I don’t comment. I’ll only ruin his sentiment.
We’ve closed in on the property. The grand estate before us. Ten bedrooms. Six bathrooms. Three stories. It’s a colossal house. One too big for my tastes. Frankly I’ve never understood having more space than you can occupy. It seems excessive.
Our best entry point is to climb up the lattice vine supports that expand half the back of the house. It will lead us right outside her window. Once I have her sedated I’ll carry her through the home and exit through the basement.
I check once more that I have everything in order. And as I do I hear Pietro question with both awe and bafflement, “What the fuck?”
“Be more specific.”
“Look ahead.” I do and I see exactly what his what the fuck is about. “The Irish Princess is doing the hard work for us,” he snickers.
My brain short circuits. Thousands of sparks firing off and leaving my thought process heavily muddled.
This isn’t part of the plan. My perfectly crafted point by point plan. She has just taken the finished canvas and splattered paint all over it.
Despite the ball cap she wears, peeks of her vibrant copper hair beg to be seen. They shine like a beacon against her pale skin under the moonlight.
While she moves with strategic purpose it does not undermine her lithe movement. With each climb down the lattice vine supports she becomes more graceful and confident.
Gazzella.
The thought comes suddenly and unwanted.
And yet it reverberates in my head until the only word I can think of is gazzella.
She makes the final step down, her feet firmly planted on the ground. Cautiously, she moves her head from side to side to make sure the coast is clear. A small smile plays on her lips. It has me questioning why.
Why would a daughter leave her loving father? Why would a daughter smile about leaving her family who adores her?
What the fuck am I missing? And why didn’t I find it prior to my plan?
Failure screams in my mind. Incompetent comes next.
“You okay?” Pietro breaks through my internal meltdown with a confused and slightly concerned tone. “Because I’m not sure you’re aware but our target is about to escape us.”
He’s right. The gazzella has just taken traction to a light jog as she navigates through the heavily secured area. And she’s headed straight to the woods.
“She’s escaping on foot and not her car?” Pietro questions.
“Her car is most likely tracked. I don’t know a Made Man who doesn’t have their possessions traceable.”
His brow raises. “Do you think he has a tracker on her?”
“I wouldn’t put it past Seamus if he had one secretly embedded in her. He did allow her to attend college in the states.”
“I’m still surprised he even allowed that.”
“Niall was alive then. The son he wanted as heir. Indulging Imogen to study abroad must’ve softened the blow of not leading the family one day.”
Pietro tsks disappointedly. “You’d think living in the 21st century we’d be past that bullshit.”
Sometimes it’s as if we never progressed. Two steps forward to only take five steps backwards.
My eyes stay focused on her. The woman who ruined my perfect plan.
More ribbons of copper fall from her ball cap. The light of the moon catching them causes them to glow.
From the cadence of her run she’s an experienced runner. And from the confidence in the path she’s chosen to take she must’ve been planning this for weeks.
