Nele Neuhaus - Swimming with Sharks

“Wait a second,” she said.

After she got dressed, he came inside.

Alex realized that she wasn’t the only one who had gone through hell in the past days. She could see the exhaustion in Nick’s face, his tired eyes and the dark circles beneath them.

“You look very tired,” Alex said quietly.

“I am,” Nick admitted. “I’m very tired. I’m longing for the days when I can get some sleep again.”

He sighed.

“Come and sit down for a moment,” Alex offered. Nick sat down on the edge of the bed. There was no other place to sit in the small room.

“I can handle it pretty well during the day because I’m distracted, but the loneliness sets in at night, and the nightmares full of explosions come with it.”

There was no bitterness in his voice, just resignation. Alex nodded slowly. She knew all too well what Nick was talking about because she felt the same way. The demons were faint during the day, but they came to life in the darkness and silence of the night. Then she heard the laughter of the men and their voices and saw their cruel, indifferent eyes.

“You’re freezing,” Nick sensed. It was cold in the small room because the heater gave off very little warmth. “I…I should leave now.”

“No,” Alex said and pleadingly put her hand on his arm, “please don’t. Stay awhile.”

Nick thought about Oliver Skerritt. It wasn’t right for him to be here.

“Alex,” he said, “I don’t want to—”

“Just wait a moment,” she interrupted him. “Please. I’ll be right back.”

“Okay.” Nick still hesitated, but then he nodded. Alex disappeared into the tiny bathroom and dried her wet hair. When she returned after a few minutes of primping, Nick was stretched out on the bed, sound asleep. Alex felt a deep tenderness for him. Should she wake him? No. He was so tired, so exhausted. She carefully took off his shoes, loosened his tie, and covered him with a blanket.

Then she sat on the floor, leaned against the wall, and wrapped her arms around her knees. So this is where they’d ended up. Nick Kostidis, one of the city’s most powerful and famous men, and Alex Sontheim, clever and intelligent Wall Street star. Like Icarus, they’d aimed too high and crashed. What was left of their former glory? Alex could hardly comprehend what had driven her to work those hundred-hour weeks. There wasn’t much left of the enticing feeling of success besides a bad aftertaste. Fueled by her ambition, she had refused to look beyond the shiny facades of material success. She had ignored every warning. Alex thought about Mark, Justin, and Oliver—who had confessed his love to her…Should she go to Maine with him?

Nick shifted a little. Asleep, he looked more relaxed and peaceful than she’d ever seen him before. He was no longer a stranger to her, but this had nothing to do with their night of passion. Their friendship had just gotten deeper that night. Alex felt safe and comfortable in Nick’s presence. She trusted him like she’d never trusted anyone before. She didn’t have to pretend around Nick; with him, she could be who she really was. And although Alex knew that she loved him, she was aware of the wide chasm that divided them. All of New York City stood between her and Nick Kostidis. She needed to turn her back on this city if she wanted to have a future, and that’s exactly what Nick couldn’t do. New York was his life, and Alex had accepted that long ago.

It was almost midnight, and Alex was so tired that she could barely keep her eyes open. She switched off the light, and the bright moonlight cast a dim glow over the room. Alex lay on the bed next to Nick. She felt his body’s comforting warmth, and as he moved in his sleep, she wrapped an arm around him. She was determined to stay awake to enjoy these precious hours, but after a few minutes she fell asleep.

Sergio Vitali sat between a princess from Monaco and Cassandra Goldstein, billionaire Simon Goldstein’s widow. He was in a splendid mood. His table guests included New York construction tycoon Charlie Rosenbaum, the oil billionaire James Earl Freyberg III, Secretary of State Oliver Kravitz, Senators Ted Willings and Fred Hoffman, Governor Rhodes, Time magazine publisher Carey Newberg, and Hollywood diva Liza Gaynor.

Lloyd Connors wasn’t particularly surprised to see Tate Jenkins also sitting there. The deputy director of the FBI certainly was astonished to see the US attorney coming up the small stairs leading to the gallery. Jenkins turned pale. Connors stepped toward the table, and the orchestra stopped playing abruptly, as though it had been given a signal.

“Mr. Vitali?” Connors cleared his throat. He noticed that his nervousness had disappeared. He had imagined this scenario hundreds of times. He felt like an actor playing a well-rehearsed role at the premiere, but the play had become reality. Sergio Vitali looked up indignantly.

“Lloyd Connors from the US Attorney’s Office in Manhattan.”

“I know who you are,” Vitali replied, his smile failing to reach his cold eyes. “I don’t remember seeing your name on the guest list.”

“That’s right,” Lloyd Connors said, “I’m here on official business. I’d like to talk to you for a moment.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw the awkward faces of Governor Rhodes and Senator Hoffman—both of whom would have loved to crawl into a hole in the wall. Vitali didn’t seem to be particularly disturbed by the US attorney’s appearance. No one could have ratted him out.

“Can’t you see that I have guests?” he said condescendingly. “I’m busy now. But help yourself to the buffet. It would probably be a welcome change from the cafeteria at the US Attorney’s Office.”

Only Charlie Rosenbaum and James Earl Freyberg III laughed.

“I must insist that you—”

“Listen, Connors.” The mask of friendliness fell off of Vitali’s face. “I don’t have time right now.”

His eyes narrowed as he saw Gordon Engels coming up the stairs in the company of Spooner and Khazaeli. His gaze drifted to Tate Jenkins, but the man was staring down at the table looking petrified. All conversation around the table fell silent.

The US attorney shrugged his shoulders. “Fine, if you prefer it this way. Mr. Vitali, I have a warrant for your arrest.”

“Excuse me?” Sergio Vitali froze, his face flushed. “You’re joking, pal! Leave with your people before I have you thrown out!”

Unmoved, Connors unfolded the paper.

“Mr. Vitali,” he said in a businesslike voice, “you’re under arrest for the murder of Stefano Barelli.”

It was dead silent around the table.

“What the hell?” Vitali’s face turned a darker red.

His guests avoided looking directly at their host. Spooner and Khazaeli walked around the table and stood behind him.

“US Marshals Service.” Spooner held his badge under Vitali’s nose. “Would you stand up please?”

Vitali gesticulated as if chasing away an insect, but he stood up.

“How dare you?” he exclaimed. “This is absolutely ridiculous!”

His face alternated between red and pale, and fine beads of sweat appeared on his forehead.

“Come with me, Mr. Vitali.” Connors said coldly. “You’re under arrest.”

Sergio Vitali turned toward his guests.

“This is a regrettable misunderstanding that will be cleared up very quickly.”

Spooner took advantage of the opportunity and clicked the handcuffs around Vitali’s wrists, causing him to turn around angrily.

“Come on, mister,” he said, “let’s go.”

“You have the right to remain silent…” Deputy Khazaeli started with the usual admonition, but Vitali interrupted him angrily.

“Save your breath,” he snapped. “I want to speak to my lawyer immediately!”