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The man ran off to fulfill his task. Roma found his way back to his friends, dropping into his seat with the weight of a thousand years.
“What a hero,” Marshall crooned.
“Shut up,” Roma said. He breathed in deeply. Again. Then again. In his head he saw the American crumple to the ground. Alisa’s unmoving body. The complete lack of emotion on his father’s face.
“Are you quite all right?” Benedikt asked in concern.
“Yes, I’m fine.” Roma looked up with a glare. “Can we go back to what we were discussing before? With Alisa in the state she is in”—flashes of her face were burned into his mind, vivid and stark and already wasting away—“I need answers. If this madness sprouted from somebody’s bad intention, I must hunt them down.”
“Didn’t your father send you after the Communists?”
Roma nodded. “But it’s a dead end. We have only struck dead ends wherever we go.”
“We could plead with the Scarlet Gang for their information,” Marshall suggested. “This time with more guns—”
Benedikt pressed a hand over the Marshall’s mouth, shutting him up before he could expand further on a nonsensical plan.
“Roma, I truly cannot fathom what else there is to do,” Benedikt admitted. “I think the meeting made it clear that the White Flowers know nothing. We are at a loss unless we wish to spread our resources thin and put an ear in every corner of Shanghai.”
“How many spies do we still have in the Scarlet Gang?” Roma asked. “Perhaps they can figure out what it is. The Scarlet Gang practically admitted to having information, but they won’t tell us—”
“I doubt asking the spies would be effective,” Benedikt interrupted. His hand was still over Marshall’s mouth. Marshall appeared to have started licking Benedikt’s palm in an effort to be released. Benedikt acted as if he hadn’t noticed. “If the Scarlet Gang really do know something, it would be discussed within the inner circle. Letting rumors slip to the regular gangsters is a surefire route toward causing panic.”
Marshall finally writhed free of Benedikt’s hand.
“By God, you’re both dull in the head,” he said. “Who in the Scarlet Gang keeps appearing everywhere you go, who appears to also have a personal stake in finding the necessary answers?” He leveled his gaze with Roma’s. “You’ve got to ask Juliette for help.”
Suddenly, Roma held up his finger, asking Benedikt and Marshall to be patient as he thought it over.
When he finally seemed to have ruminated on it for some time, he said, “Pass me that bucket over there.”
Benedikt blinked. “What?”
“Bucket.”
Marshall stood and retrieved the bucket. As soon as he brought it under Roma’s nose, the brutal heir of the White Flowers stuck his head within it and retched as a result of all the violence at his hand.
A minute later Roma resurfaced, the contents of his stomach emptied.
“Okay,” he said bitterly. “I’ll ask Juliette alone for her help.”
Nineteen
I’m worried. Can you blame me?”
Lady Cai pulled the brush through Juliette’s hair, frowning each time she hit a tangle. Juliette was certainly old enough to manage this herself, but her mother insisted. When Juliette was a little girl with hair that grew down to her waist, her mother used to come into her room every night and brush it until all the knots were gone, or until Lady Cai was at least satisfied by the state of her daughter’s head, which occasionally included the thoughts within it too. Now that Juliette was back for good, her mother had reinstated the practice. Juliette’s parents were busy people. This was her mother’s way of still having some role in her life.
“No matter what it is in this city, there are too many people invested,” Lady Cai continued. “Too many people with personal stakes. Too many people with too much to lose.” Her frown deepened as she spoke, both in accordance with the words coming out from her mouth and in frustration with her task. Juliette’s hair was bobbed now—there was not much left to brush—but it was still a struggle to work through all the remnants of product that Juliette heaped on every day to maintain her curls.
“Mama, you will have more to worry about if”—Juliette winced as the brush went through a clump of gel that hadn’t washed out—“the madness spreads to every corner of this city. Our dwindling numbers are more a cause for concern than the toes I step on while sticking my nose into Communist business.”
Dwindling numbers in the Scarlet Gang. Dwindling numbers in the White Flowers. Their blood feud was nothing compared to both gangs dying out, yet Juliette seemed to be the only person who believed this madness potent enough to sweep the rug out from under everyone. Her parents were too proud. They had grown too used to situations they could control, adversaries they could defeat. They did not see this situation as Juliette did. They did not see Alisa Montagova trying to tear out her own throat every time they closed their eyes, as Juliette did now.
The girl was so young. How had she gotten caught up in this?
“Well.” Lady Cai sniffed. “It is inevitable that you shall step on some toes. It is simply that I would prefer to send men with you while you’re doing so.”
Juliette bristled. At the very least, her parents were taking the madness seriously now. They still did not think it required their personal interference—or rather they did not see how they could possibly be of any help when it came to a disease that had people tearing at their own throats—but they cared enough to officially put Juliette to the task, excusing her from her other duties. No more chasing rent. Juliette was on a one-woman mission for the truth.
