1 CHAPTER ONE

"I don't know where my bike is or why I have stitches on my head."

Leo spun around in her seat, half expecting to see a drunken oaf weaving around in tattered clothes, one hand strapped to a light pole to hold himself up.

"And who are you?" she asked even though she was the newcomer to the town, a sparkling gem set in the Turkish Mediterranean where palm trees swayed and the sea lulled her to sleep at night. She was here on vacation, two weeks at an uber luxury resort which made the Maldives look like an impoverished village in Africa.

She'd grown bored of five star restaurants, being waited on hand and foot and having to parade around in Cavalli caftans all day so she had taken a trip into the town to check out the locals to see if there was anything interesting going on. Being cooped up with Russians, Ukrainians and vodka had started to wear thin after the first week. Not that she was against alcohol. She enjoyed it. But she preferred a quality glass of Brunello as compared to Boxed Wine. Most of the people at the five star hotel were of the Boxed Wine variety, taking advantage of discounted rates at the start of the season when the sea was not quite warm enough.

It was March, 2020 and Leo needed a break from life - or getting her life back together. It was, to put it loosely, under construction which meant that she had walked away from a demolished relationship and was back on ground zero. Fertile ground. Ripe for the picking. Maybe a holiday romance. Though truth be told, twenty something waiters with dollar signs in their eyes and a fear of showers (why didn't they bath?) were not her style. She wanted more. She wanted glitz and glamour and excitement. She wanted something worthy of a bestselling novel.

"Nikolai."

She nodded, taking in the blood red chinos, crisp white POLO t shirt, gelled hair and Ray Ban sunglasses. Very Tom Cruise - Top Gun. But seedy. Past his sell-by date. She clocked his net worth at around a million. Maybe one and a half, she decided as her gaze landed on the Rolex, a limited edition that had either been passed down, won at a cards game or purchased at an auction. Or stolen, which was the vibe she was getting. And she was rarely wrong.

"From here?" she asked tapping her foot and waiting for a waiter even though the place was not quite buzzing with diners. Her gaze flicked over his tight cheeks, eye lift and abs trying to poke out of a middle aged paunch.

"Here and there," he returned, his voice scrubbed of any accent. It was precisely the answer she had been giving, burying her heritage and roots, until the day she had made her first million. Then she had owned up to who she really was, what she was, and where she was from. This man, she decided, was still stuck on the journey of self discovery. Or on the run from an agency that was a letter soup. CIA. FBI. MI6. 007. She grinned. This was much better than being ogled at the hotel. Or Netflix!

A waiter finally appeared, his hair rumpled, his shirt creased, his smile languid as though she ought to be honoured that he'd made an appearance. She flicked a glance at his hair and her fingers itched. If only she could get her hands on a bottle of shampoo or degreaser! Dear Lord, what was her obsession with cleaning and bathing? Was she turning into Michael Jackson? Was she a germaphobe?

"Table for one please," she said with the confidence of a woman who was accustomed to traveling around the world alone. Going Solo and loving every minute of it. She didn't have to check schedules with anyone else, or bow to someone else's preferences. She could spend an entire day at the Milanese shopping street, Montenapoleone with no one to stop her other than the bouncers guarding the entrance. They had done that once at Cavalli. But more of that later. For now, she was in her element, living La Vida Solo. It was quite a change from the rigors and laws of a previous marriage where every move, had been questioned, where every decision had to be sanctioned, where she had been forced to dilute her personality to give his more oomph. He'd been Red Bull and she had been the vodka. While they had worked well for a while, she had soon learned that vodka could mix with something other than Red Bull. She chuckled inwardly.

"In or out?" the waiter asked, sounding basic and bored.

"Inside," she replied, skin preservation her priority. It didn't take over her life, but self care was a priority. And staying out of 40 degree heat was the wise thing to do, irrespective of the fact that she was wearing 50 SPF and a layer of foundation.

She followed him to to a table with a glass top and plastic chairs. Leo took a seat near the glass wall, her bare back facing the wall so that she could observe the people and the eatery. The space was barely bigger than a postage stamp space but with excellent reviews. And while the decor had come straight out of Germany 1960 (not that she had been around at the time or even stepped on German soil), the aromas wafting from the kitchen were hypnotic.

Thank God she was only here for a week or she would put on a ton and look like the woman racing through the door, sweat fountaining off her. Marshmallow, Leo decided, taking in the way the fat and cellulite oozed out of her two sizes too small hot pink shorts and a silver tank top that she should have given away three decades before. She looked like Olivia Newton John on her way to a workout session. Well, three Olivias ... Leo saw that her face, despite a few millilitres of Botox, looked like a dirty, crumpled old Lira note. Leo pegged her at 70 and 110 kilos. Net worth - more than she deserved. An operator, she decided. This was a woman who could squeeze milk out of a stone. Probably related to my ex, she thought then hated herself for letting him intrude on her thoughts.

"Hallo," she squeaked and Leo shuddered. With a voice like that, she was willing to bet the farm (or this town - same thing) that the woman was single. Or that she paid for sex. Soon, she would learn just how right she was!

"Menu." One was plopped down in front of her and Leo did a mental eye roll. The leather was worn and torn but when she opened it, she was impressed by the layout, the design, almost as if she were back in 2020. But there were about 200 items to choose from, a thousand words to scroll through and she had left her reading glasses back in Calabria.

"Your recommendation," she asked the waiter. That was always the easiest and simplest way to order.

"Are you a vegetarian?" he asked, perking up slightly.

"No, I like meat." He seemed to like that. She let her gaze linger over him. Good looking - far too young - far too eager. Besides, she was not in the market for fun. She'd really come here to relax, to rebalance to find her center again before setting off on her next adventure. Besides, he smelled funny. She preferred Jean Paul Gaultier to Eau de Sweat.

The place needs an upgrade, she decided, perusing the menu. It took over five minutes, listing starters that took her from Mexico to Rabat, mains that tickled her memory and reminded her of stolen kisses in Rome and drinks that were basic.

"Steak is good."

The words were swallowed as a babble of bright colours stormed into the place, a group of hideously dressed women of all shapes and sizes - and nationalities. Leo was intrigued. She set her menu down, leaned back in the hard chair and observed the travelling circus.

Leo was a master at making observations, even faster at getting the lay of the land, but she decided to sit back, relax and enjoy the moment.

"Very popular." The waiter was speaking again, pen poised over a ratty pad.

"Ok. Well done," she said before he could ask. She'd been around the block too many times not to know what was coming next. Experience, all honed in the last five years had been quick had been harsh. Ten years ago, she had stumbled across the globe filled with fear, chased by the threat of failure. For years, it had hung over her like a nuclear clod. Now, she stormed across Europe. In Laboutin.

What was the Johnnie Walker saying? The world stepped aside for the man, or in her case woman, who knows where she's going.

She gave off that vibe of being far too confident and far to knowing, but that came from experience. It wasn't an act, it wasn't a show. But what was going on in the middle of the restaurant was pure Shakespeare. She looked at the characters. A couple dressed in what could only be called pajamas, Versace style. But from the extra shiny stiffness, it was clear that these were not authentic Versace pajamas, probably made in China, and bought from one of the endless stores that sold fakes in the town.

From the neolithic megalithic stone facades to the macaroons in a local bakery (patisserie was far too advanced a phrase for a store that sold coffee and cakes), everything in the town seemed to be fake. She was glad that she was living at the hotel where things seemed a tad more real, even though the boobs were fake. But it was good to schmooze with the locals.

She skipped over the Versace pajamas and settled on a woman who made Camilla Parker Bowles look downright gorgeous. They shared the same horsey structure, big yellow teeth and hair that needed to be tamed. Her jaw reminded Leo of an antique fireplace she had seen during a tour of abandoned villas in Tuscany, her face was as lined as a pocket map and yet ... her body would have turned the Hadid sisters green with envy.She was sleek and slender like a leopard, a wrinkled one, but lithe and lean nevertheless. Leo idly wondered if she worked out all day.

But it was man seated, beside her who really captured Leo's attention. Dressed in chain store shorts and a matching t shirt (He looked permanently offended - offended that it was 40 degrees and not 39 - offended when the waiter placed a glass of water at his side - offended when a cat strolled into the restaurant - offended when someone changed the channel on the TV. Leo wondered what he would do if she stripped down to her La Perla and cussed. She giggled at the thought. She could have fun with him; he was so easy to play. A seaweed in a pond. And she was starting to realise that despite its allusions of grandeur, the town was simply a puddle in the sea she had been navigating.

To her left, in a little alcove was leather chairs were two women who seem to be trapped in their own little bubble. It was almost as if they were in their own little throne room, looking down on the peasants. She zoned in on their diamonds, saw that they were not diamonds after all. She continued her appraisal of their clothes, their hair (too short, too blonde, too stiff) and their clothes (neat and chic, perfectly ironed, monochrome but not dull). And even though they didn't say anything, huge chunks of data and information seemed to be passing between them. Clearly, they'd known each other for a while and were on the same team. She just wondered who their opponents were ... other women, their husbands, the municipality?

She chuckled. Her perusal was punctured when the Marshmallow bounced across the room, wobbly thighs flashing through her hot pink shorts. Leo almost expected to see green sneakers, but thankfully, they were white and pretty ordinary - kind of orthopedic, proving Leo right. 70 was a good estimate. .

Leo, looked up and took in the face at close quarters. It really was full and flabby, like a beer belly with dimples, dips and valleys. But her grin was wide and fulsome as if she was delighted with the world. Energy seemed to slip and sing around her. It was chaotic and crazy, like a hurricane, sweeping into the room. But there was also something rather clownish about her affected joie de vivre. Leo suspected that she often cried herself to sleep and had tried a Hermes neck sling in the past. She'd met others like her. They dazzled, they charmed and then they showed their true colours.

Hmm, this was getting interesting.

She was followed by the kind of man that Leo expected to meet at La Scala or on the banks of the Neva. Clad in real Armani, with deck shoes that looked like they walked their own yacht deck (at least 100 feet), he was tall. Six foot something. Leo liked tall. Almost as much as she liked yachts. Trim and bronzed as if he spent his days jet skiing on the Med. And like her, he seemed stranded on this little island as though rough storms had driven him to the only harbour for miles.

Wealth - around twenty or thirty million, she surmised. And she got the feeling that despite his age (he looked to be 60), he'd made at least half his fortune through Bitcoin. Or something equally scandalous. She smiled in his direction. He looked away.

WTF!

Two minutes later, he was joined by a woman who reminded Leo of an expensive bottle of very dark, very virgin, olive oil. Like the cartoon character trailing after the sailor Popeye, she was brown and skinny to the point of anorexia. Her hair, a blinding blue-black, was scraped off her face as though she considered herself too beautiful to make an effort. Leo nicknamed her Olive.

Olive smiled. Too long. And too hard. At too many people. Showing too many teeth. Her eyes were dead. Leo spotted the knives she kept in the back pocket of her child size denim shorts. This was a woman who was always ready to strike. Woe betide the women who thought they were her friends.

Leo took a sip of her so-called "Prosecco" and grinned. Things were just about to get interesting. What a cast of characters!

"Enjoy."

Leo nodded at the waiter, took in the Michelin quality beef, perfect chips, decadent presentation, five hundred calories and lifted a serrated knife. She stuck it deep into the steak and replied, "You can count on it."

She felt a gaze boring into her neck. Perhaps Twenty/Thirty Million had finally come to his senses. Ever so slowly, she turned her head, expecting to see those deep azure eyes fully appreciating the woman she was - the woman she'd fought so hard to become. She imagined a night or two on board his yacht, an afternoon in his hot tub and even a quick sail down the coast to the next island. Sun. Sex. Soulmates. She grinned inwardly and turned towards the stare.

'What the hell are you doing here?" Her heart fell into her leather espadrilles.

"I thought you were in prison," Leo snapped, her heart tripping, her palms sweating. Her hand reached for her mobile. She had the police on speed dial. His bronzed hand, so big, so strong, slipped over hers and pinned it to the table. Her wedding ring poked through their interlaced fingers. Leo stared down at the diamond. Ten carats. Colour H. Flawless - like her performance in bed.

She groaned. This man was her undoing. The Meghan to a Harry. The Naomi to a Briattori. She swore under her breath.

"You can't keep a good man down," he quipped, his words funnelling over her like creamy Amarula on ice. "Want to talk here or somewhere," he paused slightly and she felt the threat hover between them, "quieter?" His hand clamped down ever so slightly. She refused to wince even as she mentally decided what she should be buried in. If he allowed her the dignity of a funeral once he was done with her. Or perhaps he would just feed her to the sharks. Were there sharks in the Med? The thoughts roller-coasted through her mind. She sucked a slow, deep breath.

"My place or yours?" She looked up at him and her heart flipped over.

"Your place is with me darling." Every nerve ending in her body screamed. The blood leached from her face, turning her fresh tan to mud. A tremor whipped through her. Damn, she was screwed. She should never have ratted on him! She should never have believed the government when they'd guaranteed her immunity and protection - when they had said that he would spend the rest of his natural life behind bars. She rose, abandoning her steak, stared into his face and sighed. She'd bet on the wrong horse. She dropped a twenty euro bill on the table. Enough to cover the meal, the piss prosecco and the waiter's wages for the day.

"We all make mistakes darling," he said as if reading her mind. "How do you plan to pay for yours?"

"Cash." She clenched her fists.

"I prefer kind."

She flicked a glance at Twenty/Thirty Million who was now watching her as though she were the most interesting specimen on the planet. You snooze, you loose, she thought acidly.

She noted that the Twins were watching her intently, their Swarovski gems throwing rainbows of colour across their greige tops.

Marshmallow was sipping on a cocktail while offering her business card to a kid old enough to be grandson.

Nikolai had fled.

The Versaces were arguing about something.

The waiter yawned. She got a full view of his tonsils.

She picked up her bag. Versace. Nappa leather. The real deal. He'd bought it for her when they'd been young and in love. Unlike their romance, it had stood the test of time.

"Lead the way," she said resignation coating each word as strongly as the gel polish on her nails. It was time to pay the piper. And she was a woman who always paid her debts.