“It was a test,” I state. “The next one will cost a lot more.”
“Only if the Italians want a war with us, which would be idiotic.”
“No one steals from friends. They need to be reminded how we treat thieves.”
Aleksandr glares, his jaw ticcing with residual annoyance and fresh irritation.
I didn’t walk in here, planning to challenge him. Normally, I’d support a less aggressive response. One shipment of stolen goods isn’t worth losing men or our advantage against Cosa Nostra. It’s bad timing—for them—that I feel like setting an example of why we’re a terrible enemy to have.
Igor nods his agreement. “Take care of it.”
Aleksandr turns his head, hiding his expression. I can feel his fury like a fifth presence in the room. One day, he won’t be able to tame it.
I have no idea what I’ll do when that happens.
FLIGHTS, NOT FEELINGS
My stomach rumbles as the numbers continue to increase, which I take as a promising sign. I forced down the oatmeal Isabella made before we hustled out the door to head to O’Hare, but my appetite has remained unpredictable lately. Today, of all days, I doubted I’d be eating much.
I’m a nervous flier.
And I’m nervous about where I’m flying to.
“Carina? Carina Carson?”
I look toward the sound of my name automatically, appraising the man who’s paused with his rolling suitcase. Chicago is a large city, and airports are full of people from different places.
Isabella has stopped, too, shooting me a curious glance. She knows everyone in my life—with one glaring exception, who I would instantly recognize anywhere.
“Harrison,” the man says, pointing to himself. “I used to go by Harry. Harry Pearson? From high school?”
“Oh. Right. Uh, hi.” If I squint, I can see some similarities to the teenager who ruled Albright Academy.
Harry—Harrison—is shorter than I recall. He has a patchy beard, which I privately decide he’d be better off shaving. A shiny gold wedding band sits on his left hand. He’s not unattractive; he’s just not very memorable either. That assessment has more to do with me than him. I took one look at Lev Sokolov, and he became the standard I compare other men to. I’m awaiting—and dreading—the day that’s no longer the case.
My former classmate seems to be experiencing the opposite reaction to my apathy—obvious interest in his expression as he looks me up and down.
“How’ve you been?” Without waiting for a reply, he glances at Isabella. “Is this your mom?”
Isabella says she will meet me at the gate, then continues that way.
Harrison appears taken aback by the sudden Italian. I doubt I ever spoke it during the few occasions we hung out together, aware it’d be seen as a rarity among my non-bilingual peers. And prompt unwanted questions about my family.
“My aunt,” I say, answering his second question.
That’s the story we’ve always stuck to—my father died, and my mother didn’t want me, so his sister stepped up as my guardian. Not even inaccurate if you swap the parental roles.
“Did you move back to Chicago?” I ask, trying to be polite.
He shakes his head. “I wish. Just visiting on some business. I miss this city.”
“Why’d you leave?”
Just before the start of our senior year, Harry moved abruptly. I was relieved since he’d spent junior year ensuring the entire school knew we’d hooked up in his expensive sports car after homecoming, but the public sentiment was disappointment because of his general popularity.
I’m not asking because I care. I’m asking because he disappeared a few days after I had sex for the second time, and I’ve always wondered if that was a coincidence or if Lev had had something to do with it.
“My dad sold the airline,” he tells me. “One of the conditions of the sale was the headquarters moved to Atlanta. It sucked, starting over senior year, but I didn’t have any say.”
