"Pack a bag," he orders. "Looks like I still need you."
I straighten slowly and warily. "Where are we going?"
"Venezuela." His mouth twists like the word tastes sour. "Edoardo’s got a situation, and I’m not trusting anyone else to handle it. You’re coming with me."
My stomach drops. "Why?"
His eyes narrow. "Because I said so. And because I’m not leaving you here unsupervised so you can pull another stunt like today."
I want to tell him I don’t care where he goes, that I’d rather rot in this house than follow him to another country. But I’ve learned not to waste words on battles I can’t win.
Instead, I go upstairs to pack like a good wife. His clothes and mine. God knows I'll pay the price if I forget something he thinks he might need.
The sound of drawers sliding open and hangers scraping along the rod feels too loud in the silence of the bedroom. My hands shake as I fold shirts he doesn’t care about and jeans he’ll probably never wear and stuff them into his suitcase. I don't even know how long we'll be gone.
Every movement hurts. My wrists sting when the fabric brushes against the skin. I keep my eyes down, focusing on the neatness of the folds, because if I let myself think too hard, I’ll break.
But Marcello slips in anyway.
His voice. His smile. The way he looked before he was hooked up to machines in a sterile hospital room, and now I’m getting on a plane with the man who would rather see him dead than sitting across from me at a table.
A tear escapes before I can stop it.
I swipe it away quickly, but more follow, hot and silent, slipping down my cheeks to the rhythm of my hands packing sweaters and socks. When I finish, I hear Roberto’s voice in the hallway. He's speaking in Spanish to someone in a low voice with clipped words. It’s not smooth like a native speaker, but sharp and fast; the words tumble over one another like stones in a current. I catch only fragments—carga—shipment, perdido—lost, muerto—dead, deuda—debt. The tone is enough to make the hair on my arms stand onend.
The door swings open without warning. He grabs his suitcase from the bed and jerks his head for me to follow, never once stopping his phone conversation. Within minutes, we're in the car, pulling away from the house, the tires humming over the pavement. He’s speaking the same rapid Spanish, his free hand gesturing like the other person can see him on the seat next to me.
I turn my face to the window, allowing my chin to rest in my hand, and try to disappear into the motion of the passing streets.
He might die, and I’ll never see him again.
The thought is a cold, heavy stone in my stomach. It sinks deeper with every mile we put between me and Marcello’s hospital room, and I pray for my brother.
Even though I don't want to, I still catch pieces of Roberto's conversation.
I perk up when I hearOrsi, unsure if he's talking about Marcello or my father.
Then something about entregar—deliver and próxima vez—next time. I'm keeping my ears peeled, while my fingers tighten in my lap, desperately trying to figure out what the hell is going on. We're not just going to Venezuela to fix Edoardo’ssituation. There’s more, a whole lot more. And if I can figure out what it is, maybe I can use it.
"What do you mean, gone?"I stare at Leo exasperatedly.
He lifts his hand into the air, "Gone, as inwhoosh, as in they have left their house, as in they're not home."
"Don't be fucking cute with me, now is not the time," I fume.
"They left an hour ago, got on his jet, and are up in the air." Leo continues to try my patience.
I drag a hand down my face, forcing myself not to put my fist through the table. "Where?"
"Don’t know yet," he says, not nearly as concerned as he should be. "I’ve got eyes on the flight, but it’ll take a minute to figure out where they filed flight plans—if they even filed any."
"They didn’t," Pierre, one of my intelligence guys, mutters from across the table, eyes still glued to his laptop. "Private jets don’t have to when it’s… let’s just say when they have friends in air traffic control."
My jaw flexes. I hate this. Hate knowing she’s out there, strapped into a leather seat, probably with Roberto’s hand on her thigh or her throat, and I can’t get to her.
"Leo, keep your guy on it. I want to know the second those wheels hit the ground. I don’t care if it’s in goddamn Siberia, I want a location."
"You got it, boss," Leo says, but he’s watching me carefully now, like he’s weighing just how far gone I am.
