My name. “Kasimira.”
He said my name in the middle of a Russian conversation.
I pretend to focus on the contracts while tracking his movement through my peripheral vision. He’s pacing now, his free hand gesturing as he talks. The conversation seems intense, urgent. I catch fragments of numbers, what might be locations, and my name again.
After five minutes, he ends the call and returns to the table with his usual easy smile restored.
“Sorry about that. Business never sleeps, right?”
“Right.” I keep my voice neutral. “Everything handled?”
“For now. You know how it is. Put out one fire, three more spring up.”
“The West Coast operations?”
“Among other things.” He settles back into his chair, but I notice his phone is still buzzing with notifications. “Where were we?”
“The Dante sightings.”
“Ah, yes. Like I said, probably nothing. But I’ll keep monitoring the situation.”
“And you’ll tell me if anything changes?”
“Of course.”
But as he says it, his phone buzzes again and he glances at the screen automatically. Whatever he sees there makes his jaw tighten before he forces another smile.
“I should let you get back to those contracts,” he says, standing. “Klaus waits for no one.”
After he leaves, I sit in the garden trying to process what just happened. Marco speaking Russian. My name mentioned in a conversation I wasn’t supposed to understand. His evasiveness about the West Coast problems.
And underneath all that, a growing certainty that something is very wrong.
I press a hand to my stomach as another wave of nausea hits. It’s probably stress, but the timing feels significant. I haven’t eaten much today. Couldn’t finish breakfast because the smell of eggs made me gag. The same thing happened yesterday with coffee, and the day before with Maria’s famous pancakes.
“Mrs. Moretti?” Maria’s voice carries across the garden. “Will you be taking lunch outside today?”
“Actually,” I call back, standing carefully, “I think I need to make a doctor’s appointment.”
32
KASI
“Mrs. Moretti,you can go back now.”
I follow the nurse down the familiar hallway of Dr. Patterson’s private practice, my shoulder feeling almost normal as I move. These weekly checkups have become routine—examine the healing tissue, test range of motion, and adjust physical therapy recommendations.
Today should be no different, except for the nausea that’s been plaguing me for the past week.
“How are we feeling today?” Dr. Patterson asks as I settle onto the examination table.
“Physically, much better. The shoulder barely bothers me now.” I flex my arm to demonstrate. “But I’ve been having some stomach issues lately.”
“What kind of issues?”
“Nausea, mostly in the mornings. Food aversions. Coffee makes me sick, eggs are unbearable. I thought maybe it was stress from everything that’s been happening.”
Dr. Patterson nods, making notes on his tablet. “Any other symptoms? Fatigue, mood changes, missed periods?”
