"Dorian, these are Russians. You don't rush them. It’s just two days away. It gives us time to—"
"I don't have two days," I snap, slamming my hand onto the mahogany desk. "She’s backnow. She’s ready to talknow. Every second Andy breathes air in this city is a second I am failing her."
I walk around the desk, my energy pacing like a caged animal.
"I waited more than I wanted to. Push it up. Tell them whatever you have to tell them. Just make it happen."
"That's risky," David warns, his voice low.
"I don't care about the risk to me. I care about the risk to her." I stop, locking eyes with him. "I want the trap sprung tonight. I want him gone by sunrise. Tonight, David. "
David holds my gaze for a long moment, assessing. He sees the fire in my eyes and nods once.
"I'll make the call. Tonight, at the distillery."
"Good." I look back at my phone, at her message.Soon.
"Tonight," I whisper to the empty room. "And then, I’m coming for you, My Love."
* * *
Della
The sun is shining brightly over San Diego, but my world is tilting on its axis.
I wake up early with a headache that feels like a vice, but that’s nothing compared to the stomach. The moment I sit up, the room spins.
"Ugh," I groan, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed.
Silvia is already in the kitchen. I can hear the coffee grinder whirring and Silvia singing.
But then the smell hits me. Fried bacon… and eggs.
My hand flies to my mouth. I barely make it to the bathroom, slamming the door and dropping to my knees in front of the toilet just as my stomach revolts.
I’m heaving until there’s nothing left, my body shaking, sweat pricking at my hairline.
"Della?" Silvia’s voice is panicked on the other side of the door. "Della, are you okay?"
I flush the toilet and lean back against the cool tile wall, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. "I... I don't know."
The door creaks open. Silvia peeks in, her face etched with worry. She sees me on the floor, pale and trembling.
"This isn't just motion sickness, Chiquita," she says, kneeling beside me and putting a hand on my forehead. "You're clammy. You’re shaking. Okay, that's it. We are going to the clinic."
"It’s probably just a virus," I whisper, leaning my cheek against the cool porcelain of the bathtub. "Something I caught at the airport."
She stands up, resolute.
"Probably. And that’s exactly why we are going to see a doctor right now."
"Fine." I pull myself up using the sink, splashing cold water on my face.
I look at myself in the mirror. My eyes are glassy. My skin is pale.
But deep down, a suspicion is blooming. A quiet, terrifying, hopeful math equation is running in the back of my mind.
This nausea... it feels different.
