I call out for Carina, then for Lucy. Only my echo answers, bouncing off the glass and marble. My heart twists with dread. I’m sure someone was here and took one or both of them, or hurt them.
I hear footsteps in the hall behind me and turn to see Chiara at the door, keys in hand and her purse on her elbow. She stops, mouth open.
“Good morning?” she tries, voice breaking.
“Where is everyone?” I ask. My tone is a gunshot. “Do you see Lucy? Carina?”
Chiara blinks hard, shakes her head. “No, signore. Just arrived now. Luigi’s supposed to be here—he’s gone?”
I don’t bother answering, just walk briskly past her, scanning every room. Kitchen: untouched. Balcony: empty. The second bath: nothing. I pound up the stairs, two at a time, and find Carina’s room with the door ajar and the covers still rumpled. No Carina. Her laptop is open on the desk, showing a paused video: an anonymous hand making shadow puppets on a wall.
A choke in my chest. I call again, “Carina!”
This time, I hear a soft, muffled noise from the guest bedroom. I hurry over and throw the door open.
She’s sitting on the floor, phone pressed to her face, a comforter huddled around her, eyes wide and red-rimmed. She’s not crying, not anymore, but her body is the shape of someone who just did.
I step in, drop to one knee. “Carina, talk. What happened?”
She looks up, mouth working. “They took Lucy,” she says. “I tried to call you, but you didn’t answer. I called Enzo, and then—” She shakes her head, tears quivering on her lower lashes.
“Who took her?”
She drags a sleeve across her nose. “A man. I saw him on the camera, I think, he was at the door. Lucy opened it. She looked—surprised? Then he grabbed her.” Carina clutches her phone, knuckles white. “I thought it was a delivery. I was in my room. When I heard it, I came out, but she was gone, and the door was open.”
I take her phone. Scroll to the last call: Enzo, twice. Then, to the home camera app. I rewind to ten minutes ago and see, in two frozen frames, the man at the door: older, pale-eyed, suit like a razor. Second frame, he’s got Lucy by the jaw, hand overher mouth. She’s fighting, but not for long. He pulls her into the hallway, then nothing.
Cold, disgusting helplessness drains through me. “Did he say anything?”
Carina shakes her head. “Nothing. Just took her and left. I ran after, but the elevator—” She trails off, shivering.
I help her up and put my arm around her. My daughter seems taller than I remember, all elbows and stubbornness, but right now she leans into me like a child. I look out the glass wall at Manhattan and feel a surge of anger.
I text Enzo, the only three letters I need: SOS.
Then I call Stanislav, who has the intelligence, strength, and motive to do this. If I’m wrong, I’ll admit it. If I’m right, he has her and expects me to beg.
He answers on the first ring, Russian accent as oily as his handshake. “Alessio. What now? I am having breakfast. Can this wait?”
“You know why I’m calling,” I say.
A pause, long enough for him to swallow, maybe, or to wipe his mouth delicately. “No, but I will soon. Someone has displeased you?”
“She’s not part of this,” I say through clenched teeth. “Bring her back now. Or I’ll come to your house and take her. You know I will.”
He makes a tsk, tsk sound. “So personal, Alessio. You have me mixed up with smaller men. I do not steal girls. I have many women of my own.”
“Don’t mess with me, Stan. I just threatened your son with a one-way ticket to Moscow. If you want to escalate, I will too.”
He laughs, light and airy. “You have such a dramatic way with words. But I tell you as a friend: I do not have your girl.” Then, lower: “I will make some calls, yes? If she is in Brighton, I will let you know.”
The call ends. I want to snap the phone in two, but Carina is staring at me, so I clamp my hand on her shoulder. “Pack a bag. I’ll call you a car. You go to your mother.”
“I’m not going to Italy,” she snaps.
“You are if you want to stay safe,” I say, then quickly change the subject before she can argue. “Enzo will be here in three minutes. I want you ready.”
She yanks open her closet with a force that would make me proud if I wasn’t already hurting. I call Enzo, and he answers right away, as if he’s been waiting for my call.