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The post reeks of damage control. In two sentences, they explain away Tessa’s mysterious disappearance—a spontaneous trip that has resulted in a proposal. And now she’s going to be married? I stare into the picture of her so-called fiancé.
This isn’t her choice, no more than I was.
Maybe a more reasonable man would leave her with him. Just another ending that she doesn’t want. But the thought of someone else, anyone else being with her—it makes me want to snap the fucking phone in half.
I storm toward the office. I find Marcel already staring into the laptop on the desk.
“James Serra,” he says, with no introduction, spinning the laptop around to show the mysterious man in Tessa’s picture. It takes me by surprise.
“Why are you staying on top of this?”
“Because I’ve never seen you react like this,” he admits. “Not to anything. You don’t even look like yourself.”
The observation crawls under my skin. No one should be able to see that, not even Marcel, who knows me better than anyone.
“Don’t get involved in this, Marcel. It’s better if you wash your hands of it. I made this mess and I’ll clean it up—”
“No, you won’t. Not alone. Now come look at what I’ve found.”
I join him behind the desk.
There’s a handful of personal information on James Serra, including an address. My instincts tell me to go kick in his door, even though I know better. He’ll be in some hotel, probably, with an armed man and a tripwire waiting for me in his legally registered address. I still know the game, even if I’m too goddamn angry to want to play it.
“There’s some sort of purpose to this,” Marcel says. “I’m just not sure what it is yet. This isn’t an engagement announcement photo. I mean, where’s the ring? The photoshoot? This is just a selfie. It could have been taken any time.”
“It’s not her post. They’re selling her off. Damaged goods.” When Marcel continues to stare at me, not quite comprehending the damage, I add, “She’s not a virgin anymore.”
His cursor drifts over the digital clock in the corner of the screen, bringing up the year, as if he’d started to doubt what century we were living in.
“Gio’s a fossil,” I sigh. “He does things the old way. And as long as there’s money tied up in it, people in our business will keep playing along. Serra will have some kind of connection, we just don’t know what it is yet. Gio’s getting something out of it.”
By the end of the week, rumors of Tessa’s engagement are being muttered through the underground. We keep an ear on them, while my every waking hour is spent on tormenting Gio in every way I can. Caution is in the wind. There’s only punishment. I’m not like him—I don’t hesitate.
An official celebration for Tessa’s engagement is announced. Publicly. A black-tie gala hosted by the Lovera family in celebration of their daughter and their soon-to-be son-in-law. It’s touted as the first formally hosted family event in decades.
“…They could have just written ‘trap’ on the invitations, in big bold letters,” Marcel points out, studying the announcement on his phone. I hold my silence. “We do agree that this is a trap, yes?” he presses.
“We agree.”
“Meaning you’re not going to fall for it.”
I hold my silence again. Marcel gawks.
“Sal. They could put Tessa under a box being held up by a stick, and it wouldn’t be as much of a trap as this is,” he says.
“If you know it’s a trap, then you can circumvent the trigger—”
“Sal—”
“I might not get another chance!”
The fury in my voice silences him.
I have done nothing except think about this moment, hungering for it. Even the quiet moments—eating, sleeping, following my strict, merciless routines—they have all been functional. Just something to get out of the way, to keep me primed and ready for this moment.
This one chance.
I get Tessa back or I die trying. If Marcel knows me at all, then he knows that’s always been the way this ends.
