‘Sorry for what, exactly?’
‘For everything.’
‘You lied to me. You cut me out. You didn’t give a shit how I felt.’
‘I know.’
‘So why should there be any “we”? Why should I believe a single fucking word you say, ever again?’ She turns away from the window. ‘Oh, for fuck’ssake.’
‘What?’
‘Your neck. You’re bleeding again. It’s all over the pillow.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Stop saying you’re sorry. Jesus. And don’t move, I need to cut this dressing off. These scissors are sharp, and right now I’m so fuckingangryI can’t keep my hands steady, and I’m probably going to cut your throat, which…’ She peers at the exposed wound.
‘Which?’
‘Which nothing. Pass me that roll of gauze.’
Oxana lies there mutely as Eve completes the task. ‘Thank you,’ she whispers.
‘Get some sleep,’ Eve says. ‘Johnny’ll be here in an hour. Do you think you’ll be up to eating some dinner?’
‘I could try.’
‘Fine.’
As Eve starts to walk to the bathroom. Oxana follows her with her eyes. Halfway across the room Eve turns, marches back to the bed, draws back her arm, and slaps Oxana’s face as hard as she can. And again, and a third time. ‘Youbitch. You fuckingcunt. I will not—’ She hits her a fourth time, splitting Oxana’s lip open. ‘I willnotbe treated like this.’ She steps back from the bed, breathing heavily. ‘Byanyone.’
They stare at each other. Oxana is speechless, pale with shock, her mouth smeared with blood. Beads of red are seeping through the gauze dressing on her neck. Eve backs away. ‘I don’t need you,’ she mutters. ‘I don’t want you. And I don’t love you.’
‘I know.’ Oxana gazes at her, her eyes bright with tears. ‘I know you don’t.’ She sits up and slowly extends her arms. ‘But please. Please just come here.’
Stiffly, miserably, Eve lowers herself onto the bed beside her. She starts to speak but Oxana puts a finger to her lips. Carefully, hesitantly, they embrace. Cheek against cheek, arms tightening around shoulders, fingers in warm hair, mouth finding blood-tasting mouth.
47
Much later, they’re on the terrace of the hotel restaurant. Oxana, her neck neatly dressed, is in a white poplin dress, her bandaged feet slipped into off-white Saint Laurent flats. Eve is in jeans and a cotton shirt. Both are drinking cold Assyrtiko wine. Johnny, his tan suit jacket hanging from the back of his chair, swirls the ice in his whisky.
‘So you’re happy with the way things turned out?’ Eve asks him.
Johnny nods. ‘Indeed. Emir is very much someone we can work with.’
‘A nineteen-year-old student. That’s pretty impressive.’
‘You’re right,’ Johnny says. ‘He’s played his hand very skilfully.’
‘But why create all that grief for himself?’ Eve asks. ‘He’ll be permanently at war with the Albanians and the N’Drangheta now. The alliance would have won him peace, as well a share of the fentanyl trade.’
‘Precious little peace.’ Johnny leans back in his chair. ‘And an ever-decreasing share. There’d never have been the cooperationTahir hoped for. Those people are jackals. This way Emir puts down a marker.’
‘Don’t fuck with the Yilmaz family.’
Johnny smiles at Oxana. ‘Precisely. And the word will filter through that the Twelve have his back.’
‘Do they?’ Eve asks. ‘Have his back, I mean?’