So I flip through the pages, and she sits forward with real interest. She points to a sketch of a tulle cocktail dress with a bodice stitched in gothic crosses. “This one looks like you’d have to be a vampire to pull it off.” She means it as a compliment, I can tell.
“That was the idea. For a show in Milan. I mean—if it ever gets finished.” I bite my lip. “What would you wear?”
She considers, then points at a dark, draped number with a halter neck and slit, a cross between a Grecian goddess and a villainess from a Y2K action movie. “This one,” she says. “It says, ‘Don’t even try to talk to me, unless you brought a snack.’”
I grin despite myself. “I can make it for you. If you want.”
Carina’s eyes widen. “Really?” The word is small, but the longing in it isn’t.
“Of course. I’m good with my hands.” I regret the words instantly, but she nods, satisfied.
We’re quiet for a minute, flipping through pages, until she asks, “Do you know where my dad went last night?” Her voice is lighter, as if this is a sideline, not the main event.
“No,” I answer honestly. “But if I had to guess, I’d say he’s working something out with someone who doesn’t want to be worked with.”
She nods, as if this matches her own theory. “He was on the phone with Enzo for an hour after midnight, then he left. Anyway—it’s probably Anton’s dad.”
I furrow my brow. “Anton?”
Carina goes red to her earlobes. “He’s a friend,” she says, a little too fast. “I have a feeling Dad is threatening war unless Anton’s father moves him to Moscow.”
I stare at her for a beat, the pieces slotting into place. “So your dad is negotiating with the Russians so your friend gets transferred?”
“To Russia.” She shrugs like it’s obvious. “I don’t think it will work, but I’m interested to see how far he’ll go.”
“Sorry.” It’s the only word I can think of speaking.
She stretches, catlike, and yawns. “He’s going to come back angry, but don’t worry. I’m pretty sure it won’t be a war. Artem knows I won’t let myself get drawn into it.”
I squint. “I thought it was about Anton?”
She smiles, full of secrets. “Oh yeah. I meant Anton.”
Before I can ask, she stands up, dusts herself off, and says, “I need to make a phone call. And maybe take a nap.” She hesitates in the doorway, glancing at me over her shoulder. “You’re okay, you know.”
I say thanks, and she vanishes, an echo of determined footsteps down the hall.
I breathe out a shaky sigh. I feel seen, and that’s the worst and best part.
I draw for a while. Pages pile up: taffeta, silk, inhuman geometry. I lose myself, replaying her words. An hour later, I’m restless. The espresso is gone. The sun has hauled itself fully up the spine of the skyline. I pad barefoot through the kitchen, peering into cabinets for something sweet. Alessio’s kitchen is a fortress of protein shakes, mineral water, and three kinds of bourbon, but I find a bar of dark chocolate and bring it to the living room.
And then: the doorbell. It rings once, loud and long. I freeze. There’s always someone at the door in these towers, but it’s usually a delivery or a dry cleaning delivery. I wait to see if Carina will answer, but there’s only silence from the far end of the apartment.
The doorbell rings again, more urgently now. I set my chocolate down, flatten my hair, and walk over. My pulse is up. Some part of me knows this is a mistake, but I open the door anyway.
The man standing there is tall, lean, and older—wearing a suit that looks like it costs more than my monthly rent. His eyes are wrong: too pale, too intent. Before I can even ask if he’s looking for Alessio or Enzo or delivering something, his hand is on my shoulder, and I’m being yanked forward out of the doorway.
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. The man’s other hand covers my face, pressing something sharp and stinging against my lips. My vision tunnels. I taste metal. The last thing I see is the hallway spinning away from me.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
ALESSIO
Ireturn to the penthouse and feel right away that something is more than just off—it’s deeply wrong. The latch is half turned. Luigi, who should be standing like a guard dog by the elevator, is nowhere to be seen. I punch in the code. The light flashes green, but the lock opens almost too easily.
Adrenaline snaps my vision into a tight, clear tunnel. Inside: unnatural silence. No Carina, no Lucy. Not even the tremor of the HVAC that Lucy always complains about. The entryway has a depression in the carpet that looks recent.
I walk quickly through the foyer, fists clenched, and find the living room empty and cold. Lucy’s sketchbook and pencils are scattered on the coffee table.