Kat
I clean out the rabbit hutch, moving my arm in time to the beat of the
music. Listening to music through my ear pods is the only way to ignore the
squeals of countless caged animals. I thought when I first started working at
the pet shop I would find them all cute and loveable. How wrong I was.
They shit on everything, and I'm the only one who takes the time to clean
things up properly. I actually care about them even if they are only
temporary residents.
I work methodically. First the two black rabbits with twitchy ears, then the
hamsters with their stuffed mouths, curled up asleep in their beds. I like the
guinea pigs as they have cute eyes. Finally, I move on to the curious rat,
who is adored by the store owner, Mikal. He won't sell Ricco, as he calls
him; he keeps him because the kids think he's fun. The parents aren't as
happy to see the rat scurrying around his cage, sniffing the air and looking
for an escape route.
I have to catch the creature and put him in a temporary cage while I lay
newspapers in the bottom of his hutch and add fresh straw for him to nest
in. I glare at him, and move quickly, dropping him into the cage and sliding
the catch across.
"Got you, mister Ricco. Eat this." I shove a carrot through the bars. He's happy and ignores me.
With the old bedding removed from the hutch, I lay the first sheet of
yesterday's paper on the bottom. Then I take the next page and smooth it
out.
The headline catches my eye.
Shot billionaire out of rehabilitation.
I blink, pick up the paper, and read the article. Ricco is gnawing the metal
bars.
"Hush, Ricco, I'm trying to concentrate."
From what little real information there is in the article, I can deduce that
Leon Murati is home, resting, and recuperating from his head wound.
Having spent a month in critical care, much of it unconscious, he then was
transferred to a convalescence hospital specializing in head injuries. The
extent of his injuries aren't defined, only that he is in physically excellent
shape, but due to his heart stopping and the subsequent anoxia, Mr. Murati
suffered amnesia. Mr. Murati, the report wrote, remains under tight security
throughout his recovery as his assassin remains at large. Mr. Murati was
gifted a guard dog by the mayor of the city to protect him.
I lower the paper. Amnesia? Does this explain why he hasn't contacted me
once since he regained consciousness?
The news reports published in the weeks that followed the attempted
murder were sporadic. Leon's people circled around to protect him. Nobody
got near him in the hospital or rehab clinic. I am too insignificant and who
else knows that Leon intended to date me again? I won't be able to
convince them that as far as I am concerned that morning I was leaving the
hotel as his girlfriend, not a one-night date.
I moped around my place for weeks, barely eating, until I accepted that
either he didn't want to know me, or he was so badly injured he wasn't going to be able to do anything normal again. This article confirmed the
opposite. Physically fit but suffering with amnesia. The implication is that
the bullet had done less damage than his heart stopping, and I know they
gave him CPR quickly, I watched them working on him. The flashbacks
I've had of that morning in the hotel, the assassin's gun pointing at his head,
still haunt me. The blood on the carpet. My broken voice calling to him to
stay with me. The panic-stricken hotel staff. It's all visibly imprinted in my
memory.
The chances are that he is capable and ready to be whole again. Do I
contact him? Remind him of our night together and what he had told me in
the morning? Will he believe me? Probably not. I will have to convince him
all over again, and how can I do that when he is cooped up in a fortress?
I've done some research. I know who he really is too. He's not just any
businessman; he's an arms dealer and according to the investigative
reporter, a mobster kingpin with connections to organized crime who
relocated from Albania to Monaco. Do I care? My parents would be
appalled, and I should be, but my heart says differently. Hearts usually beat
minds. It's my destiny to fall for Leon and the consequences are all mine. I
haven't told my family. The less they know, the better.
"Let's get you back in here, Ricco." I brace myself for a nip, but feel none.
Ricco, having eaten his carrot, is placid.
I have to admit, I probably like Ricco. He's honest and cleaner than some of
the other animals.
I tidy away the leftover straw and go into the backroom to make a coffee.
Lined against the wall are the extra supplies of pet food. I touch a bag of
kibble, and an idea comes to me.My best friend thinks I'm an idiot.
"You're going to turn up with dog food and hand it over to him personally?
You know he has staff, right?"
"Of course. I'm going to ask to see the dog, and say the food is a gift from
the pet store owner."
"Then you're going to do what with the dog?"
Brigitte is no help with ideas. I didn't have a good one. I only want to see
Leon and hope he recognizes me. But I don't know how to see him.
"It's worth a try," I say. "I haven't got any other options."
"Why not knock on his door and ask to see him?" Brigitte rolls a cigarette
with ease. She knows not to offer me one. I don't care for them.
"Because… he's not expecting me. He's got girls that do that stuff for him."
"Kat, darling, you just have to say you're the girl who he wanted to date."
I laugh. "Like anyone would believe that."
"You have to think about what you want. Do you really, really want to be a
mobster's girl? Aren't you put off by the shooting? I mean, he could have
missed and hit you." She lights the paper and inhales.
We're outside of a small café, one that serves the best coffee in Nice. I sip
on mine and ignore the plume of smoke from her lips.
"He has enemies, sure. But assassination attempts are rare…"
Brigitte laughs this time. "Rare? You're not reading the right newspapers.
These guys are at each others' throats all the time."
"That's what the papers want you to think. Times are changing. I'm not
trying to marry him. I just want to get somewhere better than this…" I halt.
"Say it, you mean shit hole. Well," she says gruffly. "Some of us are born
and bred in these places and like them. I don't need to live in a palace to
find happiness."
I bite down on my lip. "Sorry, I didn't mean to imply anything."
"Yes, you did. It's what you think, though, and if that's what you want, then
you'll have to find out for yourself. Shootings, blackmail, bodyguards, you
will have to put up with it all if you want that kind of life; it's tough and dangerous. When you're done with him, come back and tell me which is
worse." She stubs out the cigarette.