Narcisa herself let him into the house. As they passed, Caramarin glanced into the front lounge. Marta and Artur were curled up together on the couch. Ewelina looked up from her laptop and smiled, her pretty face lighting up. She was wearing her white bathrobe. A mule dangled from one foot. Narcisa shut the lounge door.
"Come on up," invited Narcisa. She fetched a bottle of liquor store Riesling and two glasses from the kitchen then led Caramarin up to her room. The room was much cooler than the lounge. Rain pitter-pattered against the window. Narcisa poured them both a glass. They clinked glasses and drank. Caramarin tipped his glass forward for a refill. He needed to blunt the edge of what he'd been through.
"Dirty work," he said with a smile.
"Don't tell me what you've been up to," said Narcisa.
He shook his head. No, he wasn't about to tell anyone what he'd done; that was not an evening for his memoirs.
"Any chance of a bath? While the others are all downstairs?"
Caramarin ran the bath as hot as he could stand. On a shelf, he saw the girls' bath salts. He poured in a double handful then eased his aching body into the hot scented water. He sunk down with only his face above the water and closed his eyes. His muscles loosened, his breath slowed. Deep relaxation.
The bathroom door opened. He clicked to full awareness. Pojer with that semi-automatic? Instead, Narcisa stepped in.
"Move over, Nicu," she said. "A girl needs to get clean, too."
He sat up and slid back to the taps, making a tiny tsunami with the water. Narcisa slid down her robe, stepping into the water like Venus entering the waves. He looked up. She looked down. She lifted up her hair, posing for him, firming her breasts. Her dark nipples aroused. He looked down the swell of her belly, at her strong thighs, at her pubic hair and the cleft between her legs.
He splashed water up at her, the droplets hitting her belly, liquid crystals like diamonds running down. She gripped the sides of the bath and knelt down. Narcisa found a flannel, rubbed gel into it and rubbed it into Caramarin's arms and chest, the friction making him harder.
She leaned forward, her breasts brushing against his chest then washed his face. Caramarin cupped her breasts, teasing her nipples out with his fingertips. She kissed him, kissed him deeply and slowly, drawing the moment out. He threw his arm around her neck, holding her against him. A wave of tenderness washed over him. He looked deeply into her dark brown eyes then he kissed her full on the lips.
Narcisa smiled at him. Caramarin took the flannel from her hand then washed Narcisa. He rubbed the flannel over her body, ran the rough material over her breasts teasing and tormenting her. She gasped with expectation. He re-gelled the flannel, moved it over her belly, down, down over her belly button, a finger flicking into her dimple, even lower, descending to her mound.
His hand went beneath the water. Narcisa closed her eyes, her mouth slightly open, her tongue licking her teeth. He dropped the flannel, his hand slipping between her legs. Narcisa shivered with uncontrollable urges. She threw her head back. Her hips moved. Water splashed out of the bath.
Narcisa pushed his hand away.
"No, not now," she managed to say, "in my room."
Reluctantly, Caramarin stopped, taking his hand away. Narcisa stood up, letting Caramarin view her body again. She stepped out of the bath then wrapped her robe around her, clutching it tightly. She watched Caramarin as he stepped out.
"You're more than ready," she laughed looking down. She skipped out of the bathroom in a billow of steam. Caramarin pulled the plug, grabbed a towel then ran naked across the hall. He kicked her door closed behind him. Her room was much cooler than the bathroom so Narcisa had burrowed beneath her duvet; Caramarin quickly dried off then dived in beside her.
He supported his weight on his elbows. Looked into her brown eyes, gazing into their depths. Gently at first, then faster he took her. She moaned quietly, not wanting her friends downstairs hearing. Caramarin felt his pressure building up then could hold back no longer. He burst inside her, blessed release, oh yeah, baby, then collapsing on her body. He soaked up her body warmth and lay beside her. Maxed the relax.
Caramarin dropped off to sleep almost immediately. Later, Narcisa wriggled out from under his arms and lay next to him. Sleep didn't come easily. Her thoughts nipped her mind like rats. Did she love this man? This man lying by her side? This man breathing deeply and easily? After all, what did she know about him or his past life? Not a lot. Narcisa got the impression that he'd done some bad things in the past and maybe even done time. He'd crashed into her life with all the force of a bull or a stag but had, at times, revealed his softer side and his vulnerabilities.
Narcisa thought back. She'd been with several 'bad-boys' as Ewelina called them. To most people, Caramarin could be taken as a bad boy – especially with his trying to sell that stolen painting – but she knew that he wasn't all bad. He wasn't like some of her ex's who seemed to regard her as little more than an object to satisfy their needs and work while they sat about watching television and drinking beer.
No, Narcisa knew that Caramarin had hidden depths to him. Look at the way he worried about his ex in Odessa? The way he bought the girls all those takeaways, the way he comforted her when she was feeling down or miserable? All he needed to do was give up some of his bad ways, calm down a little and he'd be perfect. Narcisa moulded her body to his and waited for sleepiness to claim her. Soon their breaths became as one.
* * *
His cell rang, jerking him up out of sleep. A dream faded instantly, leaving him foggy for a moment between reality and fantasy. He sat up, the cold air tightening his skin. Grabbing up the phone, he took the call on the second ring. Didn't recognise the number. Beside him, Narcisa rolled over, taking half the quilt with her and mumbled thickly before falling asleep again.
"Stanga. Something's come up. Can you get over here? Right away?"
A grip of terror around his heart. "What's happened?"
"Not over the phone. Pojer's on his way now. Be ready for him."
Stanga rang off. Now what? Caramarin dressed quickly, flung his jacket on then laced up his boots. In the near dark, he looked down at Narcisa's sleeping body watching the quilt gently move up and down. A wave of tenderness swept over him. All he saw was the top of her head so he stooped and kissed it. The woman deserved better than him.
Caramarin tiptoed downstairs and let himself out. One of the street lights had been broken now by stone throwing vandals making the road even darker than normal. Caramarin ran through the driving rain to Pojer's BMW, and threw open the passenger door. A wave of smoky air billowed out. Only then he noticed another man in the back seat; a man wearing sunglasses coupled with a scarf wrapped around his lower face, completely hiding his features.
"In," the man in the back seat said. The gunman sounded like Stanga's driver, Tibor Budescu.
"Sorry about this," said Pojer, his face hang-dog even in the dim roof light. "Not my idea." Caramarin saw the man in the back was holding a small pistol, probably a .22 calibre. An assassin's weapon. He knew there are times when you have a choice and when you don't. And this was one of the latter times. Caramarin slid into the shotgun seat, directly in front of the gunman.
Just to get his point across, the man pressed the barrel of his pistol into the back of Caramarin's neck.
"Easy, comrade," said Caramarin. "I'm not gonna make trouble."
The man leaned forward and pressed duct tape over Caramarin's eyelids. He then slipped a pair of glasses over the tape.
"Let's go," the man told Pojer.
"Just to let you know, this gun's on a hair trigger so don't try your luck." Caramarin got the message loud and clear.
The BMW pulled away from the kerb, turned left at the end of the road and drove along a route Caramarin had no hope of remembering. Nobody spoke. The only sound that of the car's heater. Time stretched to breaking point. He felt sweat in his armpits, on his balls, trickling down his back.
Caramarin tried to tell himself that if they were going to kill him, the gunman wouldn't have bothered hiding his face. Dead men tell no tales. But no, still not a good place to be. Stanga might decide to still rub him out anyway. Take him some deserted place followed by a swift double-tap to the head. With .22 slugs, there would be very little mess.
After what he thought was half an hour, maybe forty minutes, the Beemer pulled up.
"Out," the gunman said.
Slowly, doing nothing to set the gunman off, Caramarin opened the door, swung his legs around and stepped out. He kept his hands well away from his pockets. Somebody, no idea who, went through his pockets and patted him down.
"C'mon," the gunman said. "Just walk, nothing else." He was pushed forward. Hesitantly, not wanting to walk into a wall, he walked before the man across a tarmacked space. Pojer took his shoulder and guided him. Then they went through a door into a large indoor space. Strange echoes came from all around. A door opened in front of him. Then the three men went along a tiled corridor. Another door opened in front of them.
Then Caramarin was shoved forward. He stumbled forward, lost his balance and fell. His right knee smashed to the tiled floor. A jolt of agony shot through his body. Bright light lit up the darkness behind his taped eyelids. Not wanting to cry out, he bit his tongue, his mouth filled with the coppery taste of blood. Before he had any chance to recover, his arms were wrenched up behind his back. Cable ties circled his wrists and were cinched tight. Caramarin took a hard kick to the ribs. Probably from Budescu. He grunted.
"That's enough," Stanga's voice. Harsh. "Stand up."
With difficulty, Caramarin struggled to his knees, his right flared with pain again. He managed to get to his feet, taking his weight on his left leg. He stood, gasping. His heart raced as adrenaline pumped into his blood stream. Fear clouded his brain.
Caramarin heard footsteps coming closer. Felt the cold air push aside as a man stood in front of him.
"Where's my heroin?" Stanga spoke softly, gently now. But Caramarin knew there was still the threat of violence behind the boss's tone.
"What d'you mean?" Might as well play it innocent. See what Stanga knew.
"The bag was light. You some sort of junkie? Thought you'd help yourself, did you? What've you done with my H?" Stanga's voice was harsher now.
"I don't know, do I? I put one hundred and sixty condoms in that bag. Don't know what happened after that." Caramarin tried to speak as calmly as possible. Like an innocent man. He knew he was in a tight spot with his only weapon his voice.
"Funny that," said Stanga. "When my colleague checked it, he found two made up of brick dust."
He paused, spinning his moment of power out.
"So, the only question is what have you done with it?"
"Nothing," said Caramarin. "I don't do horse. It's just for junkie loser scum. And it's not like I can sell it on, can I? I don't speak any English."
"So what happened?" Stanga repeated.
"Don't know. I mean, how much d’you trust the people who packed it in the first place? They could have switched it?"
"I've used them before so I believe in them more than I trust you," said Stanga. "I certainly trust them more than a man I've only just met."
Caramarin shrugged. "It wasn't me, comrade. I don't want your fuckin' H."
Behind him, he heard a click. He felt the gun barrel pressed against the back of his head.
"Shall I?" he heard the Budescu say.
"Your last chance. Where's my heroin?"
Caramarin paused. Didn't want to betray the girls, even if one had pocketed a couple of condoms. But if he said anything now, they'd still probably kill him for trying to rip them off. If he was going to die tonight, then he was going to die on his feet, like a man.
"I've no idea. If any's missing it’s fuck all to do with me." He stood tall. Would he hear the bullet, feel any pain before stepping off into the great unknown? The moment stretched out, his nerves keyed up far beyond what he could endure.
"If you're going to do it, then just fuckin' do it," Caramarin cried out.
Abruptly, Stanga laughed.
"You'll do for me," he said eventually. "You've got balls, Caramarin. Pojer was right about you. You've got balls the size of grapefruits. Cut him loose."
Caramarin felt a nick on his wrist as the cable ties were cut. He flexed his fingers and wrists as the blood flowed back, and then ripped off the sunglasses and tape. Even in the half-light he blinked. In front of him stood Pompiliu Stanga.
The gang head took a comb and swept it through his mane. They were standing in Stanga's deserted night club. A row of spotlights over the raised stage gave the only illumination. Light glinted down three brass poles on the stage.
"You did a dirty job for me and you never grassed on the girls. Even though you thought we were going to doom you," Stanga said with admiration.
Caramarin nodded.
"The other two packages come out later," Pojer explained. "They must've got bunged up somewhere inside her guts."
"You're a straight-up guy," continued Stanga. "You've proved that. Someone I can do business with. But never try to trick me again, okay?"
"Sure," said Caramarin, running a hand through his dark hair. When he next checked a mirror, he reckoned he'd see a few more strands of grey after tonight. His legs trembled with relief. "But if you ever pull a gun on me again, make sure you use it, comrade."
The men walked over to the shuttered bar. Pojer opened it and took out a bottle of Finlandia.
"Best vodka in the world. Distilled from glacier water," said Caramarin with relief.
"I know," said Stanga.
The men drank.