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As it connects for a third time to voice mail, I spy the blonde agent striding confidently in front of the bar on her way over to our cluster of people. A growl erupts from my throat at the sight of her, and I am as close as I’ve ever been to losing complete control. I turn my back on her and speak urgently into the phone, putting every ounce of command that I have into the message.
“Bianca. Call me now. I don’t care where you are or what you’re doing.Call. Me. Now.”
I hang up and take a moment to breathe. I cannot lose it in front of these agents. I cannot lose it in front of anyone. I am the Boss.
I need to get it together and act like the Boss. Dangerous. Emotionless. Logical and reasoning. If I don’t, someone else will step up and take my place, and the Agosti name will be ground into dust.
I do a reasonable job of clawing back control of my temper. Reasonable, until I turn back and my gaze meets that of the blonde woman.
She smirks at me, a knowing look in her eyes. “You need to come with us now, Gregorio. Though I should confirm you are not under arrest. Yet.”
“Then he does not need to go anywhere with you.” Carnarvon’s dry tone cuts across the sudden silence.
She ignores him, skewering me with a look that chills my blood. “You won’t ever find her, you know. Don’t bother looking. We have Bree somewhere safe, and you will never get to her again.”
I suck in a breath, and then release it slowly.They. Have. Bree? No, not Bree. “My wife’s name is Bianca.”
I rise to my feet, the sounds around me warping and distorting. Vaguely, I hear Dana’s gasp and Carnarvon calling my name, then shouts and screams as the black mist takes me.
I lift the table and launch it across the room into the bar.
30
“One can run away from anything but oneself.”
Stefan Zweig
Bianca
The bus pullsout of the depot in a cloud of fumes and a roar of noise, and I sink down into my seat, hoping I look like any other traveler who doesn’t have the funds to go by air.
I adjust my light-brown wig, hoping it doesn’t look too fake. With colored contact lenses turning my eyes blue, and in these old jeans, T-shirt, and with a worn backpack slung onto the empty seat beside me, I don’t think I look like Bianca Carlotti at all. I don’t even look like Bree Walker. Not anymore. Bree is long gone, and Bianca will hopefully sink into oblivion as soon as I hit Augusta.
Oblivion. I begged Rio to take me there that night, and for a time in his arms, he almost succeeded in delivering me into its welcome embrace. But the memories and nightmares always return. Violence and death haunt me. Oblivion is fleeting. Unless, of course, I choose the finality of death.
I curl my fingers over my belly. It is just starting to round out a little now, and the nausea is growing as each day progresses. That’s a good thing, from what I’ve read. It means the hormones are strong and the baby has a chance at surviving. I wonder if stress is making the nausea worse. There is certainly a lot of that rolling through my body.
Every time we stop and some passengers get on and off, I have to fight to control my breathing. Sweat coats my armpits and drips down my back, and then we roll again, and no one seems to be paying me attention.
Until one particular stop, somewhere near Portsmouth, I think, and a dark-suited guy climbs aboard. Who wears a suit on a bus? Is he here for me? I tense as he seems to study the passengers one by one. His gaze alights on me, and I hold my breath, trying not to meet his eyes.
Praying he won’t come near me. Praying he isn’t one of Rio’s men. Or one of Rossi’s. Or a Fed.
He starts down the aisle, reaches me, and passes by. I’m too scared to turn my head to watch where he ends up, but I hear the scratch of clothing and the squeak of the fake leather as he slides into a seat somewhere on the opposite side of me.
The bus takes off, and I wait, holding in my whimpers by sheer will alone. When nothing happens, I finally gather the courage to shoot a glance behind me. The guy is slumped against the window, eyes closed and mouth half open, already asleep.
He’s not interested in me.
Not a Mafia goon, then.
Oh, thank God. Thank God.
Eventually, I relax the tiniest bit, but I still can’t sleep. I am too close to the edge, always on alert. I hope I can settle soon when I reach wherever I’m going and give this child a better start than living on nerves and adrenaline.
That old life will never change, but my new life has to be different.
Canada, here I come. By way of Augusta, Maine, if all goes according to plan.
