I stand. “I’m leaving.”
“Sit down, Carina.” The words are sharp and cold.
The sun has vanished, leaving a noticeable chill behind.
I think of Chicago. Of the old phone I left in the drawer beside my bed. Of the tranquil pool on the rooftop I’ve swum countless miles in. Of brunches with Lola and endless hours of practice on the symphony’s stage.
I never thought that freedom might be finite.
I remain vertical. A small rebellion, one Salvatore doesn’t miss. His nostrils flare. I glance toward the men guarding the door. I assumed they were my father’s security. Now I worry they’re not here to keep others out. They’re here to keep me in.
“I’m an adult,” I state. “You can’t keep me here. You can’t make me getmarried.”
We both hear the uncertainty in my tone, bordering on hysteria.
Because I’m not sure that he can’t.
Because who will stop him?
Salvatore finally takes a hearty bite of his pasta, appearing perfectly at ease. “Eat your lunch,tesoro.”
“You should be careful who you trust.”
Lev warned me, and I didn’t listen. I walked directly into my father’s trap. I wish Lev were here, and I wish I would stop wanting that.
I’m on my own. I always have been really, and it’s time I embraced that rather than pretend otherwise.
I grab the expensive bottle of wine off the table and fling it at the nearest wall. The crash is spectacular—shards of glass fly, and red liquid splatters. Yet there’s no accompanying sense of satisfaction or relief.
Salvatore doesn’t flinch. He calmly continues eating his lunch, seeming certain that will be the extent of my rebellion.
“You should be careful who you trust.”
Too late.
PLAYING WITH FIRE
“Put that on.” I toss a vest at Viktor Nikitin, the youngest member of the crew I brought to Rotterdam. He’s only nineteen. Can’t even grow a proper beard yet.
Predictably, he tries to shove it back to me. “I don’t?—”
“Put it on,” I bark.
This time, he listens.
We’re in the Netherlands, retaliating against opportunistic Italians and putting a valuable informant at risk because I needed an outlet for the simmering restlessness that’s lingered since I left Chicago. I refuse to lose a single man during this operation.
“Almost there,” Misha Gurin, who’s driving, states.
“Belov, Romanova, be ready to back us up. Gurin, keep watch.”
Misha nods, his profile backlit by the port lights.
I look at Viktor last. He’s strapped on the vest.
“Nikitin, with me.”
The teenager nods, grip tightening on his gun. His throat bobs once with a swallow before his head turns, looking out the window. Kid’s probably choking on adrenaline right now.
