From Fame To Ruin E-Book

Jina S. Bazzar

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

As the heir to Montenegro Enterprises, Carol has to leave behind her comfortable life and take control of the corporation.
Soon, her inheritance turns out to be more dangerous than she thought, as she receives a frightening letter from an enemy she didn’t know she had. Desperate and out of options, Carol turns to the man she hurt and vowed never to approach again.
Ricardo is past spending his nights playing rock music and his days enjoying his fame. He’s forgotten the woman who betrayed him and buried any leftover feelings for her deep within. So when Carol reaches out with a wild tale, he’s not exactly inclined to help her.
Memories of the past, startling revelations in the present, and the promise of a future neither believed possible, moor them to each other. But can they put their differences aside long enough to escape the danger and make right what once went so wrong?
A story of fame, love, greed and betrayal, Jina S. Bazzar's 'From Fame To Ruin' is a standalone romantic adventure, set between a stunning seaside resort in Southern England and Rio de Janeiro.

Leseprobe

FROM FAME TO RUIN

JINA S. BAZZAR

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Other Books by Jina S. Bazzar

Copyright (C) 2023 Jina S. Bazzar

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2023 by Next Chapter

Published 2023 by Next Chapter

Edited by Elizabeth N. Love

Cover art by Lordan June Pinote

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.

To Ala, Noor, and Adam.

Chapter1

Rio de Janeiro, Present Day

The Stalkers

They lurked under the shadow of a tree and the mouth of a nearby alleyway and watched. Another jogged nearby, but the blonde with the short bob never noticed her stalkers. She hadn’t paid them any attention for the five weeks they’d been following her.

Within two of those five weeks, they’d gathered all the information there was to have about her wretched existence. They knew that she lived alone in a small house at the foot of a hill, at the very edge of a favela. That every morning, just before dawn, she turned on the lights, even on weekends. That she went out for a run fifteen minutes after that and came back forty minutes later. That she set her coffee to brew while she showered and had her breakfast watching the morning news.

They knew that she left for work at seven-thirty every morning, and came back around five, give or take a few minutes. That every Friday evening, she went grocery shopping, and never left the house on weekends, preferring to clean and bake as she listened to crappy music. They knew she wasn’t friends with her neighbors, wasn’t seeing anyone, and had no family nearby. Aside from her boring routine, they knew everything else about her—her forgettable name, Maria da Silva, her date of birth, her identity card number, her last three addresses, and even the sum of her meager savings. She was less than ordinary and had nothing worth writing home about. Not that she had anyone to write to. Her parents were both deceased and her only sibling, an estranged brother, lived far south at the border to Uruguay.

They knew that if Maria was to disappear, only her employer would notice, and only because she’d fail to arrive in the morning.

They knew that on Mondays and Thursdays, she’d come to the park and stay for an hour and a half. They knew she took her job as a nanny seriously enough because she didn’t befriend any of the regulars, no doubt so she wouldn’t be distracted from her charges. She was punctual, they had to give her that, always arriving at the park around ten o’clock in the morning, depending on traffic, then packing up and leaving at eleven-thirty.

Today was Monday, three minutes past ten, and there she was, like clockwork. The jogger adjusted his course to cross by the bench where she usually sat. He’d been here doing laps every day for over a month, no delay, no excuses. The regulars had seen him enough times that they stopped seeing him. The guy at the mouth of the alley left his post for the first time since he began his surveillance.

Today was the day. They were nervous and giddy with excitement; everything was going according to plan.

They’ve been riling her for two nights in a row. Yesterday, they broke her front window by throwing rocks. Tonight, they threw a bunch of firecrackers in her garbage bin—the racket had been so loud, even the neighbors woke up. The police questioned everyone, determined that kids had caused the prank, but they’d accomplished their goal. The dark shadows under her eyes and the inward curve of her shoulders confirmed she hadn’t gotten much sleep. After the police left, they tampered with her electricity, so she had to forgo her shower and coffee. They made sure her front tire had been low, so she took the bus to work, and probably for the first time in her life, arrived late.

Fifteen minutes after she arrived at the park, she sat on the cement bench—another of her habits—where she watched the three-year-old children alternate between the glider and a swing. The guy from the alleyway approached and thrust an ancient-looking map at her and asked for directions to a non-existent business near the city center, startling her. They’d anticipated she was too pathetic to understand the lines of a printed map. And when she pulled out her phone, they were proven correct. Her surprise to find she had no internet connection was comical.

While the guy from the alleyway distracted the woman, the jogger, now with a cute little poodle in tow, began his fifth journey by the park. They’d been counting on the little boy to jump off the swing and dash to pat the dog, the same as he’d been doing for weeks. They were not disappointed. His nanny half stood. When she caught sight of the familiar short, generic jogger patiently running in place as the boy showered the dog with attention, she sat back again. She scanned the playground for the little girl and found her playing with two other familiar boys. Satisfied her charges were where she expected them to be, she returned her full attention to the map and the squiggly lines, clearly confused.

The moment she looked away, the jogger put his hand on the boy’s shoulder, stinging him with the hidden contraption within his palm. It signaled the all-clear for the woman standing in the shadow of the tree. When the nanny next checked on the boy, there was no one there. Had she looked behind her, she’d have seen the woman, dressed in similar attire as her black slacks and a crisp white button-down, and a blonde wig the same color and length as her hair, pushing a stroller away from the park. Perhaps she’d have even recognized the boy’s red shoe peeking out. There were risks, the stalkers knew that, and the man with the map was ready to inject the nanny with the barbiturate. But it didn’t come to that.

The nanny proved to be as slow as they’d expected. Yet to be alarmed, she glanced to the left, found the jogger sprinting away, dog in tow, no child. Her attention moved to the playground, where the redhead girl was still playing with the two boys. Then she scanned the swings, the gliders, and the seesaws. But the boy with the dark mane of hair was nowhere to be seen. Finally realizing something was amiss, she rudely dismissed the man still asking for a better route to his destination. She got up to search for the little boy, now being placed in the backseat of an unremarkable vehicle, just across the street from the park.

* * *

Carol

Carol sat in her executive chair with a triumphant smile, unaware that a few blocks away, her son was being kidnapped. Eyes closed, she soaked in her success. Her office took up half of the fourth floor of the building she owned, situated near enough to Flamengo Beach that, when the windows were open, one could smell the salt in the air. They weren’t open at the moment, but the cacophony of busy traffic—horns, squealing tires, the thumping bass of funk music—filtered through the glass panels in the windows. They framed a picturesque view of Pão de Açúcar, or Sugarloaf Mountain as the tourists called it. It wasn’t the gorgeous view out her window or the expensive building that had her mentally celebrating, however.

It was the deal she’d just closed.

The job for the Swiss company had far exceeded her expectations. Even the beverage and appetizers had been a success, bless her cook’s culinary skills.

Her creative team had outdone themselves. This had been, so far, the best job and the most lucrative commercial the advertising firm had created to date. Marco, her accountant and friend, had walked out with the farmland and Swiss company representatives, assuring them that by tomorrow, the commercial for their weight loss product would feature in two major channels cross-country five times a day for a month, followed by a five-second abbreviation for the following two.

A fifteen second-commercial would air on the radio starting next Monday and continue for the next three months. Otto, the head of her graphic design team and friend, would keep a motion picture variation of the TV and radio commercial spreading online: on Twitter, Instagram, Facebook, and countless other platforms. The keychains, pens, and slim-shaped mugs were ready, the flyers and adhesives would finish printing today, and a representative of F & S would come early tomorrow to pick them up.

With a self-satisfied smile, Carol mentally patted herself on the back. This job was the door they needed to broaden their work, to bring in new clients. It wasn’t even noon yet, and she still had two more promising meetings today. Her dream job was realizing right in front of her, with all the bangs and sparkles and much more shine than she could have ever imagined.

“Now, that’s a smile to make a smart man tuck tail and run,” Marco said, taking the leather chair across from Carol’s executive desk.

“Would you?”

“Of course not. I’m too weak-minded for that kind of self-preservation.”

Carol laughed. Her mood was high. “You guys did a wonderful job. I could never have asked for a better team.”

“You worked hard yourself,” he said, leaning back on the chair.

“Nothing compared to what you guys did.”

“It was the complete package that had those Swiss representatives hooked. Each job alone wouldn’t have been as impressive.”

Carol nodded. It was true.

“Why don’t you come over tonight for dinner?” she asked. “I heard there’s shepherd's pie in the freezer to defrost.”

“That sounds yummy,” Marco said, his brown eyes glinting with amusement. “You should’ve been a chef.”

“I know. I think my talents are wasted outside a kitchen.” She sighed. “Alas, I can work and have no time to cook a meal or stay home and starve from lack of groceries. It’s a paradox.”

Marco chuckled, then the mirth died from his eyes. “I can’t tonight. I’ve been summoned.”

Carol hid her wince. “I take it you’re going?”

“I have to. I’ve been putting it off for months. Tio Elias called me himself this morning.”

Carol studied Marco intently. His angular face had lost all humor; his brown eyes were somber. “I’ll be sad to see you go,” she said, rearranging some papers on her desk. “But if you choose to go, I won’t hold it against you. Neither would it affect our friendship.”

Marco nodded, then shook his head. “I don’t want to work for him. I’m comfortable here, doing what I’m good at, what I enjoy the most. Tio Elias … taking his place … it’s not something I want.”

“But it’ll be something you’ll have to do, sooner or later.”

“I’d give it all to you,” Marco said, and Carol didn’t think he was joking.

“God forbid.” She waved her hands as if to ward off evil. “I’m perfectly happy here. Why would you wish me such heartache?”

Marco didn’t smile. “I mean it, Carol. When I have no choice but to take the big chair, I’m giving back to you all that you’re owed.”

Carol folded her arms over her desk and frowned at him. “I thought we discussed this already, Marco. I already got all I wanted from your uncle.”

Marco clenched his jaw. “His protection shouldn’t have come at a price.”

“It didn’t. I was going to lose that case either way. Your uncle took over Montenegro Conglomerate fair and square. And I want nothing from it.” Seeing the stubborn look in his eyes, Carol raised her hand. “Marco, I never wanted that legacy. If it wasn’t for my grandmother, I’d have never come back in the first place. I have everything I want here. My life is simple, my needs are simple. Whatever it was your uncle did, I’m no longer afraid, looking over my shoulder, waiting for someone to strike me. I’m happier here managing a small business than I’d have ever been tied to the Montenegro empire. Don’t you see? I own my firm, my house, my car. I have everything I’ve ever wanted right here.”

Chapter2

London, Almost Four Years Earlier

Ricardo

Ricardo Jonson Santos, mostly known as RJ Santos, walked into Heathrow Airport fourteen hours ahead of time. He kept his head lowered, hands tucked inside his pockets, and pondered the wisdom of boarding a commercial flight. He promised the band he’d charter a plane to São Paulo, but the earliest he could find available was for tomorrow afternoon. Ricardo found he couldn’t stomach staying longer than necessary.

Yes, he was aware only sixteen hours separated his flight from a chartered one.

Yes, he was aware if he was recognized, chaos would ensue, especially after his insane trial a few hours earlier.

But he needed to go. He’d never wanted to leave his motherland more than he did today.

The media had been hounding him for months. They crowded him, suffocated him, and Ricardo was an edge away from exploding. Police had to escort him to and from the courthouse, practically beat a path to his rental. One would think every media outlet in the world was parked there in front of the Central London County Courthouse, mindless of the hard downpour and freezing temperatures.

His fans had been there too, holding soggy supportive and encouraging banners, shouting their love and undying devotion. He'd given them a halfhearted wave and driven away, his teeth welded and his grip white-knuckled on the steering wheel. He’d caught some tails but shook them off easily enough. Still, he drove straight to the rental company and exchanged the blue Audi for a black SUV and patted himself on the back for a job well done. But when he neared his hotel, there they were again, sprinkled everywhere like colored confetti.

Some of the more reasonable were parked across the street, waiting inside their vans with black tinted windows. Some clustered in groups under huge umbrellas, smoking or drinking from steaming cardboard cups; others stood, hunched in their coats, rubbing their gloved hands, looking as miserable as Ricardo felt.

He drove past the hotel, past the paparazzi without a sideways glance, and considered booking into a different one. Deciding against it, he headed straight for Heathrow and sat inside the warm cab of the SUV while browsing for the closest available flight to São Paulo. The earliest flight he found was to Rio de Janeiro, so he booked a seat and strolled into the airport. He kept the bill of his baseball cap low—no need to tempt fate. If he were recognized, he’d rent a conference room and wait away the time boxed inside four walls.

He got himself a cup of coffee and a cinnamon bun from McDonald’s since he’d skipped breakfast in the morning. His stomach had been too raw for any kind of food. Then he strolled to Terminal 5, sipping and munching. The pretense of normalcy helped more than he’d expected. The tension in his back and the pressure of the past few months slowly unspooled and dissipated. It was refreshing to be amid a crowd and not draw attention. It was a foreign sensation, this feeling of invisibility.

He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed solitude; his life had been one chaotic rush ever since the release of his first album, Garage Dorm, four years ago. He’d been twenty-one, a law school student, and between his studies and all the tours, he’d yet to pause and take a breath. The band had visited countless countries, giving thousands of autographs during every concert and posing for countless photos. Fans swarmed their website, the lobby of whichever hotel they happened to be in and ran after their limo. It had been all he, Nicolau and Noel wanted—their fantastic dream come true. One that began during their senior high.

Ricardo cherished those memories, cruising down the clogged, busy streets of São Paulo in his father’s Chevy, while they sang along with the radio. Despite all that, there was this restlessness in Ricardo that had never gone away, never abated.

They’d picked Nelson, the guitarist, during their first year of college. They’d often meet in his parent’s garage, or Nicolau’s garage, doing small gigs in bars and pubs and college dives. By junior year, they’d rented a small, soundproof storage room. By then they were doing nightclubs, parties, and small festivals in and around São Paulo.

When their album hit during their senior year, it hit hard. Because of their rambling schedules, it took Ricardo another three and a half years to finish law school and pass the OAB exams, widely known as The Bar. Hell, he’d just been sworn in the ceremony a few months back. His degree still shone, bright, new, and unused.

The gateway was still empty—and no wonder. No one in their right frame of mind would opt to sit fourteen hours to wait for a flight. He chose a seat at random in the first row, finished his cinnamon bun, and played CSR with the remaining ten percent of his phone’s battery. Once dead, he pocketed the device, sipped the now cool coffee, and people-watched for a good long while. Some strolled, some hurried, others ran.

The place was jammed, the sounds too loud. Yet, no one spared him more than a passing glance. It was thrilling—no, it was nostalgia Ricardo felt, for the anonymity of his youth, something probably forever gone. Ricardo frowned, considering his dark thoughts. He wasn’t a pessimist, never had been. It was leftover stress from the trial, he was sure.

He was still sipping the cold coffee when his wandering eyes spotted her. She moved briskly, her strides purposeful, dragging behind a small suitcase. She had a carry-on looped over one shoulder and a determined air that stated she didn’t take bullshit kindly.

Ricardo would remember later it was the hair, a waterfall of glossy red cascading down her back, that first captured his attention. It made him take stock of the woman, of the way the red contrasted against her porcelain complexion, complimented the pink hue of her high cheekbones. She was dressed in dark dress pants with a matching short jacket, the color offset by the beige camisole she wore underneath. A long black coat dangled from her arm. Her shoes were dark with no heels, and sensible wear for long traveling.

When her tawny eyes, direct and piercing, met his, Ricardo experienced a shocking sensation. Something inside him wiggled and jimmied. The world stopped spinning, all the sounds muted and the crowd faded into the background. Then, his system jolted, and the world resumed its beat. And just like that, Ricardo was aware something in his world changed. It could have been something as small as how he liked women to dress, the way they moved, their hair color, or his preference in general. Whichever was true, Ricardo knew he’d always remember that moment on that frosty day at Heathrow Airport.

* * *

Carol

Carol took the seat nearest the window and stared, unseeing, at the first snowflakes falling to the tarmac. Grimly, she pondered the past thirteen years of her life. It wasn’t a great number, but it was more than half the years of her existence. In retrospect, it seemed so little, despite all she’d done. She’d built her life here from nothing, and she’d vowed never to give up what she had, never to return to that sterile, dry reality. She’d told her grandmother as much on her last trip to Brazil three years ago. And here she was, her life packed in carefully labeled boxes, with nothing but memories left behind.

She was going back home.

Home? Was it really that?

She hadn’t lived in the sprawling family mansion since she was a scared eight-year-old, haunting the vast halls, skulking in the shadows, afraid to be seen, but wishing someone would.

Shipping her off to a boarding school across the ocean had been the best thing her family had ever done for her. In the beginning, she’d gone back to Rio for every holiday and extended weekends, then only for the summer and winter breaks, but even that stopped when she’d turned sixteen and realized she had the power to refuse to go back. Her family couldn’t—or wouldn’t—demand her return, and Carol had been happy to oblige. Since then, she’d spent her vacations rotating between three friends. The sense of belonging had never come, but it had been better, way better, than spending her time in a house where even the maid didn’t see her unless ordered to.

She’d lived by her vow, breaking it only once during her freshman year at Oxford, to attend her father’s funeral. That had been three years ago.

And now that her grandmother, her last remaining relative, had kicked the bucket, the burden to keep Montenegro Conglomerate at a steady run had fallen onto Carol’s shoulders.

It wouldn’t have been so bad had her father not left such a mess before he died.

No, not a mess, Carol thought with a mental snort. Mess was such a simple, mundane word for the cluster fuck of chaos her father had left for her to clean.

According to the attorney, Caesar Dunbar, from Dunbar, Foster & Fonseca, the conglomerate had been falling apart, a deliberate fall, ever since her mother passed away fourteen years ago.

Her father, bless his cold heart, had blamed his wife’s murder on his parents’ refusal to pay her ransom. Carol remembered the grieving man he’d become, but she couldn’t conciliate that image with the man who’d carefully and meticulously plotted and implemented his revenge, slowly bringing on the demise of Montenegro Conglomerate. The knowledge of what her father’s grief had caused the family had come too late to her grandmother, taking its toll on her heart a month ago.

Carol didn’t attend the funeral.

Like a rotten cherry to top it all, her grandmother had claimed Carol’s father to be mentally unstable and sued Elias Trajano, their top competitor, for funneling money off the family business—for thirteen years.

Now that there was no Montenegro left but her, Carol was supposed to return to that empty home in Rio, pick up the Montenegro reins and keep the chariot from plummeting down the cliff.

“Hi.”

Startled from her pity party, Carol glanced around. The airport was packed full of travelers trying to get home for the holiday season, but the gateway was still empty, save for the guy who’d been seated when she’d first arrived.

She gave the man an absent “hi” and checked the time on her phone, relieved there were still eleven hours to go. She’d arrived way too early, but she had nothing to do that she hadn’t already taken care of the previous week when her flight had been originally scheduled. Her life in Europe was over, her friends had left for their winter vacation. She’d given her furniture away and emptied her flat of personal belongings.

She had nothing and no one left here. She’d come close countless times to begging her friends to come with her, and the fact they’d already put their lives on hold for her was the only reason she never voiced her plea. They’d been scheduled to leave the previous week, but Carol had contracted a bacterial infection, and the doctor had told her to postpone her flight until she was well. Livy, Helena, and Joanna had canceled their trip to stay with her, bringing their overnight bag to Livy’s—the only one in their group who owned her flat. They’d fussed and fussed until Carol had had enough, but she was grateful she’d gotten that extra week with them. When the doctor announced she was fit to travel, she’d shooed everyone off. Helena and Joanna had left the previous night. Livy couldn’t find an available flight, so she’d bought a ticket for the noon train to her parents’ estate in Cardiff.

Because staying in the empty flat alone had felt unbearably lonely, Carol had hitched a ride with Livy, since she’d drive near enough to the airport. When she’d gotten a funny look from Livy, she’d claimed she didn’t want to get stuck in traffic. It wasn’t a lie, just an embellished truth. With the snowstorm expected later in the evening that had half of Londoners in a tizzy, traffic would be a nightmare. And now here she was, at the crossroad between two lives: the past she wanted, and the future she did not. Another glance at her phone told her that Livy had boarded, and her last thread to the world she loved stretched thinner. The urge to stand and run until she could no longer think was strong, but she stayed put.

At least, if something happened and she missed this flight, no one could say she didn’t try. She was dropping out of school during the last semester of her senior year, for crying out loud. The thought brought a pang of despair and fear, the latter overwhelming. Her future was an unknown slate and it frightened her to no end, knowing her life had been tossed to the whims of fate.

Chapter3

Rio de Janeiro, Present Day

Carol

At exactly twelve o’clock, forty-five minutes after the boy disappeared from the park, an envelope was delivered to Carolina Montenegro’s office near the city center.

It took Carol another fifteen minutes to notice it. Inexplicably, just the sight of the name she no longer used made her catch her breath, her heart to thud. Her past was something she seldom visited, and she’d done everything she could to keep others from bringing up reminders. She’d changed her name, she’d faked documents, and she felt no guilt, had no regrets that she’d lied and broken the law to make it possible.

She was sure, staring down at the envelope, whatever it contained, it was nothing good. Without touching it, she buzzed her assistant.

“Yes, Dona Carolina?”

Aware that the formal title meant Natalia had customers in the lobby, Carol went straight to the topic — not that she’d have tried pleasantries with her stomach doing cartwheels. “There’s an envelope on my desk addressed to Carolina Montenegro. Who brought it?”

A pause. “A delivery boy. You were in the bathroom, so I put it on your desk. It’s been a while since someone addressed you by that name, but I didn’t think there was anything to it. Should I refuse future notes addressed like that?”

“No, thank you.”

Carol sat back on her chair and stared at the envelope. She picked it up with care and flipped it back and forth. There was nothing written on it but the two words: Carolina Montenegro. It was thin and light, indicating the content inside was paper, and that, combined with the name, had a ball of fear coursing through her. Her finger touched the scar on her temple, a small reminder that the name had brought her not only mental and emotional pain, but that she’d barely dodged two murder attempts. She tore the flap carefully, terrified of what she’d find.

There were two sheets of paper, one with a few printed words, the other a printout of a photo of a sleeping boy. Gabriel. With trembling fingers and no color whatsoever left in her cheeks, she straightened the second paper and read.

Carolina Montenegro,

We have your son.

For twenty-five million reais in cash, he can be home by Friday.

If you wish to see him alive again, follow these simple instructions:

Act normal. By no means let anyone suspect that something is wrong.

No police.

Make sure the money is unmarked.

Make sure the bills are non-sequential.

Counterfeit money will not bring your son back.

We will contact you with information for the drop-off on Friday.

Be smart and do as we say.

The paper fell from numb fingers onto the desk. Carol stared at the printout, her heart lodged in her throat, choking the need to scream.

This couldn’t be real.

Outside, the phone rang. Jolted from her stupor with sudden urgency, she picked up her phone and dialed Maria, the nanny.

Maria picked up on the third ring, hysterical, barely coherent.

“I can’t find him,” she sobbed. “Oh God, I can’t find him.”

“W-where.” Carol swallowed and tried again. “Where are you?”

“At the park. Oh,” she cried, a keening sound that pierced Carol’s brain. “He was right there, petting the dog. He was right there!”

She could hear the wails of a child, the sound of people calling for Gabriel. Someone was telling Maria to call the police before the child got too far, and whatever fog remained in Carol’s head drained away.

“Maria? Maria!” she snapped, and the woman’s sobs quieted down. “No police. Do you hear me? Don’t you dare call the police.”

* * *

Carol

When Otto, the head of the design team, walked into Carol’s office, her eyes were still red but dry. Because the door to her office was always open unless she was in a meeting, it took her a few moments to notice him. Fear had snapped her out of the numbing paralysis, though her terror increased with every breath she took. The drawers in her desk were open, and so was the locked safe behind her. Papers and files were discarded on her desk, others were compiled neatly atop each other inside her briefcase. The clutter didn’t register in her orderly meter. She could see nothing more but the urgent task ahead, think of nothing else but the grainy image of her son bound and unconscious.

“What did you lose?” Otto asked.

Her head snapped up, and she understood then how a small animal felt when cornered by big prey. Static fear constricted her lungs, weakened her limbs at the same time it filled her with energy. It made her jittery and unfocused, and it was only sheer determination keeping her from rushing to the streets, screaming for Gabriel.

Otto’s fond smile died as he took in her expression.

“Oh shit. Oh shit,” he said, taking a step in and closing the door behind him. “What happened?”

He moved in closer, stopping when she jerked back, the sane thread she was clinging to rubbing thinner. In the back of her mind, she knew if he’d suddenly grown horns and extra limbs, her reaction would have been no different.

“Hey.” He raised his hands, palms up in a placating gesture. “Hey, it’s me. What is it? What happened?”

Her eyes darted to her desk, where the letter still lay, the words terrifying. When Otto moved closer, she snatched the paper away, balling her hand and crumpling the sheet.

“What’s this?” Otto asked, picking up the printed photo of the boy, hands and feet bound, asleep.

His eyes flew to hers, and the fear in them was like twisting hooks in her gut, intensifying her already raw terror.

“Talk to me, Carol.” He reached out and gently touched it to her shoulder. Reassured she wasn’t backing away, he curved his hand around her back and pulled her closer. Heaving, breaths shuddering, she lowered her forehead to his shoulder and let her tears track down her face, her choked breathing the only sound she made for a long time.

When the buzzer on her desk sounded, Carol jumped, her legs giving way. She allowed Otto to guide her to the visitor’s chair. She ignored as he reached for the phone and pressed the buzzer.

Natalia, Carol’s assistant, informed him that Carol’s one o’clock meeting was due in ten.

“Cancel it,” Otto told her.

“Dona Carolina told me to remind her—”

“Cancel it,” Otto repeated firmly. “In fact, cancel all her meetings for today. Apologize to everyone and tell them there was a family emergency and that Carol won’t be available until further notice.”

“But—”

Otto hung up and turned back to Carol, reaching for the piece of paper still clutched in her fist. She let him pry it loose, eyes cast out the window, unable to look at him, afraid to see his panic.

She listened as he smoothed the paper … the silence that followed as he read. Though Carol wasn’t sure how much time passed, she was aware of Otto’s shock, his fear as tangible as hers.

“We have to call the police,” he finally said, his voice hoarse.

“No, no. I can’t do that.”

“Carol—”

She surged to her feet, all signs of weakness gone, and pointed a stiff finger at him. “No, I will not risk my son’s life.”

“There are specialists—”

“I said no! No police, no one can know.” Eyes blazing, she took a step forward. “Do you understand, Otto? No police, no specialists.”

“Where are you going to get twenty-five million from?”

“I don’t know. But I’ll get it, even if I have to beg … or sell my soul.” With the sense of urgency spurring her on, she returned to her desk, unlocked and opened the last drawer, pulled out the bank statements and dropped them into the briefcase.

“Are you going to try for a loan?”

“I’m not sure,” she said, snapping shut the briefcase. “I have to go home. There isn’t much time.”

“Carol, I know this reminds you of your mother, but it’s not the same. Please, I’m begging you, call the police.”

“It is the same fucking thing,” she snapped, suddenly furious. “Don’t you see? They said twenty-five million reais. They want unmarked money. They mentioned no counterfeit. Who the fuck knows that?”

Otto stepped back, taken aback by the vehemence in her tone. “I’ll come with you,” he said, determined not to leave her alone.

“No, they might be watching.”

“Yes, and since I’m a fixture around your place, no flags will be raised.” He picked up the printout photo of Gabriel and folded it up. “If I act clueless, and they’re watching, it’ll convince them you told no one.”

Chapter4

London, Almost Four Years Earlier

Ricardo

Ricardo waited for the woman to start oohing and aahing. Instead, she gave him a bland smile and glanced down at her phone.

Ricardo blinked, deflating at the brush-off. He cast his gaze around—a habit that made him look guilty—and found no one. No one watching, that is. People hurried on, some lugging suitcases, some lugging children. Many went by empty-handed. No one gave him more than a passing glance. Past experience taught him public venues were both a blessing and a curse. For one, he was an anonymous body in an anonymous crowd. On the other hand, if he were recognized, it would be hours before he could extricate himself from their clutches. But damned if he didn’t want this woman to recognize him. Not a smart thing by an inch, not even by a mile. It only took one cry of recognition for people to swarm in. Considering flights were being canceled left and right, the place was getting more crowded by the minute.

“Think they’ll cancel the flight?” he asked, bracing for her cry of recognition. Instead, all he got was a mumbled “hope so” that he must have misunderstood.

He adjusted the bill of his cap, stretched his legs, and crossed his ankles. “Business or pleasure?”

“More like torture,” she muttered, and he definitely heard that.

“Your first trip to Brazil, then?”

She glanced at him, pulling a lock of hair behind her ear in an absent way. The full weight of her attention hit him like a brick to the head, resulting in a total loss of focus.

Her forlorn smile brought him back to reality. There was an immense sadness in that one stretch of lips. It spoke of resigned hurt and longing. He knew, he sometimes saw the same expression in pictures taken when he wasn’t prepared. Celia, his sister, often gave him hell for it.

“I’m going home.”

His curiosity was piqued. Baffled and a little dumbfounded at his need for more, he raised the bill of his cap. “Here for pleasure, then?”

She shook her head. “I was a student at Oxford.”

“Ah, got yourself a degree?”

She shrugged dainty shoulders and said nothing. She had a long, elegant neck. He had never noticed any woman’s neck before.

“You fly home every holiday?” He wanted to know all he could about this woman. He hadn’t felt this much interest since Julie, his tenth-grade crush—and regretted he’d never made a move before his parents had packed and relocated to São Paulo, his father’s native land.

“No.”

“How long has it been since you last went home?”

“A while,” she replied and looked out the window.

It was a dismissal, Ricardo knew, so he gave her a moment. He followed her gaze out to the falling snow, wondering if he’d ever get home. His melancholic mood returned, though with less intensity. He should have left with the rest of the band earlier in the week, but the lawsuit had angered him, and he’d wanted to see it through.

The plaintiff had been so convincing, rumors had begun to circulate, and his reputation was taking a nosedive to hell. He’d be damned if he let a jilted woman ruin his life. And still, even knowing himself, he’d been afraid at the end he was going to lose. Not that he’d doubted his defense, but because he knew Bethany McAdams was a manipulative liar. A damn good one too. He’d fallen for her schemes countless times, without an inkling of what she was doing. He’d still be caught in her web had he not walked in on her flirting with another guy.

She’d played him for a fool, and he’d allowed himself to be blind. But once he took off the rose-tinted glasses, he finally saw her for what she was, recognized the countless ways he’d been played. That was when Bethany’s true colors had been revealed. Refusing to fall for her machinations, he’d ignored her tears along with the threats that followed. He’d thought he’d gotten rid of her when she’d stopped calling.

And then, there she was, suing him for abuse and child support. He could hardly believe his eyes when he’d been served the summons to appear in court. He’d come to visit his aunt and cousin in Sussex and had, until then, believed Bethany was no more than a bad memory. He’d refused to attend court at first, scoffing at the thought of alimony and monetary compensation. But things hadn’t been as simple as rejecting attendance. Yes, Bethany McAdams was a manipulative liar, and she was a resourceful one.

He’d been sure about the outcome of the trial from day one, but the glint of triumph in Bethany’s icy eyes when the judge called for a paternity test had given him nightmares for weeks. Yes, she was beautiful, but she also had a quick mind, an iron will and an abhorrence to failure. It occurred to him then and there, standing in front of the judge, that unless Bethany had the means to prove her claims, she wouldn’t have started the lawsuit. So, he’d agreed to the paternity test—how could he not?—as long as the blood work was done in a facility outside London and its location remained undisclosed. Had he not made the demand, he had no doubt he’d have lost the case big time. Bethany’s attorney had objected, claiming there were plenty of reputable labs around, and this was a ploy to prolong and muddle a simple case. Ricardo’s attorney, in return, had pointed out nothing would be gained if the result of the test was delayed a few days. The judge had agreed.

Ricardo could have left then but decided not to. It became a matter of pride and principle he was present when the magistrate announced the truth. The band would have stayed if his sister, along with Noel’s sister and Nicolau’s wife, hadn’t had a car accident back home. So, he’d sent the group away. They’d have come back for the trial today, but he told them he’d book a flight as soon as he finished in the courthouse.

At the sound of a ringing phone, Ricardo’s attention returned to the woman two seats away. He recognized the saxophone tune for “Moon Over Bourbon Street” and gave her points for taste.

He watched as the woman, brow furrowed, checked her display, then glanced over at him as if just now realizing she had an audience, then she stood and paced away.

* * *

Carol

Carol’s gorge rose when she took in the caller ID. Caesar Dunbar.

The desire to throw up was strong. The desire to throw her phone away was strong too, but she did neither. Glancing briefly at her avid spectator, she got up and moved a few feet away.

“SenhorDunbar,” she answered.

“SenhoritaMontenegro,” came the voice at the other end. “Bom dia.”

Carol scowled. It wasn’t morning here in London and he knew it.

It wasn’t a good day either.

“How are you today?” the attorney asked.

“I’m well. Thanks for asking.”

“Yes, I can hear the improvement. I hope you got all your affairs in order?”

At the unspoken question, Carol said, “Yes. The physician said I’m fit to travel as long as I finish the course of the drugs and see a doctor soon after.”

“Excellent. I hear flights are being canceled due to the bad weather.”

“That’s right. So far, five flights have been canceled in the past few hours.”

“You’re at the airport, then?”

“Yes.”

Senhor Dunbar waited a beat, but when Carol didn’t elaborate, he prompted, “And your flight?”

“On schedule,” she answered, crossing her fingers it wouldn’t be the case for much longer.

Senhor Dunbar’s sigh of relief caused a small flare of a guilt pang in her conscience. He was working hard, an impossible case, and … and nothing. This was a hard case for him. A means for a large paycheck and a good reputation. For Carol, it was her life.

“It’s important you arrive on time, Senhorita Montenegro,” he said for the hundredth time that week. “You need to be thoroughly briefed before the hearing on Thursday.” He cleared his throat and went on. “I talked to Senhor Armando yesterday. Your fiancé and his grandfather promised not to renege on their arrangement with your grandmother. They’re willing to continue on as long as the marriage agreement is signed before the hearing next week.”

It took Carol a full five seconds to understand the meaning of his words.

The nerve!

But then, Sergio Armando was sly and unscrupulous. Taking a deep breath, Carol suppressed the urge to yell into her phone. “Are you saying that unless Sergio and I get married within this week, his grandfather won’t help?”

“Yes, and that the marriage is consummated before then.”

That the marriage is consummated—oh, for God’s sake. What were they? Teenagers in the middle of the fifteenth century?

Carol raised her head and stared at the rafters above. She breathed slowly and bit back her angry retort. Who was she kidding? She shouldn’t be surprised. And she wasn’t, really, but the audacity angered her.

“Excuse me,” Carol said, trying for politeness but coming through as cold nonetheless. “We had a deal. Senator Armando helps us win this case; I marry his grandson. Not the other way around.”

“Yes, and I pointed that out, but Senhora Montenegro is dead, and Senator Armando is afraid once you no longer need him, you won’t marry his grandson.”

Carol fell silent for a few seconds. She’d debated doing exactly that. Her grandmother had coerced Carol into marrying Sergio Armando, and now her grandmother was dead. But then she had the problem of the conglomerate, and she didn’t think she could weather the storm without Sergio Armando and his grandfather’s help. Carol’s ire dissipated like smoke during a strong wind. Resignation was a bitter and painful pill to swallow.

“I said I’d marry him before. I’m not the type to go back on my word.”

“Then it makes no difference if the marriage comes first,” Senhor Dunbar reasoned.

“It does if they can’t fulfill their side of the agreement. Tell Sergio, as despicable as he is, if his grandfather can help win this case, I’d subject myself to become his wife. And that counts only if I win this case. Otherwise, there will be no marriage.”

Years of etiquette lessons kept her from hanging up, but oh, how she wanted to.

“Senhorita Montenegro, Sergio Armando is an influential, well-connected figure. Becoming the wife of such a powerful person is a privilege most young ladies your age would be proud of. Please, I beg you to reconsider. I have no doubt that Sergio and his grandfather can deliver on their word. Not to count such a merging will benefit the conglomerate.”

“I don’t care about benefits, nor the privilege that becoming Sergio Armando’s wife would give me. I will marry him only if he can deliver on his word. If he’s insisting on the marriage before the hearing, it is because he knows he’s not able to go through with it. Please let him know the marriage contract will be signed after the judge rules in my favor. Otherwise, tell him the deal is off.”