“I can control it,” he said. “It’s my operation. I set the rules.”
“What does that mean?”
“The Islay is the black market. I’m the heir to the Islay. Thain’s been letting me run things for the last year. It’s mine.”
“Yours,” I said, rolling the word around in my mouth, testing the concept in my brain. Elliot’s face was quirked with earnestness; he leaned in closer to me, reached out his hands again. Did he think this was romantic? I stepped back, and his face fell.
“How are the Orlovs involved in this?” I finally asked. Elliot flinched, just slightly.
“They’re my friends. And my associates,” he said. “Max’s expertise is transport, and Evgenia’s an ace at infiltrating social circles.”
Something pinched in my throat. “How exactly does that work, then? The business.” Had Evgenia’s friendship all been a ruse? Was I just a mark to them?
Elliot studied my face. I clenched my hands into fists to stop myself from squirming under his gaze. Then, finally, he spoke. “We operate twofold. Ally ourselves with the servant and working classes to scope out the best marks, develop a pipeline, and get supplies off-ship. It’s amazing what you can accomplish with the lowest of the low on your side.”
So that’s what his relationship with Nora was all about—he was using her. She was his key to the Scandinavian’s servant class. I almost wished my suspicions had been true, that they’d been in a romantic relationship. It would have been less disappointing.
Elliot went on. “We work the higher rungs of the social strata—the families and individuals who won’t miss a crate here and there. And we build connections for later. Crunch time will come, and eventually I expect some of these families, and ships, to come to me for what they need.”
“So that line was bullshit,” I cut in. “About helping the poor. You understand exactly how the black market works. I knew it.”
“I meant what I said. I have no problem gouging the rich, but I’ll never do that to the poor.”
“How magnanimous of you,” I snapped. “The noble criminal.”
“I did what I had to do to survive.” Elliot took several steps toward me. We were within spitting distance now. He lowered his voice, despite the fact that we were alone. “Don’t judge me, Leo. You’re frexing royalty.”
“You know perfectly well how meaningless that is, and frankly I resent the implication.” I hated how my voice shook, how my whole body was beginning to shake. I was furious, but also equally on the verge of crying.
“That’s easy for you to say. We’re born into our stations, and we die in them. I was nothing. You have everything. Your worst day was better than my best.” His words were laced with venom. The Elliot from a few weeks ago was back, any of the ground we’d gained now lost. He seemed to hate me again.
“That’s unfair,” I said, voice just above a whisper.
“Ben wanted to be a communications officer, you know,” he continued, oblivious to my pain. “But he came from the wrong deck.”
“That’s awful,” I acknowledged. “But do you really think I can be or do anything I want? You know that’s not true.”
“I am playing the world’s tiniest violin right now. The princess is sad.”
“Frex you, Elliot.” I took a step forward, jabbing at the air in front of him with my fist. Would that I could connect my hand with his shoulder. I longed to hit him, hurt him, push him back. But I was afraid.
“I see right through you, Leo.” Elliot dropped his voice down, losing none of the menace for lack of volume. If anything, it sounded worse when he was saying things quietly. He moved close again, gaining back the ground he’d lost from my retreat. “Interested now that I’m dripping in money and you’re desperate.”
We were only feet apart now, so I could see every emotion cross his face. None of them were good.
I took a deep breath. “What’s the use of being wealthy if the money is dirty, El?” My voice was quiet, but surely he heard the undertone of hurt and concern radiating with every syllable.
“Said like a rich person,” he snapped back.
I swallowed thickly, refusing to cry. Desperate for distraction and time to come up with some moderately clever retort, I let my eyes flit around the room. They stuck fast on a pile of clothing in the corner. Draped over the boxes of contraband, the side of the room clearly denoted for Elliot’s black-market finds, were my mother’s dresses. Her heirloom ball gowns that I had been saving. Her wedding dress.
Elliot followed my gaze, and I saw him blanch. Then he sputtered, but my rage was fast as a bullet, cutting off his excuses.
“Is that how Evgenia finds herself exquisitely outfitted in vintage? You steal family heirlooms?”
No answer. Only the slightest flicker of something approximating guilt. But it wasn’t enough. I no longer recognized the person standing in front of me. My Elliot was gone.
“How could you? You know what they mean to me.” I marched over to the dresses and took them up in my arms, pressing them to my chest like a shield. At the door, I turned, making sure to meet his eyes with mine. I hoped they burned like fire.
“I don’t know you at all anymore. And I don’t care to.” And with my parting shot, I turned around and left him where he stood before tears spilled down my cheeks.
Twenty
Sleep was fitful, my dreamscape haunted by a series of Elliots. Kind Elliot, Funny Elliot, Secretive Elliot, and finally Hateful Elliot—each version of him was there, smiling, laughing, glaring, yelling at me. Each time I awoke, words like desperate ringing in my ears, I hoped he would leave me, but Elliot always came back. I was reeling from the betrayal, my subconscious attempting to process what my waking mind could not. Elliot was a stranger and a criminal. And I loved him. But it didn’t matter now.
I woke with the artificial echo of dawn, dressing myself in all-black, a shroud to match my mood. I didn’t know what to do next, but I knew I had to do something.
Should I turn Elliot in? Could I even do so without implicating myself, my ship? And what about Evgenia, Max, and Ewan? Would we all go to prison, or worse?
Maybe it was all over already. I reminded myself that Max and Ewan were missing. Now I finally understood the urgency. If they had been caught, it was possible they were being tortured right now to give up the whole operation, to give up Elliot and Evgenia and the Sofi’s part in everything. The thought doubled me over just as I reached the kitchen. I sat on the top step and forced myself to breathe. No, I couldn’t assume the worst. There had to be a logical explanation for where they had gone. And now I was involved, inextricably, and so I had to help Elliot solve it. I’d figure out how to hurt him later.
And there it was: I wanted to hurt him. I hated myself for it. But this was who I was now. This was who he had made me. He’d taken my heart, my ship, my trust.
I made my way up to the bridge, forgoing coffee, because of course the pantry was still locked to me. At least now I knew why. I allowed myself a string of colorful expletives as I sat down in the captain’s chair, all variations on what Elliot could do with his black market and his lies and his stupid, pretty face. And then I quietly piloted us from the Lady Liberty back to the Scandinavian, docking with her before anyone else was even awake.