. You will make your mother proud.” She cups Alessia’s face and kisses her cheek.

“Say good-bye to Michal for me.” Alessia’s voice is strained and soft and full of sorrow. And my heart constricts.

Am I doing the right thing?

“We will both miss you. Maybe one day you’ll come to Canada and meet my wonderful man?”

Alessia nods, but she’s too choked up to say anything else, and she leaves through the front door while trying to wipe away her tears. I follow her, holding all that she has in the world.

Outside on the path, Dene Hamilton surveys the street. Tall, broad-shouldered, with close-cropped black hair, he’s more menacing than his refined gray suit suggests. He’s ex-army, like Tom, and it shows in his alert stance. He’ll work in a shift pattern with another bodyguard who’ll be arriving in the morning. Tom’s people will safeguard Magda and Michal around the clock, and they’ll remain until the two of them leave for Canada.

I stop to shake Hamilton’s hand.

“We’ve got this, Lord Trevethick,” he says, his dark eyes gleaming beneath the streetlamp as he scans the road and misses nothing.

“Thank you,” I reply. It still catches me off guard when I’m addressed by my title. “You have my number. Contact me if they need anything.”

“Will do, sir.” Hamilton gives me a gracious nod, and I follow Alessia. She averts her face when I put my arm around her, perhaps to hide the fact that she’s still crying.

Am I doing the right thing?

With a brisk wave to Magda, who’s standing on the doorstep, and to Hamilton, I lead Alessia to the F-Type. I unlock it and hold the passenger door open for her. She hesitates, her expression strained. I reach up to stroke her jaw with the back of my hand. “I’ve got you.” My tone is gentle, to reassure her. “You’re safe.”

Alessia throws her arms around my neck and hugs me hard, totally taking me by surprise. “Thank you,” she whispers, and before I can respond, she releases me and climbs into the car. I ignore the knot in my throat and put both her bags in the boot and climb in beside her.

“This will be an adventure,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. But Alessia gazes at me, her eyes brimming with sorrow.

I swallow.

I’m doing the right thing.

Yes.

I am.

But maybe not for the right reasons.

I exhale, push the ignition, and the engine growls into life.