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Blown
Chapter Twenty-Six
"The Ambush"

Las Vegas, Nevada
May 20, 2005
2:14PM

Gia turns over in Stefan's large, four-poster bed and pushes back the covers. She knows she is alone in the suite even before she finds the note left for her on the bedside table. She's not surprised that he's gone. She knew there was trouble with the hotel, knew that was the reason they had to leave Mexico so abruptly. Still, she feels his absence as a sudden weight in her chest, as a nameless anxiety that has her itching for a cigarette to smoke. She sits up, pushes her legs off the side of the bed and stands up. Her feet sink into the thick carpet and she wiggles her toes down into the rich pile.

She looks around the room--for the first time, really, because after a five-hour flight, she was too tired to do anything more than follow Stefan straight through the front door of the suite into bed. Stefan's bedroom is everything she thought it would be. The bed is large, ornately carved out of dark, sturdy wood. The walls are papered in silk--an understated striped-pattern of cream and a darker color--vermillion. There is a very large, abstract painting on the far left wall. She knows nothing of art, but she knows Stefan. The painting is probably as expensive as its artist is renowned.

She sets out across the room, takes in the heavy dresser by the door, the chest of drawers by the large window. The closet door is slightly ajar and she draws it open. She finds the light switch on the side and the room bursts into light. Stefan could open up his own Armani store right here, she thinks. The room, which is five times as big as the closet in her hotel, is flanked on both sides by long racks full of clothing. She stops, randomly sorts through his suits--which are grouped by color. Her fingers run over the fine fabrics and she is hit, all at once, with what good taste he has.

His shoes are in the back, housed in a floor to ceiling den of shelves. She walks out to the middle of the closet, spins around and around--lets her eyes sweep every inch of the interior. She stops, hands on her hips, wondering what in the world she's going to do.

Where is she going to put her stuff?

The bulk of her clothing, shoes, and purses are stacked in boxes in her mother’s garage in Oregon. She came to Las Vegas with only three suitcases full of clothes, but in the intervening six months, her possessions have multiplied and the closet in the Hilton is crammed full. Even if she only brings the essentials over here to Stefan's--like the thirty-seven pairs of shoes she is wont to wear at will--she still has nowhere to put any of it.

Who knew it was even possible to marry a man with less readily available closet space than she has?

She turns to the left side of the closet, starts trying to push all of the French cuff shirts closer together to free up some space. Everything charges forward, but in the end, she only frees up four inches of space. She scoffs. Great, now she can fit two dresses and a blouse in Stefan's closet. She starts moving backwards, her fingers dancing over the tops of the wooden hangers as she plots the best way to convince her new husband to find somewhere else to put his stuff.

There is a cache of coats stored in the rear. She strokes the cashmere shoulder of one overcoat. These she won't bother to ask him about. These, she'll move now. She drapes the gray cashmere over her arm. Pulls free a navy pea coat, followed by a black wool trench. She reaches for the next coat, but she doesn't quite make contact. Her hand hovers, mid-air and she has the irrational urge to withdraw it completely. The coat is camouflage--competing swirls of brown, olive green, and tan. It hangs enormous and threatening on the smooth wooden hanger. It is so out of place, so unexpected, that she doesn't know what to make out of it. The other coats fall from her arms into a pile at her feet, but she does not pick them up. Instead, she takes a deep breath and lifts the menacing coat from the rack.

On the left, stitched in black, is a name.

Kelley, it says.

She sets the hanger aside and then, for no reason at all, slides on the coat. The fabric is heavy over her bare shoulders and the sleeves are far longer than her arms. She stands in the middle of the closet, dwarfed inside of the monstrous jacket. She wonders what Stefan is doing with this thing. It's not his. She knows it isn’t because he is not a large man. It just wouldn't fit.

Slowly, she works her hands down the sleeves and through the cuffs, which she rolls up around her wrists. She walks around the perimeter of the closet, the heavy lining itching against her thighs. She tries to imagine the man this coat belongs to--a large man, obviously. A military man. A man who's last name is Kelley--Irish maybe. Menacing, she's sure.

She sticks her hands down into the pockets and in the left one she finds a worn paperback. On the non-descript beige cover is written, Finnegan's Wake.

"James Joyce," she mutters aloud, her hand partially covering the lettering. She flips through the dog-eared, yellowing pages of the novel. More than anything, she wants to know what this all means. Why does Stefan have this coat? Why is his favorite book stuffed in the pocket? She doesn't know if she'll get any answers because she's not sure she wants to tell him she's seen any of this. While she considers her discovery innocent--she is not certain Stefan will see it that way.

Her finger catches on the title page. There, jotted in blue ink, is an inscription.

Keep your head down.
Keep your mouth shut.
Los Angeles Transit.
Last Row. #2761B.
I'll be watching.

The inscription fills her with dread and she has this overwhelming feeling that she has seen something that she shouldn't. She closes the book, stuffs it back inside the pocket of the coat--which she shrugs off and places back on the hanger. She tucks it away, her hands shaking as if she is in danger, as if, at any moment, Stefan might appear and catch her. That's not going to happen. His note made it quite clear he'd be busy all day and well into the night. Still, she is like a mad woman scooping his coats up off the floor, putting them back on hangers, sticking them back on the rack. She backs away, imagines Stefan standing here--tries to determine whether he would be able to tell they'd been disturbed.

She straightens the shoulder of the trench coat and then she turns on her heels and leaves the closet. Only once she's on the outside, her hand planted against the delicate silk wallpaper, can she breathe.

2:14PM

Stefan doesn't bother to take out his eyeglasses, doesn't bother to look at the file Mancuso is pushing in his face. He shakes his head, says, "I don't need to look at it."

"Mr. Odin--"

Stefan holds his hand up in the air to silence him. "I don't need to look at it," he repeats, but this time his voice ripples with barely restrained anger. "You're two hundred thousand dollars over-budget. That's the bottom line. You said you could bring the expansion in at fifteen-six. Now, it's fifteen-eight. Next week, you're going to bring me another manila folder to justify why it's sixteen million. It's entirely unacceptable. Do you hear me? Unacceptable."

Kevin Mancuso shifts in his chair and beads of sweat pop out on his forehead. His large hands clutch valiantly onto the folder as if it were his lifeline. "Sir, you have to understand--"

"No, you are the one who needs to understand. You have your fifteen-eight, but that is it. The next time you come back to this office, it had better be with word that the expansion is on schedule and on budget. Any news to the contrary will be your undoing--and you can tell your father I said that. I realize that, in Las Vegas, the Mancuso name carries tremendous weight and that you are considered the best contractors in town. Your family enjoys the benefits that come with that sort of reputation, but listen to me when I tell you that such things are not guaranteed. The tide turns very easily, Mr. Mancuso."

Mancuso nods, seemingly relieved. "Of course, sir, I understand. This was just a glitch--"

Stefan leans back in his chair, bored. "Is there anything else?"

The man stands up, shaking his head. "No, that's it..." he mutters, standing up. For a moment, it looks like he might offer his hand, but, at the last second, seems to think better of it and he retreats silently from the room.

When he is gone, Stefan pushes himself away from his desk and walks across the room. He stops in front of the window, his palms flat on the ledge as he stares down from the seventh floor out at what David calls his empire. He always scoffs at those words. Is the Valhalla his empire? Certainly not. It's just the latest prison he's made for himself, the only one where he's been allowed to choose his own jailer. It's beautiful, yes, with its Italian marble, its bronze obelisk, its triumphant entryway. But, sometimes, he just wants to go home--back to Greece.

He knows that cannot happen, that he can no more return to the island, than his father's father could have returned to St. Petersburg after the revolution. He can run off to Mexico all he wants, steal a few days by the sea, but that's all it will ever be. Stolen. And, in the end, he'll always wind up back here. He is crushed under that truth--is angry and mournful. Still, he acknowledges that this is how it is to be. He will remain in Las Vegas because he has no reason to leave. No place in the world holds any more promise than this barren, superficial wasteland.

Not for him. Not anymore.

There is a knock on the door. His assistant, Patricia, opens the door a few inches. She is tall, with dark auburn hair, pulled back from her face. She says, "Howard Davenport is here to see you, Mr. Odin."

He turns around, arms crossed over his chest. The look he gives her is blank, betrays the fact that he has no idea who she's talking about.

She opens the door a tad wider, her brows furrowing. "Howard Davenport: interim president of the Nevada Gaming Commission. He's been trying to talk to you for almost two weeks," she prompts him. "You keep canceling."

Stefan sighs. "Send him in."

6:00PM

Gia approaches the valet, hesitant. She's not sure how she's going to manage this. Her car is parked in the Valhalla parking garage, but she has no idea where. Nor does she have the keys or proof that the car even belongs to her. She is at a serious disadvantage. When the valet turns in her direction, she flashes him a huge smile. He is middle-aged, the buttons on his red jacket straining to hold his girth under. His name tag says, "Hank Jarvis, Manager."

"Is there something I can help you with, Ma'am," he asks, his voice heavy and gruff.

"I have a tiny little problem," she replies, her fingers twisting the strap of her purse. "My car is parked in your garage--somewhere--but I have no idea where. I don't have a valet ticket or the keys. But, I really need my car back..."

Hank nods his head, starts walking around the small little valet booth. He pulls out a clipboard and starts flipping through pages. "What's your name?"

"Gia Campbell," she answers immediately.

His head snaps up. "Ms. Campbell, of course..." He stands up straighter, offers her his hand.
"It's a pleasure.

She shakes his hand, confusion reading all over her face. "Umm...yeah...a pleasure...So, can I have my car or what?"

The man smiles, but it is anxious. "Now, which car did you want?"

"It's a black Cadillac XLR. It's probably dirty because I haven't washed it in forever."

Hank runs his hand back through his hair. "Are you sure?"

"You don't think I know what kind of car I have?"

"No, Ma'am, are you sure because--"

"Because WHAT?" she snaps. If this were just an issue of her not being able to prove it was her car, that she would understand. But, he quite obviously believes that she's who she says she is. And, she even has the inkling that he knows she's connected to the Great Han Odin. All of those things should have him jumping to bring her the Cadillac, not hedging. "Where's my car?" she demands.

"It's not here, Ms. Campbell," he admits in a fevered rush. "Mr. Odin took it."

"Really?" she asks, her eyebrows knitting in confusion.

"Yes."

"Where did he go?"

"I'm sorry. He didn't say."

"Oh," she mutters, just a bit crestfallen.

"He said, should you come looking for your car, that you should take any of the others..."

She scratches her head, unsure. "Like the limo?"

"Of course, Ms. Campbell, if that is what you would like."

"Wait!" she says when he starts reaching for the phone mounted to the outside of the valet booth. "The limousine is the absolute last resort. I don't want a driver..." She pauses for a moment, and then asks, "Whatever car I want?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Could you do me a favor?"

"Just name it..."

"Bring me the hottest, fastest, most expensive car he has parked in the garage. That's the one I want."

His eyes light up. "Of course, of course..." He bounds into the booth and returns with a set of keys. He nods in her direction before taking off through the back.

She moves closer to the large, circular drive that curves around the front entrance of the Valhalla. After a few minutes of waiting, she sees it--silver and shining, come roaring into view. Hank pulls in a little too fast and stops right in front of Gia. She just stands there, staring. It is an absolutely gorgeous car. Expensive. Delicious.

An Aston Martin, V-12 Vanquish.

He climbs out of the car and holds the door for her. She slides into the plush leather seats and thinks, yes, there are definite advantages to marrying a very rich man. She cuts out away from the curb, rounds the drive, then shifts and is gone.

6:20PM

When he pulls up to the front entrance of the airport, David is standing by the curb, looking none the worse for wear after a seven-hour flight with an hour layover in Charlotte, North Carolina. Even though the other man is looking right at him, it takes him a second to comprehend that it's Stefan. He does a double take and then he's scooping his suitcase up and walking over to Gia's Cadillac. He leans a hand against the doorframe, admiration coloring his face. "I love this car," David gushes.

Stefan flips his sunglasses up into his hair. "I have a brand new Mercedes that was handmade for me and delivered to the front door of the hotel on a flatbed truck--and this, this is the car you fawn over?" He shakes his head in dismay and then pops the trunk.

David deposits his suitcase inside the trunk and then closes the lid. He slides in the passenger seat beside Stefan. He says, "Where did you get this car?"

"It's my wife's," he replies, pulling away from the curb. "And I neglected to tell her I was taking it."

"Well, once she realizes you drive like a maniac," he laughs,” I'm sure you'll be relegated back to driving that precious Mercedes of yours. Or that piece of crap Aston Martin..."

Stefan merges onto the interstate and then ramps it up to eighty. They fly past the last of the rush hour traffic. Stefan says, "Have you made any progress on finding Pace Hewitt?"

David drapes his arm over the door ledge. "His sister is hiding him."

Stefan's head snaps around. "Sharon Campbell?"

"Yes, she's hiding him. His bank accounts are untouched, but Monday morning, she made a huge cash withdrawal from a joint account she shares with her husband. Twenty-thousand dollars. "

"But, Pace wasn't officially fired from his law firm until Tuesday..."

David throws his head back. "I suppose it could be a coincidence."

"It's not."

"She had forewarning?"

Stefan doesn't answer.

David hums the Prince song that stirs from the stereo. After a second of seeming internal debate, he says, "You know I'm not stupid, right?"

Stefan snickers. "Yes."

"Well, whenever you want to TELL me that about Pace's connection to your new wife, so that I can stop pretending I don't know, that would be great."

"Pace Hewitt has NO connection to Gia," he growls, adamant.

"Yes, but her father is married to Pace Hewitt's sister, the same sister whose name you readily shot off at a moment's notice. And, your interest in Pace surfaced at nearly the same time you disappeared from town with a then, unidentified woman--who turned out to be Gia Campbell, the former Face of Deception. Your nephew's former fiancée. So, again, I reiterate, I'm not stupid, Stefan."

"No one thinks you're stupid, David," Stefan replies, his tone less harsh. "But, you must understand that this is a delicate issue. I tread very lightly so as not to betray any trusts. I knew you'd figure out the things that needed to be figured out without me having to tell you. Besides, that is completely irrelevant. What I need to know is--do you, or do you not, know where Pace Hewitt is at this very minute?"

"At this minute?"

"At this minute."

"I can't put my finger on him, no. I pulled in some favors and the best I can do is that he's still in California. That's it. I'll let you know when I have something definite."

Stefan guides the car over towards the exit, killing the speed.

David says, "Guess who called me last week?"

It's supposed to sound off-the-cuff, but knowing him as he does, Stefan can tell David has been waiting to bring this up, that he's straining for nonchalance even though his forehead is creased in anxiety. Stefan plays the game. "I don't know," he says, "Who?"

"Tim."

Now it’s Stefan who is straining for nonchalance. He doesn't need to wonder why Dr. Timothy Fitzhugh was calling David. He knows. After his call last Sunday morning, the man was checking up on him. It only feeds Stefan's paranoia--the idea that consumes him sometimes, late at night, that David and Dr. Fitzhugh are talking about him behind his back. "What did he say?"

"He said he'd talked to you recently."

"Oh?"

"He wanted to know how you were."

"Really?"

"I told him you were fine."

Stefan keeps his eyes glued on traffic. "You told him the truth, then," he replies.

David looks up at the sky.

8:13PM

Gia waves off two overeager bellhops and rolls her two massive suitcases through the lobby of the Valhalla. She passes the bank of elevators and takes a narrow hallway to the back. She stumbles through a large, swinging door into the kitchen. Workers bustle around her, largely ignoring her as they go about their duties. She keeps her head down and maneuvers her baggage across the room to the service elevator. She jabs the button, watches the door chug open in front of her. Just as she's about to step in, an arm pops out in front of her, blocks her entrance.

"Hold on a moment, Mrs. Odin," a man's voice declares, loud and thunderous--as if he were addressing the whole kitchen, not just her.

"Excuse me?" Gia demands. She drops her hands down to her side, takes a moment to eye the man inching in front of her. He's handsome--very handsome--with dark hair and eyes. He's broad shouldered, wearing an expensive black suit with a light blue shirt. "Do I know you?"

"Oh, sorry," he says, offering her his hand. "I'm David Pedrosa. I work with your husband. I thought maybe you could use some help."

She recognizes the name. "It's nice to meet you, David," she says in return. He has a firm, no nonsense handshake that she meets with as much strength as she can. She pulls her hand back and starts getting her luggage together. She moves pointedly towards the elevator.

"Let me get one of those for you..." he says, wrenching the handle of the biggest suitcase from her grip.

She takes a step back. "No, really, that's okay. I can manage."

He pulls a key out of his pocket, dangles it in front of her. "I assume you don't have the key--"

"Key to what?"

"Without this key, you won't be able to get up to the penthouse suite, Mrs. Odin.”

"I got down just fine."

"But, going up is a completely different matter," he replies.

She bites back the retort that was working its way to her tongue. She can tell by his manner that he has absolutely no intention of letting her go up alone. She's not sure why he's putting on this show. It's certainly not for her benefit. She thinks, maybe, he's hoping it'll get back to Stefan--maybe garner him some goodwill after proving unable to handle whatever crisis forced them back from Mexico. After a moment's hesitation, she relents. "Well, it's a good thing you came along, then, isn't it?" she replies, following him onto the elevator. He sticks the key in the slot and the elevator door closes. She settles into the farthest corner, her suitcases a protective barrier between them. She stares up at the display, watches the passing floors flicker by--slowly.

David clears his throat, says, "So, congratulations."

She smiles, but it is unenthusiastic. "Thanks."

"It must have been a real whirl-wind romance..."

She blinks.

"...I mean because this whole marriage thing came as quite a surprise to me..."

Gia directs her attention back to the display. Fourteen flickers on the screen, is soon replaced with fifteen, sixteen. She takes a breath. Soon enough, they'll reach the fortieth floor. Soon enough. "Yeah, it was fast," she offers David, hopes it'll shut him up if she agrees.

"...I guess that's what love is like..."

She rolls her eyes.

"And your ring is so lovely," he says, reaching across the chasm and grabbing her hand.

Startled, she draws back into the corner, but that leaves her no place to go, no way to evade. "What are you doing?" she demands, even as he latches onto the fingers of her left hand, his eyes trained on her engagement ring. "Let go of me..."

He drops her hand, steps over one of her suitcases so that he can stand closer to her. His shoulder brushes hers and she realizes she's walked right into this trap. "That's some ring..." he says, but his tone is no longer friendly. It's full of menace and it makes her want to cringe.

"Isn't it though? And, it's sooo very expensive," she shoots back, cutting her eyes his way, fluttering her eyelashes. "More expensive than that couture Versace suit of yours, those Gucci loafers, that clinging Calvin Klein cologne you're wearing. Just...expensive. But that's to be expected, really--you have to be willing to PAY for what you want in this world."

None too pleased with her mocking, he turns on her with dark, calculating eyes. "What do you want from Stefan?" he demands, all pretense gone.

Gia's breath catches at David's use of Stefan's real name. She would have expected an employee from the hotel to address him by his alias, to refer to him as Mr. Odin just as any of his other flunkies have since she's been in his presence. But this man, she knows now, is no flunky. The way he talks, the way he's accosted her--he has far more influence than a trusted employee.

She returns his steely gaze, licks her lips, leans back into the corner. "Whatever you hoped to achieve by ambushing me, it's not going to work, Mr. Pedrosa. I'm not going to answer any of your questions, because, as far as I'm concerned, it's none of your business. You think I'm a gold-digger? Maybe I am. You think I'm a stupid bimbo who doesn't know any better? Maybe that's true, too. You think I'm one of Helena's minions sent to topple this house of cards? Maybe, maybe, maybe," she purrs. She notes that, at her mention Helena's name, there is no confusion. He knows exactly who Helena is. She wonders who this man is, where Stefan found him. Her eyes flash on him, cold and challenging. "But, if you want to know for sure," she spits out, "your best bet would be to ask Stefan, because I don't confide in strangers. And, I would certainly never tell YOU anything more consequential than my order for room service or that the bathroom needs more towels."

Then, as if on cue, the elevator stops and the door slides open. She navigates around the suitcases, flounces out into the corridor. She says, "Since you wanted to help, bring my bags to the door and leave them there. I'll collect them later." She walks off, grateful when the knob turns and the door opens. She slips inside and slams it behind her. She stands there with her back pressed against the hard wood and her thoughts racing--looks for a way to assimilate David into the ever-changing understanding she has of Stefan's life.

~Jenni