Once Zion had left the kitchen and gone back to doing nothing -- poor thing -- Logan steamed open his letter. Normally, he’d freeze it for a few hours to get the glue to let go of the paper, but he didn’t have a few hours today, so steam it was.

When he had the envelope open, he went into his room, locked the door, and unfolded the letter inside.

Dear Igor,
I’m fucking the houseboy. I hope that’s okay. I’m bored since I’m not allowed my phone, my computer, or even to watch the damn TV. And someone has failed to arrive with my painting supplies.
He’s bending me over the dining room table every morning before breakfast. It’s a nice way to wake up, I have to say. He fills me so good. I can still feel him move inside me, his fingertips digging into my hips.
Anyway, I only wanted to let you know. Could you ship the brown bag if you’re too busy to come yourself?
Zion

Logan stared. Fuck, could he send this? Perhaps he could pretend it got lost in the mail. Zion would get him killed.

This letter was nothing like the last one. Nothing at all. He had to report to Carr. He didn’t feel like dying for fucking Sidorov’s kept pet, especially since he wasn’t fucking him for real.

He pocketed the letter and headed back into the kitchen. It didn’t take him many seconds to locate Zion. He was staring out the window in the dining room again, slumped shoulders and a forlorn look in his eyes.

“I’ll be off now. Is there anything you want from the mainland?”

“Eh ...” Zion stared at him. “What am I allowed?”

For a moment Logan’s mind blanked. Were there things he wasn’t allowed? Fuck, there were most likely rules in the brochure. “Why don’t you tell me what you want, and I’ll tell you if you can have it or not.”

“Wine and chocolate.”

Logan grinned. Were they a no sugar, no alcohol kind of resort? Wouldn’t surprise him. “Any particular brand.”

“No, red wine and anything that tastes of chocolate.”

Logan nodded. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“I’ll love you forever and ever.”

Logan doubted it.

It was warmer now than it had been on his first trip to the mainland. The sun played on the waves, forcing him to squint as the brightness blinded him. Gulls screeched, and for a moment he believed he spotted a dog head breach the surface. Then he remembered the real owner of the resort telling him seals were common. Dogs didn’t swim this far from land. The put-put-put of the motorboat engine lulled him into a state of fake calm.

Fucking Sidorov. And why did Zion have to be nice? It would be easier if he was a spoiled brat, but he was… sad, and it made Logan want to hug him. On the other hand, if he got killed because Sidorov believed he was doing two-person push-ups with his possession, he would be angry with Zion.

As soon as he stepped ashore, he called Carr and told him about the letter.

“Send it.” Carr was chuckling, but Logan had a hard time joining in.

“Are you sure? He might come here to kill me. Or to kill Zion. Fuck, he seems afraid of him, so why would he send a letter like this?”

Carr sighed, and Logan pictured him rubbing his face as he always did when he’d slept too little. “I don’t know why he wanted Zion out of the way, but I don’t think Sidorov will show. He had another young man, no more than twenty, on his arm last night. They went to the fancy restaurant at the top of the tower you have to wait months to get a table at.”

Logan hummed, though it sounded a little bit like an eww. “Young artist?”

“Ines is looking into him, but so far nothing is pointing at any artistic talent.”

Logan nodded and moved away from the jetty as a man came carrying a large wooden box. “Zion doesn’t know what happens to his paintings. Sidorov takes them as soon as he’s done, and then he never sees them again. He doesn’t know who buys them or what they pay. Sidorov puts some money in his account whenever he’s sold something.”

Carr was quiet for a long time, and Logan squirmed. It was wrong. The whole setup was wrong.

“But Zion is the seller?” Carr’s voice had gone quiet.

“I don’t know, but I’d assume so. Sidorov is his manager, and when I asked if painters had managers, he said no.”

“So look into the paintings?”