I lunge.
Stupid. I know it’s stupid even as my legs fire, even as my fist cocks back, because there are six of them and one of me and a gun aimed at my skull. But Natalia is on her way back to that house right now. She’s going to walk into that office thinking she’s alone, thinking she’s safe, and her father already knows.
I don’t reach Nikolai.
Two of them hit me from the sides. My knees buckle. The concrete meets my face and I taste blood and grit and the heel of someone’s boot between my shoulder blades pins me flat. I twist, fighting, but a second boot finds my ribs and the air leaves my lungs in a rush.
Nikolai crouches down. Close enough that I can see the pores on his nose, the spit at the corner of his mouth.
I strain against the weight on my back. My fingers scrape concrete. Useless.
“If you touch her.” My voice comes out wrecked, barely a rasp. “If you fucking touch her, I will?—”
The butt of the gun cracks against my temple.
“Night night, Andretti.” Nikolai’s voice comes from far away.
Light fractures. Sound warps. The garage ceiling swims above me, fluorescent tubes streaking into white smears.
She’s walking straight into a trap.
His second blow takes the lights with it.
36
NATALIA
The house is too quiet.
Not peaceful quiet. The kind of quiet that happens when people leave in a hurry and don’t bother telling you where they’re going. I noticed it twenty minutes ago when I came downstairs for a snack and found the kitchen dark, the hallway dark, the TV in the den playing to no one.
There are still guards on the property. Through the kitchen window, I can see one smoking near the gate and another posted by the front entrance. But the interior is different. The hallway outside my father’s study is empty, and it’s never empty.
It’s not safe. But it’s the closest thing to a window I’m going to get.
My father’s office is at the end of the east corridor, behind a door that’s always locked. I pause outside and listen.
Nothing.
The hallway is dim, lit only by a sconce at the far end and the weak spill of moonlight from the tall window over the landing.The carpet muffles everything. Even my breathing sounds too loud. I glance once over each shoulder, then crouch and slide the bobby pins into the lock.
My hands are shaking just enough to make me miss the tension point the first time. I force myself to slow down, feel for it, and a second later the lock clicks open.
I let out the breath I was holding and slip inside, shutting the door carefully behind me.
The office smells like leather, old paper, and my father’s cologne. The desk is massive, dark walnut, positioned so whoever sits behind it faces the door. A power move. The chair, oversized and high-backed, like a throne for a man who thinks he deserves one.
I sit in it. My skin crawls.
Usually, when I’m in here, I’m standing on the wrong side of that desk while my father reminds me what I owe him. Seeing the room empty feels almost indecent, like I’ve walked in on someone naked.
The computer wakes with a wiggle of the mouse. No password on the desktop because who would dare come in here uninvited? His arrogance has always been his blind spot, and tonight, I’m counting on it.
His email is open. Most of it is the usual coded bullshit. Men like my father love pretending they’re clever. Half the time they are, unfortunately. Half the time they just wrap obvious crimes in expensive language and act impressed with themselves.
I scroll through the recent threads until I find what I’m looking for. A chain between my father and someone I have to assume is Restrepo, or one of Restrepo’s people. The tone is warm,congratulatory. Talk of the upcoming wedding, how pleased both families will be about the “partnership.”
And then, in the most recent message, sent yesterday: the expected wedding presents will be flown in from Colombia and arrive in two days.
