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Alessia’s fingers curled slightly against the table. “Tell me about the night my mother died.”
Arsen looked at her for a long moment, perhaps searching for something soft in the woman sitting before him, but he didn’t seem to find what he was looking for.
“I drove the van that night,” he finally replied.
“Who was behind the attack?” she pressed.
“Levon Petrosyan.”
Arsen looked toward the dark observation glass, then back to Alessia.
“Levon had been searching for Raffaele Bellandi’s American child for months. He believed Raffaele would surrender one port contract to keep the daughter hidden. Once he had one port, he could place men inside the companies and take more later.”
“Did you know I was only fifteen at the time?” she asked.
“I did know that.”
“Did that matter?”
Arsen’s expression didn’t change. “Not to Levon.”
“And to you?”
He glanced down at his hands. “I was just the driver.”
Alessia’s face remained composed, but her breathing had grown slightly quicker. I placed my hand open on the table between us. She turned hers over and slipped her fingers into mine without taking her eyes from Arsen. Arsen’s gaze flicked down to our hands before he started speaking again.
“Levon had put your school photograph on the table during the briefing. Your mother was supposed to call you from the car. She was supposed to say there had been an accident and that you needed to come outside. We had another vehicle waiting near the Caruso house for you.”
“She already knew what you wanted, though, didn’t she?”
“Yes.”
A muscle ticked along Alessia’s jaw before I saw her force herself to relax.
“What did she do?” she pressed onward.
“She locked the car before they reached it. When they broke the window, she reversed into us hard enough to damage the radiator. She hit Davit with a metal bar from beneath her seat and broke his jaw. One man, I don’t remember his name, tried to hold the phone to her ear.” Arsen’s eyes met Alessia’s. “She spat blood in his face and told him she would rather die than call you.”
Alessia stopped breathing for one suspended second.
“Who shot her?” Alessia asked.
“One of Levon’s men. Davit’s older brother.”
“Name.”
“Samvel Khachaturian. He died in Montreal four years ago.”
“And Levon knew she had been killed that day?”
“Yes.”
“Did he punish the man who shot her?”
“He didn’t.”
Alessia released my hand and leaned back. “My mother died protecting me.”
