I have to click through folder after folder, file after file before I find it. Buried deep in the information I’ve collected for Aldo I find the picture I’m looking for.
I’d marked it as useless. It didn’t seem relevant at the time. But, as I click through the scanned copy of the church announcement, I know I’ve found the thing that’s going to turn my hunt for Aldo’s missing traitor on its head.
The original paper was torn and discolored when one of my contacts found it; the digital scan isn’t much better. I have to zoom in several times until I can make out the face of a baby and the small inset photo next to it, one showing a pendant hanging at the end of a chain.
The baby isn’t mentioned by name and is still so young the gender is unidentifiable. The photo is in black and white, so not even a blue or pink hat would help. But the nuns at Our Lady of Lourdes Catholic Church in a small suburb outside of Chicago were making a final plea for information about the orphaned baby’s family as the mother had died shortly after childbirth and the father sometime before.
As I study the photo, reading and re-reading the caption beneath it, the pit in my stomach widens to a sinkhole.
When Aldo tasked me with this search, all he gave me was a name, a year, and a location.
The nuns didn’t include a name in the bulletin, presumably out of privacy for the dead mother. The baby hadn’t beenadopted yet, so it—she—was still nameless. But the date fits, as does the town.
And the necklace shown in the picture, it looks identical to the one around Lena’s neck.
My mouth is dry. I stride to the bar and down a shot of whiskey, then another. I wait for the burn to make me feel better, but the twisting in my gut only gets worse.
I’ve let my instincts guide me my whole life. They’ve kept me alive when more than one person has wanted me dead. They’ve helped me ferret out traitors, avoid the authorities, and kill anyone who threatens my family.
Those same instincts are screaming now, so loudly it’s impossible to muffle them no matter how much whiskey I drink. There’s no chance that the necklace that appeared in my search for Aldo’sla traditriceand the one Lena inherited from her mother aren’t connected.
Fuck, it’s more than likely they’re the same necklace, especially after what Lena told me about the details of her birth.
Which means that everything about Lena—her past, the threats on her life, her very marriage to me—is tangled up in Aldo’s search for the woman who betrayed him.
24
LENA
We’ve been back from our one-night honeymoon for three days and I haven’t seen Rem once.
I don’t miss him, I tell myself. How can I possibly? We aren’t a couple, not in the real sense of the word. We don’t hang out and do normal couple things together.
No, we just dodge assassination attempts and give each other amazing orgasms. It’s electric and dangerous and insanely hot, but it’s not the type of togetherness that builds a genuine relationship.
Especially, my brain nags,since we haven’t even had sex yet.
When Rem woke me in the hotel, I thought for sure the time had come—we were going to have our wedding night, even if it was morning. As we’d exchanged stories about our parents, I’d felt more of my defenses crumble, leaving myself open, vulnerable, wanting.
And exhausted.
Sure, I fell asleep instead of jumping his bones, but there’s only so much emotional roller-coaster a girl can ride before she needs a nap. Wrapped up in Rem, I slept more deeply than I have in a long time.
So, when he pulled back the covers just as dawn was breaking, my body was tingling with anticipation, my heart pounding at the thought that we were finally going to have sex. We were going to consummate the emotions growing between us in the most instinctive, intrinsic way possible.
Except, we didn’t.
Instead of stripping off my clothes, Rem handed me more and told me to get dressed. We were leaving. We had to get back to the city.
That’s where I’ve been since ever since, locked in Rem’s apartment.
Our apartment.
But nothing about this place feels like mine. I don’t have any personal belongings here. Even my clothes are all new.
I run my hand across the racks of sweaters and coats and dresses hanging in “my” closet, the one Rem showed me the morning we returned. It’s full of gorgeous, incredibly expensive clothes that Rem had delivered while we were away. Pants and skirts hang on another rod. Shoes and bags are in neat rows on nearby shelves. There’s even a velvet-lined box full of jewelry, every piece more tasteful and expensive than the last.
I have my own personal department store at my disposal and not a single place to wear any of it.