“Boss,” Timur’s voice crackles through. “Irina’s been reported missing.”
I go still. “How long?”
“Three days.”
I spin from the window, my heart already kicking harder than I want to admit. “And you’re only telling me now?”
“Last confirmed sighting was on the ferry to Oakland. We assumed she was circling back to one of her known safe houses. Then her signal reappeared—briefly—pinging off a private aircraft hangar outside Sonoma. Within six hours, the tracker went dark. Two days later, Milan staff reported her suite untouched since Monday morning.”
I stare at the glass. “How the fuck did she get to Italy with no one seeing her?”
“Our guess? Black flight. No manifest. Someone high-level moved her. And they knew exactly what they were doing.”
My knuckles press white against the edge of the desk.
“Could she have been taken?”
“Unlikely,” Timur says. “Too clean. No signs of struggle. She left on her own.”
A long beat.
“She had help,” I say quietly.
“That’s our guess.”
The line hums between us.
“Find her.”
“Already moving. But, boss—whoever helped her vanish? They knew what they were doing.”
My pulse drums low and hard. I stare out at the skyline, but I’m not really seeing it anymore.
Irina’s gone.
And someone opened the door for her.
61
Bella
The garden is ridiculous. That’s the only word for it.
Terraced rows of sculpted hedges and ancient cypress trees roll down into a valley like someone commissioned Versailles, then added extra zeros to the budget just for fun.
I stand at the edge of the stone pathway, phone pressed to my ear, carefully shifting my weight from my good leg to my healing one. The dull throb is still there—a constant reminder of what happened—but Dr. Nilsson says I’m progressing “remarkably well” for someone who had a hairline fracture. Off crutches doesn’t mean pain-free, though. Each step still requires calculation.
“Say that again?” I whisper, glancing over my shoulder. “He does what with the what now?”
Elena’s laugh crackles through the speaker. “Tantric breathing while hanging upside down from aerial silks. Trevor says itopens your third eye and your tight hamstrings at the same time.”
“That’s… innovative.” I shuffle farther down the path, wincing slightly as my ankle protests at the uneven stone. This house has more surveillance than a maximum-security prison—except prettier and with better food. “And how many followers does Cirque du Soleil Romeo have?”
“Three million on Instagram. Six on TikTok. His algorithm is karma-based.”
I pause near a stone bench, grateful for the excuse to sit down. The pain is manageable but persistent, like a seatbelt that digs in just enough to remind you that you’re stuck. I ease down carefully, stretching my leg out in front of me.
“He can also hold a headstand for twenty minutes while reciting Sanskrit mantras,” Elena adds, smug.
