The comment is directed at me—both to illustrate his displeasure with Aleksandr and because I’m the one asked when it’s a task that requires leaving the country (Aleksandr is too valuable to risk; plus, he has dependents now) or he decides it needs discretion (usually disqualifies Maksim).
I frown, taken aback by the request. “Do youwanta war with the Italians? Kidnapping the girl they’re looking for will draw a lot more attention than burning down a building.”
I don’t say so, but I’m also less than thrilled about targeting a child. The warehouse hit was different—they had attacked first.The only casualties were trained soldiers. I understand offense is as important as defense. Doesn’t mean I like it.
“You were right about the warehouse,” Igor states.
I carefully avoid looking at Aleksandr.You were rightare words our father rarely utters.
“They never should have stolen from us in the first place. We have been too complacent. They see us as weak. We need to strengthen our position in Europe. The Italians will make that more difficult. If we have something they want … well, that will make for an interesting negotiation.” He smiles, no doubt savoring the prospect of that advantage.
I glance at Aleksandr, who appears impassive. Possibly peeved by Igor’s dismissiveness. Or he might truly not care; he’s not the one being tasked with chasing a stray down so we can establish more shipping routes.
If he won’t disagree, I will.
“It doesn’t seem worthwhile to me,” I state. “And a trip to Italy isn’t?—”
“They’ve tracked her to Paris.”
Impressive, if she’s being hunted as ardently as Andrea implied. And smart—two million people live in Paris. One girl won’t be easy to find.
“How old is she?”
“Andrea didn’t know much. She hasn’t spent much time in Italy. He shared the photo that’s being distributed.” Igor nods toward his computer.
I sigh, walking over to the desk. Contemplating how else I can convince my father this is a waste of time. I shouldn’t have advocated for being so aggressive before. I should have anticipated that strategy would backfire in some form.
The screen has fallen asleep. I tap the keyboard to wake the computer.
“Twenties, I’d say,” Igor comments. “Old enough to know better.”
I don’t reply. I can’t.
I recognize the woman on the screen. I could tell Igor a lot more about her than her age—twenty-eight.
“I’ll go.”
PANAME
Arriving in Paris, wearing a wrinkled silk dress and carrying no luggage, is a very different experience than landing at Charles de Gaulle in college was.
I step off the train behind a woman with white hair, who is carrying a toy poodle, the relief that I arrived quickly washed away by a rising tide of panic. What do I do now? I’m not naive enough to think my father’s men won’t chase me past Italy’s borders. Nico’s men might be helping him. I’m sure they’ve located the stolen car I abandoned and found out where I bought a ticket to. Should I climb on another train? Keep moving?
Paris is the only European city I’m familiar with. I spent four months here my junior year. But it doesn’t feel far enough from Salvatore and his demands.
He must be furious. I stole from him, then ran.
I left my phone behind, paranoid they could trace it. I didn’t waste time packing any clothes, worried I’d lose my nerve or someone would come looking if I waited. I snuck down a back staircase, snagged a set of keys from the valet stand while they were preoccupied parking other cars, and walked through the maze of vehicles until I found the corresponding one. Retracedthe route of my mandatory shopping trip with my stepmother, driving to the local airport and boarding the next flight to Milan. I took a cab from the airport to Milan’s train station and purchased a ticket to Paris, hoping switching modes of transportation might make it harder for them to follow me. I withdrew as many euros as my father’s card would allow me to before finding the right track in the station. That black square of plastic, my passport, and the drive I stole are the extent of my personal possessions.
Enzo was right: I’m soft. I’ve been taken care of my entire life, provided a place to live and plenty of money. I’ve been lonely, but I’ve always had resources. There’s a crucial difference in feeling alone and being alone, one I’m faced with now. It’s paralyzing—the total lack of support or direction.
What would Lev do?
The question flashes in my brain like a beacon, a reminder I’m not as dutiful or mundane as most people see me as. No one, not even Salvatore or Isabella, knows about him.
He’s the reason I swam five miles in my father’s pool yesterday. I no longer think never being taught to survive in water was a simple oversight. All my bills were paid, even after I started earning a salary—not by my father’s generosity, but as a way for him to control every aspect of my life. To keep me reliant on him.
WhatwouldLev do?
