“And if I lied?” I challenge, even though my knees feel weak.
“Then he’ll take care of that too.” His gaze locks onto mine, unwavering. “But you’re not lying.”
Something about the certainty in his voice unsettles me more than a threat would have.
“How do you know?” I ask.
A corner of his mouth lifts—not in a smile, but in something colder. More knowing.
“Because,” he says, “you can’t lie.”
And the way he says it makes me wonder if he’s been watching me far longer than I realize.
I glance back at his aunt who is still working at the counter. She gives me a small smile which makes me feel better. I mean, if I was about to be murdered I’d hope she wouldn’t be smiling. I hope.
Outside, I stop.
The world opens up in front of me like a postcard that forgot it was supposed to be gentle. White stone buildings crowd close together, stacked and layered as if they grew straight out of the cliffs themselves. Narrow cobblestone streets snake between them, worn smooth by centuries of footsteps. Everything is sun-bleached and bright, so bright it makes my eyes ache after the dimness inside.
The sea stretches out beyond the edge of the town,impossibly vast and impossibly blue, crashing far below against jagged limestone cliffs. The air smells like salt and stone and something fried drifting from another kitchen down the street. Laundry hangs from iron balconies overhead, fluttering lazily in the breeze like this is the safest place in the world.
My knees wobble.
This place is ancient and completely unfamiliar.
People pass us—locals, I assume—talking and laughing in Italian, carrying bread and bags and coffee cups, casting only brief, curious glances my way. No one looks alarmed. No one looks like they’re witnessing a crime.
Which somehow makes it worse.
Because wherever I am, whatever this place is, it’s real.
And I am very, very far from Kansas City. I swallow hard, my pulse picking up as the truth settles into my bones. Someone didn’t just move me. They hid me. And whoever did it chose a place so beautiful, so ordinary, that no one would ever think to look for a missing girl here, standing on a cliff above the sea, pretending she isn’t terrified.
“Come on, Birdie,” he says, motioning for me to follow him.
I hesitate, glancing down the narrow street that curves away from us, stone walls pressing close on either side. “Where’s your car?”
He snorts softly, like the question amuses him.
“People are set in their ways here. It’s not like Bari. Streets are too old, too narrow. Cars don’t belong everywhere.” He starts walking, already assuming I’ll follow. “We’ll have to walk to the edge of town where the car is parked. It’s not far.”
Edge of town. The phrase sends a small ripple of panic through me because what happens next?
I hurry to catch up, my steps uneven on the worn cobblestones.
“You never told me your name,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “Is that on purpose?”
He glances at me from the corner of his eye. “Not at all.” A beat passes. “Dante Russo,” he says. “A pleasure to meet you.”
I repeat it silently in my head—Dante Russo—searching my memory for any reaction. There’s nothing. No spark of recognition. No warning bell.
Which, at this point, feels almost worse.
His name doesn’t sound familiar, but then again, none of this is. Not the language drifting past us from open windows. Not the smell of bread and salt and something citrusy in the air. Not the way the town feels like it’s both watching me and completely indifferent to my existence.
The walk feels longer than he promised.
Polignano a Mare slips past in quiet fragments—stone steps worn smooth by centuries of feet, shuttered windows just beginning to glow with morning light, the distant crash of waves somewhere below the cliffs. People glance at us as we pass, curious but not alarmed. Like I’m just another woman walking beside a man who belongs here.
