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Philippe assesses the team once more and finally nods. "Keep her safe, brothers. Or I will have your heads." With those parting words, we exit the house. Philippe puts on my bullet-proof vest himself, triple-checking that it's fastened securely. How can I not feel warm when he cares so much for my safety? He opens the car door and lets me get in.
Just before he closes it, he leans in and takes my cheeks in his hands, putting his lips to mine. The warmth of his breathbrushes against my lips softly. It's a kiss filled with longing. A shiver goes down my spine, his gentle hands still on my face.
Just as quickly as it began, he pulls away, leaving me breathless. He closes the door behind me and taps the car. The convoy follows.
Two hours later, we arrived at the New York house I grew up in. It’s been over a fortnight since my parents were murdered. As I walk up the front steps, memories wash over me - playing in the yard as a little girl, learning to bake cookies in the kitchen with my mom—happy times from a former life.
Taking a deep breath, I unlock the front door and step inside. A thin layer of dust coats the floor. The house is eerily still and quiet. I make my way upstairs to my parents' bedroom.
Thank god all the blood is gone, evidence of the massacre erased. Philippe must have made sure of that, and I am eternally grateful. However, I don't want to spend a second longer in here than necessary. If there are any clues about my uncle, I need to find them and get back home.
I spend over an hour searching through documents, old photographs, letters; anything that might contain a hint of my past. But there's no mention of my uncle whatsoever.
Who was this man that was so close to me as a little girl? Why did he not raise me, or at least stayed in contact? What happened that drove us apart? He could have easily abandoned me at an orphanage, yet he made sure a good family adopted me. Whydid my adoptive parents never speak of him? I feel guilty for trying to find out more about my biological lineage when, to my adoptive parents, I was the center of their world
As I slide into the back of the sleek black car waiting for me, I wonder: Am I a terrible daughter?
The turmoil inside me tears my heart in different directions. But deep down, I know that finding out the truth about my biological family is not an act of betrayal. It is a quest for understanding, for closure.
I pray I find it soon.
Chapter 31
Philippe
I pace the marble floors of the compound's grand foyer, trying to be reasonable and suppress the anxiety gnawing at my gut. Where is she? Tatiana should have returned from her outing hours ago.
My mind races through the possibilities—a flat tire, car trouble, something more sinister. I close my eyes and force myself to focus on my breathing. If there were trouble, my men would have called.
Perhaps she went to New York. That's hours away. My instinct tells me my conjecture is along the right path.
But still, I check my watch for the hundredth time. The minute hand seems frozen in place.
I'm happy she's stepped out. It's the most progress I've seen her make since the murders. Yet the worry remains. Perhaps if I knew where she went ... but I would never force her to share the workings of her inner world unless she wanted to.
She should never have to feel that I don’t trust her, and so, for that reason alone, I have to remain patient and wait.
Finally, headlights flash across the tall windows. I hurry to the front door as the sound of tires on gravel grows louder. Throwing open the heavy oak door, I'm greeted by the sight of Tatiana emerging gracefully from the back of her bulletproof, sleek, black town car. Relief washes over me like a cleansing rain.
"You're back," I breathe, unable to hide the delight in my voice.
Tatiana glides into my arms, the flowery notes of her perfume enveloping me. "Did you miss me?" she asks coyly.
"More than you know," I murmur into her hair. "I was so worried when you didn't arrive sooner."
She pulls back, looking up at me with a mysterious, fading smile. "Just a few things I had to look into. Nothing for you to worry about."
I run my fingers lightly down her cheek. "Mi preoccuperò sempre per te, mio uccellino canoro," – I'll always worry about you, my songbird.
"Uccellino canoro, mi piace," – Songbird, I like that.
I kiss her deeply under the crystal chandelier. At her new name, her eyes sparkle in the soft light. I wonder, is she ready to sing again? Tonight, I will ask.
Later that evening, we are having a private, romantic dinner on the rooftop terrace overlooking the vineyard. Candles flicker on the table, their glow dancing across Tatiana's face. She radiates in a figure-hugging emerald dress that brings out the green flecks in her eyes.
"This view is magnificent," she says, taking in the rolling hills blanketed in vines.
"Not as magnificent as you," I reply.
