I looked at Cassie, curled up in one of the seats, sound asleep under a blanket Hawk had tucked around her. She’d been through a lot the last few months and it was obviously catching up to her.
My attention was pulled from my sister when Jagger got up from his seat and carried his laptop toward me.
I was surprised to find I wasn’t bracing myself. Not that long ago just talking to the Hawks got on my fucking nerves. Then they’d claimed Cassie in the Hunt and they’d more than gotten on my nerves.
They’d made me want blood.
But somewhere along the way either they’d gotten less annoying or I’d started to see qualities in them I hadn’t known were there.
Both. Maybe.
Although Vigo was still annoying as fuck. The man couldn’t sit still. And what was up with the metric fuck-ton of Oreos he’d told the cabin crew to stash for the flight, along with something he’d called his “special cup,” a 32-ounce plastic tumbler that looked like it had come from the dollar store?
Jagger took the seat next to me. “Hey.”
“Hey,” I said.
Jagger was definitely the least annoying of the three guys fucking my sister. Hawk had grown on me, but sometimes his dick swinging got on my nerves.
Maeve said it was because I was always swinging my own dick around and there was only so much space in a room for swinging dicks.
But Jagger was okay.
“I think I might know what she’s doing in Capri.”
He didn’t have to identify the “she” in his sentence: these days we were either talking about Kaprolov or we were talking about his daughter, Alina Volkova.
I looked at his laptop screen where a news article screamed in Italian. Below the headline a dark-haired woman draped in jewels stepped out of a black SUV with tinted windows, her security team surrounding her.
“I don’t speak Italian,” I said. “And who’s that?”
“She’s not important,” Jagger said. “Some celebrity. But the article is reporting on something called Capri White Night.”
“What is it?”
“Annual black-tie event on the island,” Jagger said. “Hosted by Maison Valmont, a designer jewelry house. It’s ostensibly for charity, but really it’s a chance for the rich and famous to rub elbows away from the prying eyes of the American press.”
I wasn’t surprised Jagger knew all this shit. That was something else I’d learned about the Hawks in the last few months: they were smarter than they looked.
Because who the fuck used a word likeostensiblyin casual conversation?
“And it’s happening now?” I asked. “This… Capri White Night?”
It was like talking about another planet. I couldn’t imagine giving a shit about fancy clothes and the elbows of the rich and famous. Give me Southside, the loft, the mountains.
Give me Maeve.
“In two days,” Jagger said.
“But how do we know that’s where Alina’s going?”
Alina Volkova’s social media made it clear she was a party girl, traveling from city to city, party to party, club to club.
She could be going anywhere on Capri, assuming we were even right about Capri.
Jagger clicked on another tab. “I was going to ask Cass, but I didn’t want to wake her so I checked Alina’s social media myself. Nothing’s private, these rich kids live to be seen.”
He scrolled down on Alina’s page until he got to a picture of her in a revealing white dress. She held a glass of champagne, her head tipped toward another young woman, this one with black hair, both of them smiling.