Becoming Rain

Dammit.

“Shall we?” Elmira’s voice is soft and soothing, her gaze appraising me as she floats past, her white dress reminding me of Greek mythology. For a moment, I consider dumping my glass of red wine all over it and ending this tour so I can find Luke, but I quickly dismiss the idea. Aref clearly doesn’t want an audience for whatever they’re discussing. So I follow her down, refocusing my energy for the time being. Wondering how much Elmira might know.

Maybe she’s another door into this network.

That’s all these people are to me. Doors that I need to figure out how to push open.

Chapter 15

LUKE

“I take it you like boats.” I scan the framed photos of various ships that fill an entire wall in Aref’s office.

“I do. They’re all mine. My family owns a shipping company. We have a cruise line, tankers, freight . . .”

I watch him pour a golden drink from a fancy glass bottle into two fat-bottomed glasses. “So, a lot of ships.” There must be twenty pictured. And they’re all big enough to cross the ocean, no doubt. Rust said that Aref handled the shipping. I didn’t think that meant he owned the bloody ships.

He flashes a white-toothed smile. “A lot of ships. And some planes, too. And transport trucks.” He hands me the glass. “That’s how I met your uncle. We were buying trucks through RTM. I liked him the minute I met him. He’s a smart businessman.”

“He is.” My eyes wander over all the custom woodwork and ornate carvings in this expansive office located at the back of the house—past a locked door and down a long hallway, as if designed specifically to avoid prying ears.

“What do you think?” He nods toward my glass.

“Whisky?” Rust took me to a whisky bar and taught me how to drink it. A skill every refined, intelligent man should have, he said. Of course, the night ended with us trying to carry each other home and painting the sidewalk with our puke.

“A Macallan single-malt scotch, actually. Special edition, from 1946.”

I take a small sip, swirling the pungent flavor around my mouth. It’s like nothing I’ve ever had before.

“I bought it at an auction several years ago for four hundred and sixty thousand dollars.”

I struggle not to choke as I swallow. “You’re telling me this right here is, like . . .” I do some quick, rough math in my head. “Twenty grand?”

He smiles, clinks my glass in answer, and takes a small sip of his own. Clearly amused. Either he’s trying to impress me or show me up. He’s succeeded at both.

Aref isn’t just rich.

He’s filthy rich.

“So tell me more about this opportunity that Rust mentioned to me.”

Leave it to Rust to call it an “opportunity” rather than what it is—us needing help to offload this car. I give Aref the rundown. “So, would you know anyone who may want it?”

He stares at his glass, as if in thought. “Yes, I believe that I do.”

“It’s as custom as custom gets,” I warn him.

I get a dismissive wave in response. “That won’t mean anything to a buyer in Dubai. When would you need it moved by?”

“As soon as possible.” Apparently, Nikolai is a few blood pressure points away from a heart attack with that thing sitting in his garage. Getting caught in possession of a two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar car at your own home earns instant jail time and a reputation for being an idiot.

Aref pulls a phone out of his desk drawer and punches in a few numbers. Someone answers and he goes off in a language I can’t even begin to understand. So I busy myself with savoring the most expensive drink I’ll ever have in my life and listening quietly until he drops the phone into his pocket. “I’ll have a definite answer shortly, but it shouldn’t be a problem.”

He seems so relaxed by the entire thing. “You sound like you’ve done this before.”

He shrugs. “I’ve helped out a few friends.”

“And what’s this going to cost us?” I hold my breath, waiting for it. The ridiculous terms he’s going to lay out to do this favor for us, his “friends.” At least maybe he’ll be willing to negotiate.

Dark, calculating eyes settle on me. “It was Viktor who approached me years ago to see if I’d be interested in shipping merchandise overseas. Cars weren’t part of my . . .” He pauses, searching for words. “ . . . portfolio. At first I said no, simply because I didn’t trust the man. But then I met Rust and I liked Rust. So I agreed to move their cargo for them. They pay me a rate per car and I make sure all the paperwork is legit and no customs officers stick their noses in where they don’t belong. It’s easy money.

“But I’ve figured out that there’s a lot more money to be had in selling the cars than simply shipping them. And I also know that Rust has a solid organization.” He pauses. “I’m a good person to know, Luke. I have buyers in other parts of the world. We could make each other a lot more money if Rust would ever consider selling directly with me.”

“What are you suggesting? That we stop doing business with Vlad and Andrei?” I’d be game for that, to be honest.

But Aref’s head is already shaking. “No. You keep that arrangement, and I’ll keep taking my minuscule fees for shipping. But why not start something new with me in a new market? I can ship and take care of the buyers on the other side.”