Chapter Text
Truly, Andrés thought as he observed what was, for lack of a better name, a party, the past five months had been entertaining. It had been a much needed reminder that life was made of stronger, sharper feelings than the dull monotony that had settled over his mind when he left Italy. Here, he reclaimed the eagerness that came with planning a new heist, the anticipation of the chase, the thrill of caring for something greater than himself. Against his best judgement, he had been forced to remember there was more to him than the deep seated anger that thrummed in his veins and the disconcerting nostalgia of what could have been. No, he hadn’t expected to find a strange sort of family in an abandoned hunting estate in the countryside of Toledo, but as he had come to learn, it sometimes took the end of an era to understand exactly what you were about to lose.
The long table that usually hosted their outdoor planning sessions had been moved to sit proudly among the trees and had been redecorated for the occasion. Light garlands, probably more appreciated around Christmas time, hung above it as if graced by divine intervention. Its bright and ugly colours were flickering happily in the dark, along the small candles Oslo and Helsinki were busy blowing out. They spoke softly in their native language while Tokio and Moscú finished clearing the table. Río was laughing loudly with Denver, both men trying to come up with a selection of music for the rest of the night. Well, ‘music’ maybe wasn’t the description Andrés would make of the noise coming from the music speakers, making him scrunch his nose in distaste. He wished he could share his annoyance with his brother but the man had left after they finished eating, missing the round of cards they indulged in.
“And where did the brain behind this delightful little get-together disappear?” Andrés asked, ostentatiously doing nothing to help around.
“El Profesor is busy, Berlín, or he would be here with us,” said Tokio, rolling her eyes at him. “And stop being so snobby about tonight, you don’t know how to have fun, we know. No need to remind us.”
She looked a bit uncertain when she went to clear the plate in front of him but she took it into her hands even though it was still filled with food. He took a breath, choosing not to antagonise her now, instead stretching his lips into a thin sort of smile.
“Because our dear leader is so much better at having fun, isn’t he? Well I suppose I can find a way to enjoy the end of the festivities,” he said as he made his wine swirl into its glass.
Tokio shrugged, uninterested, and ended up walking up to Río, a flirty smile firmly in place. Andrés knew he wouldn’t sleep a lot if these two decided to enjoy their clandestine affair tonight but instead of worrying about it, he finished his drink of the Valpolicella he took with him from Italy. He didn’t have to wait long for ‘El Profesor’ to resurface, Río’s happy waves betraying the man’s return. Andrés twisted in his chair and was greeted by the view of the mastermind of this heist awkwardly waving back near the entrance of the god-awful-looking place he chose as a base of operation.
With the cloudy grey sky and the moon playing hide and seek, the house seemed taken straight from a novel and Andrés could only smile at how fitting it was for his younger brother. Sergio had always loved losing himself in books and stories after all. He himself had spent more hours than he could count creating vivid universes and narrating clever characters for Sergio’s benefices when he was too tired to focus on the words of his favourite books. And like most of the heroes he loved as a child, his profesor persona was a bit presumptuous, though Andrés had to admit Sergio wore it well as he found himself teaching one long and very convoluted plan to a band of mismatched thieves.
He walked toward the table and stopped when they were close enough to talk, his eyes drawn to Nairobi teasing Oslo with what looked like a barbecue skewer.
“Is everything alright?” Sergio asked.
Andrés wondered why he agreed to the party — he didn’t think for a minute it had been his brother's idea after all— but maybe it was for the best. Tomorrow, they would enter the Royal Mint of Spain and the friendly days they had shared would fade against the harsh reality of a heist of drastic proportions. He hoped the whole damn house of cards wouldn’t come down on them but he knew better than to hope for a smooth operation.
“Peachy. If the Christmas lights don’t burn down the whole forest, we might even survive the night. I’m not certain of the quality of the food we ate, though. And,” he said with a flourish of his hand in Nairobi’s direction, “Oslo isn’t what I would call appetizing for a dessert.”
Sergio huffed, unwilling to break character but a little bit amused despite himself. It made Andrés smile more sincerely than he should have in return, though he couldn’t regret it. His little brother didn’t laugh or even smile enough, all of Earth misery seemingly delicately balanced on his shoulders every time he looked at him.
“That’s not what I meant,” Sergio corrected, his eyes going over every one of their colleagues before coming back to him, a silent question hidden between his words.
The truth was, Andrés hadn’t seen eye-to-eye with the choices his brother had made regarding the other members of their team. Now though, he had to admit they did work well together.
Moscú was unrefined but hard working, always attentive when you talked and someone Andrés felt he didn’t have to worry about much. Yes, the man did bring family into it and Denver’s laugh was as grating as the stuttering of a mad bird, but it would be hypocrite to throw the first rock when it came to their relationship; after all, Andrés’ loyalties lied at Sergio’s feet, first and furthermore. He simply had to take into account the weakness their filiation could become under pressure when the time would come. Still, he trusted them more than he did Tokio and her little fling with Río next door— she was too volatile while he was too innocent for something as dangerous as what they were about to start. If he were someone prone to honesty Andrés would have said their personal expert in forgery, despite being loud and crass, was the one capable element of their group. Oslo and Helsinki were trustworthy soldiers but Nairobi was instrumental if they wanted to succeed. Besides, he always had a soft spot for talented women and she wasn’t an exception to the rule.
Of course he knew that a decade of planning meant nothing faced with unreliable elements but, all in all, Sergio did well.
“It will do,” Andrés said after a short moment of contemplation. “You worked hard, everything will fall into place.”
“Yeah. You’re right.” Sergio pushed his glasses up his nose when Moscú came back from the house to sit loudly near Andrés, grabbing a pitcher of sweeter wine that survived dinner. “Come up when you’re done here, Berlín, we need to go over last minute details.”
“Sir, yes, sir,” he sarcastically answered, knitted brows the only sign of worry he allowed himself to display.
“Did I scare him off?” Moscú laughed as Sergio ran back to the mansion and Andrés shrugged. The man yawned ostentatiously, his jaw ready to drop, and Andrés refrained from commenting on the rules of politeness in society. Instead he pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and took a deep breath, letting the smoke fill up his lungs. It had a very distinct herbal taste, the touch of clove almost stronger than the tobacco itself. He breathed out slowly, and Moscú asked “Can I steal one?”
Silently, he reached into his inner pocket and fished out the silver cigarette case. He opened it and offered one along with his engraved lighter zipper.
“Gracias.”
They smoked in a comfortable silence, though Andrés played with his cig more than he smoked it. He let his head fall back as he breathed out the grey smoke and watched it curl into the air, weightless and free. He was observing the glowing embers at the end of Moscú’s cigarette smoulder brighter when the man started coughing heavily. Nairobi’s hand appeared out of nowhere to slap the cigarette out of the older man’s grip, cursing and stomping on it so it wouldn’t burn the grass where it fell.
“Why are you smoking? You know it’s bad for your lungs!” Nairobi scowled Moscú before planting her hands on her hips, a caricature of an enraged woman. She ignored the older man’s laugh at her extreme reaction, a kind and rumbling noise that shook his entire frame and provoked another coughing fit. Instead, Nairobi’s wrath found in him her next target as he kept smoking lazily, going as far as to blow smoke in her general direction just to be annoying. “Why are you giving him that shit Berlín!?”
“Everybody is allowed to choose how to die,” Andrés dismissed.
“Well, you can choose to die of a stupid cancer if you want, but don’t take anyone else with you, idiota!”
The words stung like a needle busting his bubble of contentment. He didn’t flinch but it was a near thing, and only his shaking fingers when he flicked the end of the fag could have betrayed how deep her innocent observation cut. He tried to take another smoke but his throat convulsed and a wave of nausea hit him. He fed the cigarette to the ashtray and wished he could crush the miserable feeling upsetting him as easily.
“Ah, you shouldn’t worry about me, you know I’m done for already,” the older man joked serenely. “Black lung can’t get worse with something this light. But you can bet I’m going to enjoy the years I have left swimming in all the money we’ll get if the plan works.”
A flicker of sadness passed through her face but she didn’t dwell on it, preferring to smile and gloss over the mention of death, like most people did.
“When it works Moscú! When!”
“When, you’re right,” Moscú smiled kindly at her. “When we’re out, I’m going to travel with my son. I don’t know where we’ll go but I’ll show him everything I wished I could have given him when he was little. And that’s a lot, you can trust me! I always dream big.”
“That’s a great gift for Denver,” Andrés said, picking at his manicured nails, “wasting away, waiting for death, in front of his eyes.”
The silence that followed didn’t last long, not with how outraged Nairobi was.
“Are you fucking sick? I know you love being an asshole but this is a step too far.”
“I am simply saying I would prefer to leave with a bang.”
“Well, take a fucking gun and get on with it,” Nairobi mimicked pointing a gun at her temple before loudly saying, “Bang!” Her frown deepened when she realised his face didn’t convey any emotion at all. “Mierda Berlín, don’t say fucking depressing shit like this, tonight of all nights! Urgh, I need a drink.”
She reached for the glass he didn’t finish, stealing the last of his red wine and earning herself an irritated look. Moscú simply arched his eyebrows meaningfully in his direction.
“Did anyone ever tell you you’re a pessimist?”
Curving lips and daring blue eyes flashed in Andrés’ mind and it felt like falling, the stormy wind rustling in his ears and carrying the whisper of a memory that almost shattered him. The air wailed and he could almost hear his voice accusing him, could almost feel his fingertips grazing ever so lightly against his face, and Andrés’ hands twitched against the vertigo and the wet smell of petrichor and, and— and, in a blink, it was something of the past again.
Questions written all over her face, Nairobi called his name. He chanced a look toward Moscú but the man’s eyes flickered with unwelcomed fatherly concern, until Andrés remembered they had asked him something.
“Someone, yes.”
He stood up then, ignoring the looks of concern his abrupt and seemingly excessive reaction provoked in his companions almost as well as he dismissed the knot inside his stomach, wounded tighter and tighter with each hasty step Andrés took away from his ghost.
Instead, he went looking for Sergio.
He stepped inside the mansion as his unease grew, frantically climbing to the top of the stairs until he saw the door leading to the planning room gaping open and swinging slightly on its hinges— an unspoken invitation. He let himself in and didn’t have to scan the room long to find Sergio: cast in shadows and flickers of light due to the fire he was staring into, hunched under the weight of every life depending on him, his brother cut a lonesome figure. Andrés sagged lazily against the door to close it and he smirked when the noise made Sergio jump and turn toward him, a scowl on his face at having been scared so easily.
“You took longer than I thought you would,” Sergio remarked, and Andrés knew he would probably have dismissed the question if the smell of nicotine was not ready to betray his earlier activity the moment he stepped closer to his brother.
“I felt like having a smoke.”
“You know it’s bad for you.”
“Ah— a lot of things are bad for me, yet, here I am, still kicking.” He said it with an overabundance of confidence, like they both didn’t know how doomed he was, like his belief could rewrite the rules and fabric of the universe as well as a kid’s imagination would. It had allowed them to survive time and time again as children, stories and games of make believe deepening their bond when no one else was left to care for them— it was the only thing Andrés had now. Sergio stayed silent, as he always did when talk of death came between them, and Andrés pushed himself from the door to tour the room, observing the scene.
The walls were covered with the names and faces of all those likely to be involved in the investigation that would try to take them down. Little lamb, as they named her, was a prominent figure in the patchwork of information they would leave to the police, a trap meant to make the pigs lose time in case they ever found their trail. He knew most of these people already, studied their files for weeks, preparing himself for the job ahead— all but one face. Raquel Murillo hadn’t been his priority but his brother’s, robbing Andrés of the opportunity to admire her pretty but tired eyes, pinned to the wall along her daughter in wait for someone to discover their hideout.
When he reached his brother near the fireplace, Andrés asked, “Is it done?”
“Everything is in place, as you can see.” Sergio stopped committing the old photos in his hands to memory long enough to glance at him. “Did you enjoy yourself tonight?”
“Yes, it was delightful to have fun at everyone’s else expense.”
“Drop the act, I saw you with everyone, it was— good. You’ve grown fond of them.”
The worst part was that Sergio was right, in a way. Most of them had been able to bond, as tonight's little improvised party had proven. They cared about each other, in their own particular ways. Gentle teasing, laughs and companionship were things neither he nor Sergio had expected but it happened all the same as they played students. The plan would come first, of that Andrés was certain, but spending so much time in close quarters meant a lot slipped through the cracks of anonymity. Even he had come to share more than he was willing to give from time to time. He almost talked about him a few times and he should count himself lucky something or someone always cut him off before he could feel the sting of shame that came with being weak, openly, in front of anyone.
No, instead he clutched at his most precious weapons.
Dignity.
Composure.
Control.
“They’re my little soldiers, nothing else,” Andrés said coldly. “You were clear about that. ”
He might have allowed himself to enjoy some of the conversations he shared with them the past few months, but no one could pretend to be knocking on the doors to his secrets. No, nothing of himself escaped the barriers he built between him and the rest of the universe, which was probably why Andrés felt like he had just shared the Last Supper before his own crucifixion. Standing apart from the group all night, silently watching everyone enjoy food, wine and laughter with only a few quips from his part when it was needed— he knew that hidden behind his eccentricities no one would take a second glance at his unusual quietness.
“That’s not what I meant and you know it.” A bony shoulder knocked against his, warm from spending too much time in front of the fireplace. “Are you… alright?”
Not Sergio, though. Sergio always looked behind his masks. His worried gaze had been on him all night, piercing through his carefully crafted persona until they finally found themselves alone to talk, ready to offer careful words of concern despite his little brother's obvious apprehension.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” Andrés deflected with a smirk, and Sergio simply sighed, eyes turning back to the old and grainy paper between his hands.
“You’re right, tomorrow, personal feelings won’t matter.”
Andrés tried to stop Sergio from burning the only memories left of the man that sent them on their current path—Sergio’s dad and Andrés’ stepfather and old mentor—but his words didn’t bear much weight against the safety of everyone. He watched the flames devouring the familiar faces of who he called family for a time, incapable of feeling anything else than a distant sort of melancholy. He didn’t have to fight long against it and soon his focus was on the large cluttered table throning in the center of the room.
Dirty plates, cutlery, leftover food and opened bottles of wine were all gifts for the police to analyse, another complex lure they’d have to research lest they missed some vital cue to catch them. This wishful thinking on their part had Andrés smiling in anticipation.
He knew Sergio was done struggling with memories of their childhood when he sat at the head of the table and accepted the wine Andrés just poured for him.
“It all starts tomorrow.” Silence stretched between them as Sergio dwelled on everything left unsaid between them. “Sergio.” Soon, Andrés would not be allowed the luxury of talking to his brother as candidly and words started pressing against his lips in haste. “Promise me something. If things get ugly… you’ll escape. Don’t wait for us in the hangar.”
“Everything will be fine,” answered Sergio, stubbornness masquerading for confidence.
“You know as well as I do that it could all go wrong. I’m not going unless you promise me that if all hell breaks loose, you won’t let them catch you.”
“I’m not promising you that.”
Andrés huffed out a breath in response and it would have been amused if their conversation wasn’t so serious. Instead, he threatened Sergio and his plan, knowing it would force his brother’s hand. “Either you promise me right now, or you’ll be left with no captain. You know me well.” The wine didn’t have any taste, and he wondered if it was due to the mediocre quality or if his medication was to blame.
“Nothing will go wrong Andrés. We’re the resistance, remember?”
He’d missed it, his real name coming from his little brother, but he could have done without the implication of his words. Andrés didn’t answer, afraid his voice would start to shake and when Sergio started singing, he stayed silent, remembering. They had been too young to understand the meaning of the lyrics when they first heard Bella Ciao; it had been their abuelo, mourning the death of his only daughter—of their mum—that had started singing then. Andrés had never understood how these lyrics became a symbol of hope for Sergio when, like the song itself, it was only tainted by death’s embrace for Andrés, and the emptiness that came with the loss of their mother.
He didn’t let him go through the first verse alone, even when Sergio’s voice died down and Andrés murmured “ché mi sento di morir” for him. The wounded look was quickly hidden but Andrés still felt guilt throttle him for ruining what should have been Sergio’s grand triomphe. He wished guilt was enough to shake the numbness that had clung to him for months now, but in the end he was unwilling to look for its origin—not when they could sing together like they used to do as children.
Andrés said his goodbye, then.
“E se muoio da partigiano
Tu mi devi seppellir ”
And if I die as a partisan
You must bury me
It was better to say it that way, through song and touch. Talking had always been hard despite their closeness, something they avoided more and more in recent months and that Andrés didn’t fight now—not when he could simply embrace his little brother and show him his love as a substitute. It was a comforting gesture he didn’t have the chance to offer in a very long time, at least since Sergio grew out of his scrawny looks and bout of childhood nightmares. He heard more than he saw the tears overwhelming Sergio and he ignored them as he did the one he felt forming, stroking his brother’s hair softly instead. There was no turning back and he had made peace with his situation, even if Sergio hadn’t and probably never would.
They never had been great with separations, he supposed, the both of them, and he worried about leaving his younger brother behind: where Andrés had decided early in life to enjoy every one of his relationships like it was his last, Sergio had become more closed off with each passing year. Knowledge and careful calculations were his shield like Andrés’ never-ending masks were his own, but here, there were no lies between them.
When shaky fingers gripped at the back of his vest, refusing to let go, Andrés knew he had to retreat. He couldn’t. He couldn’t; not here, not when he couldn’t afford to slip, not when he was to act as the ‘master of ceremony’ in their little plan.
“You need to sleep,” Andrés announced and Sergio’s wet chuckle and unhappy “Goodnight” followed him to his room.
Finally alone, Andrés softly closed the door behind him, the key turning with a creaky sound that betrayed how old the ruined mansion actually was. Around him, the wallpaper, eaten away by the damp, looked sad and dreary, and large strips of paper were coming off the wall pitifully. The thin green carpet didn’t stop the sound of his shoes hitting the wood underneath, nor did it stop the murmurs coming from the rest of the house. Lights flickered in the almost darkness, making his shadow waver and dance disturbingly and, like a deranged ghost above him, the roof beams creaked and whispered angrily with each gust of wind.
Andrés hovered uncertainty, feeling weirdly out of place in his own bedroom. There wasn’t much in the way of furnishing: a tall, dark-wooden wardrobe with fractured mirrors on the doors, an old crumbling sofa that could swallow you up in its cushions if you made the mistake to sit down, a dusty chandelier and its unsteady lights. He ran one hand over the carving on the front of his narrow bed that looked like climbing ivy before he started shedding his clothes like one would shed an armor. Deft fingers unknotted his dark blue tie, meticulously smoothing out the fabric and folding it, then unbuttoning the waistcoat he wore. Both pieces of clothing were put away in a plain bag that he would take with him tomorrow morning, closely followed by his most precious pair of cufflinks, hidden away in a small cloth pouch.
He was carefully undoing the buttons of the shirt he wore at dinner when the harmonic sound of the rain starting to splatter against the french windows made him forget his task and walk instead to admire the weather. The dark, heavy clouds amassing in the horizon were not uncommon at this time of the year and the day had been hot enough to explain this inky and vengeful sky that suited his mood perfectly. Something undefinable inside him moved and before he realized what he was doing, the high windows were thrown open and he stepped outside.
Immediately, water soaked him.
Unbothered, Andrés closed his eyes and angled his face toward the clouds, arms opened as if accepting of the sky benediction. Rain was supposed to clean the soul after all, and God only knew how much he needed it. Whatever was bound to happen in the Mint, he had to leave his past behind just as much as Sergio did and with cold droplets trickling down his face, Andrés almost believed it was possible. He could practically taste the electric tang of the lightning coursing through the sky and Andrés smiled because this was right, this was what he had been feeling these past few months, charged with an energy he was desperate to release.
It had been building since that day in Firenze.
Andrés had left the monastery in a hurry, followed closely by the rain. He had been running away from the unsteady and bitter feeling coiling in his ribcage, a demanding burning grief he had tried to ignore as he drove his car to the city. A small part of him had wanted to turn back, wanted to believe his health wouldn’t become a burden to those around him, that staying would be worth it. But Andrés knew it was just a fantasy. He knew, intimately, how someone else’s pain hurt, how excruciating it was to see someone you love wither away until they were only a shadow of themselves, how bitter your tears were when you realized it was just a promise of worse to come. He chose to erase their last moment together instead, keeping it locked into his unyielding mind, far away from his treacherous heart. It was only the first crushing goodbye he had to make before he would leave them all behind, and he couldn’t—wouldn’t go back now. It was over.
So he drove away from him, leaving behind the pleas and tears that knotted his throat so tightly it was difficult to breath. He knew he didn’t deserve to feel this pain— not when he was the only one that should be blamed. Even today, he could barely remember how he finally found the restaurant where Tatiana had been waiting for him, unsurprised by his unusual tardiness. What he did remember was what she told him when he sat down, smiling prettily between two sips of champagne.
“I’ve never seen you so shaken.”
He remembered how beautiful she was under the soft candlelight, how sharp her bright eyes were, how her pleased smile grew at his sight, how her wit and intelligence sparkled. He didn’t marry a fool and he should have feared her smirk, impish and all-too-knowing, but he couldn’t have guessed how cutting her next words would be. “Did you two finally kiss?”
She said it so simply, like it was evidence, like it was the only thing that could break him and turn him into the new man she saw standing before her. He wanted to protest but he wouldn’t be caught lying to her.
“As cliché as it sounds Tatiana, it’s not what you thi—” he began, explanations spilling out, but the words died a quick death on his lips when she laughed at him, more amused than upset.
“That was your first time, right?” Her mischievous eyes bore into him, trying to decrypt his heart and he feared she could see past the cracks of his calm façade. His shoulders hunched closer together in self defence when her smile turned teasing. “That’s the most surprising part. Or maybe not—kissing me or Sergio was only ever a joke for him. You, by contrast…”
“Why aren’t you upset?”
“You would prefer I played the weeping wife, so blinded by her love for her dear husband that she refused to see what was written for the world to see?” she cajoled, playing the part before breaking character to finish her glass and chide him. “Per favore, tesoro. You wouldn’t love me—and even less respect me.”
“I do!” he vowed because he did. She was life personified, always throwing herself into things with unrepentant joy, a perfect match to his desperate love for life. He had cherished her the moment he met her and every heist planned with her at their side had been a pleasure, every morning shared together—
Her playfulness melted at his words. “I know you do,” she said, radiating softness. “As I always knew I wasn’t alone in your heart.”
Brilliant, beautiful, benevolent Tatiana, who had always known the limits and borders of the love Andrés had for her, even though he didn’t tell her. Nevertheless, she was walking a dangerous road and Andrés had no intention of following her down that path. He grabbed the homemade grissini the restaurant had left on the table as an antipasto, biting into one to distract his starving stomach.
“It’s true you never felt threatened by how much I care for Sergio.”
“Andrés…”
“He called me, by the way,” he added quickly, eager to change the subject. He hadn’t meant to tell her before dinner even started but it was the only way out he found, and somehow, it felt like life was a twisted labyrinth, always refusing him the options he truly wanted. He never had been allowed to make decisions that mattered, even less since he learnt that every one of his choice could only have one outcome.
“You know very well I’m talking about M—”
“The Mint heist, yes,” he interrupted, before signaling the waiter to come by their table. Tatiana sat back in her chair and folded her arms in front of her before her manners came back and instead took a sip of her drink, feigning nonchalance as he asked for the wine selection. Alone again after ordering a bottle of Chianti Classico, he said, “I’m leaving tomorrow.”
“You—what.” He and Tatiana stared at each other for as long as it took her to breathe deeply in an attempt to calm herself. “What do you mean ‘you’re leaving tomorrow’?!”
“I know it seems rushed but my brother has been working on this for so long, waiting for the right opportunity and every ‘guest’ will attend the ‘party’ in about five months,” he explained slowly. There was an uncomfortable pause. “It can’t wait,” he said then.
A long silence followed, interrupted only by the waiter coming back to present the wine. Andrés barely acknowledged his presence, nodding absently in his direction after tasting the strong and fruity beverage. It rasped his tongue, more bitter than he remembered though maybe it was due to the disapproving look Tatiana was giving him.
“I didn’t think I married a coward, but apparently I was mistaken,” she said, voice carefully low to cushion the sharpness of her words, but little did she know how deep they would cut. White hot anger burst like a supernova behind his sternum, his whole chest going tight. He couldn’t tell if it came from hearing those words again, or if it was because she was insulting him for something he had no control over but the result was the same.
“I am not a coward,” he hissed.
“You’re running away! Whatever happened tonight—”
“It was decided before we kissed—”
“Oh,” she drawled, eyeing him critically. “That’s why you let your guard down—you don’t plan on coming back to us.”
She was right—more than she thought, certainly. He almost told her, there and then, what he had planned and stopping himself was made more difficult by how emotionally drained he already was. Tatiana shouldn’t worry about him though, it was the whole point of all of this: he would not be their problem in Spain.
“Every plan has its share of risk, you know that as well as I do.”
She dipped her head and, hidden behind her strawberry hair, he could only hope fervently she wasn’t concealing tears. Instead, a hard mournful laugh pierced through him. “That’s your answer?” she asked, her eyes meeting his again, dry but hurt anyway. It felt like being right at the edge of a precipice, his grip slipping, but the fight left him a long time ago and there was no turning back.
“There isn’t anything else to discuss,” he snapped, dismissive and cold. “I’m going.”
She was quiet for a moment, reflecting on his words. She held her face completely still, a mystery even to him, and he had to gather the fragment of his heart breaking anew when he understood what it meant. But it was fine, familiar. He had handled worse before coming to see her—he could go through it again.
“I see,” Tatiana said, holding up her hand, expecting a protest from him that wouldn’t come. She, too, deserved more than he had left to offer after all. And there was something truly exhilarating and depressing in being right, because the next thing she did was take her wedding ring off and put it on the table between them. “I’ll send you the divorce papers.”
“You don’t—” Andrés began a bit harshly, but he paused, folding his hands over his heart and collapsing softly against the back of his chair. He had hoped they would stay married until the end, to have that comfort once his final moment finally came, if nothing else. When he spoke again, it was softer, closer to the loving man he tried to be for her. “You don’t need to leave now, you know. We don’t have to end things this way Tatiana.”
She stood up and shimmered into her trench coat, still a bit damp from the storm raging outside. “Oh, Andrés,” she sighed and brushed his hair back, just enough to leave a feather-light kiss against his forehead. “I’m too young to be a widower.”
The sound of her heels against the floor had been as loud as a crack of thunder and when another, real this time, struck and deafened him, Andrés startled back to the present.
He knew he should go back inside but here, battered by the elements, it seemed like every atom of his body was part of the fabric of an universe gone mad—like his own had. And it had been a long time—a sad, empty, crippling time—since he had felt like he was where he was meant to be. Sometimes, he even wished he could go back in time and stop himself from letting this happen, so he would never know what it felt like to kiss those lips. Never know how it felt to feel his heart so full, only to choke on the sensation of loss mere minutes, weeks, months later.
Drenched, he breathed deeply a couple more times, allowing the smell of ozone to fill his nostrils and will his brain into silence.
At least, the ferocious storm matched the one in his heart. It was, after all, his last night on Earth. Tomorrow, he would be leading his team toward Purgatory, his last stop before his final destination. It was strangely poetic and Andrés simply laughed raucously under the rain, uncaring of the damp hair sticking down his face, of the cold invading him and taking roots in his heart. He would write the end of his story with the ink needed to print the money stolen during the biggest heist ever attempted.
He couldn’t wait.