If I wasn’t so pissed about chasing in circles, I’d be proud. I’ve never met or dealt with Salvatore Caruso personally, but he’s a prominent member of Cosa Nostra. We’ve bumped up against his smuggling operations a couple of times, although most of his business is constrained within Sicily. Payment for protection, agriculture channels, exporting forgeries. His men are competent—well funded and well organized.
And he’s Carina’s father.
I’ve known that for a week, and it still hasn’t sunk in. Still seems impossible.
Yet parts make sense. I pulled a gun on her, and she didn’t flinch. How she disbelieved my mugging story, but didn’t once suggest I call the police. How she never spoke about her family, with the exception of Isabella, who probably wasn’t a real relative.
But she didn’t have security. I would have noticed. Unheard of for a Mafia princess, even one living outside Italy.
Did—does—she know who I am? She barely reacted when I shared my last name. If that was the only time we’d met, I might believe she was acting oblivious. But I know Carina. I know she fills a glass with water before bed and that she has a triangle of three freckles above her left breast. I know where she went to college and that Camille Saint-Saëns is her favorite composer. I know she came here because it’s where she studied abroad her junior year.
I finish my food and toss some euros on the table to cover the bill, shouldering my way through the crowd of football fans and back outside.
I should have asked Carina more about her time here. Found out if she’d had favorite hotels or restaurants—places she might return to. She’s smart enough to do the opposite, but at least that would give me a list of places to check rather than wandering the city aimlessly.
Like I’m doing now, passing more football fans as I walk along the cobblestone streets.
Up ahead is a theater. On the marquee?Samson and Delilahby Camille Saint-Saëns.
HIDE-AND-SEEK
The closer I get to the hostel where I’ve been staying, the worse I feel. Last week, when I told Salvatore I needed to let the symphony know I’d be gone for longer than I’d originally told them, he informed me it had been handled.
I doubt he was diplomatic about it. Even if I find a way to return to Chicago, there’s no job waiting for me.
Decades of training, years of hard work—all gone. I’m sick of being optimistic, of feeling fortunate that I escaped.
I’ve cycled back to fury that it was necessary.
Attending a performance ofSamson and Delilahwas a pleasant escape. All I can think about now, picturing the focused faces and synchrony onstage, is how that magical collaboration was what I used to be a part of.
So, not only did I waste money—which would have been better spent on practical items—by purchasing a ticket, the outing had the opposite effect of improving my melancholy. A reminder of what I’ve lost, not anything I’ve avoided.
I wrap my arms around my waist in an attempt at warding off the sadness and worry that have been constant companions lately.
I have a bunk to sleep in, which stirs up bittersweet memories of my two visits to Samantha Florrick’s Lake Forest house, and a waitressing job that pays cash to add to my meager stolen funds.
My head is above water. I’m surviving. But that’s it. I’m treading water; I’m not swimming. Alive, not living.
Maybe that’s always how I existed—a thought which only depresses me more.
I was always waiting in some form. For my father to pay me attention. For Lev to be in town. For first chair. For my surviving when my mother died to make sense or to serve some purpose.
Music tells you what to do. It’s laid out in perfect order, displayed easily for anyone who learns how to read it. I don’t think it’s a mystery why that appealed to me.
Someone bumps into me from the left, causing me to stumble in the cheap sneakers I bought when I arrived. My wardrobe has expanded a little, but not much. I wore my only dress—a simple cotton one—to the performance earlier.
I regain my footing and glance at the group of guys, who are all wearing St. Germain jerseys. There must be a match tonight. One grins at me, and another—the man who jostled me, presumably—spouts off a rapid apology. My French is decent, but rusty. I reply politely before they continue down the street. One glances back, his smile more assessing than friendly, and my pace is a little faster as I head in the opposite direction.
It’s exhausting, never letting your guard down. I’ve always been afraid someone was after me. I’ve never known someone was for certain … until now.
How long will Salvatore search for me? I have no way of knowing, no one I can trust to ask for insight. Isabella is the only person who might help me, and I can’t risk dragging her deeper into my mess.
I chose to run, knowing it would mean looking over my shoulder, and I don’t regret doing so. It was the best of bad options, yet now it feels like I’m stuck conjuring better ones out of nowhere.
I walk faster, even though I’m in no real rush to get back to the hostel. I should have spent tonight looking for somewhere nicer to stay—more permanent at least—but I chose a temporary escape instead. Living like a vigilante isn’t conducive to careful planning.
My hostel is across the street. I look both ways, waiting for a break in traffic, when I’m grabbed from behind.
