Chapter Eight
E very hour brought a new report to Giancarlo's desk.
Guest manifests.
Security footage.
Staff interviews.
Credit card transactions.
Room service orders.
Elevator usage logs.
With Sheif Nassif's royal clearance to back him up, there was nothing Sarica could do that Giancarlo wouldn't know.
But even though he had yet to come across any indication of Sarica being in contact with Dauphin Tueur in any way—-
The total silence only grated on him and set Giancarlo on edge. Ezio, his youngest brother, was the only one who usually managed to get past his security measures. But perhaps Tueur was just as good as staying invisible?
Jealousy clawed at his chest as sickening images from Giancarlo's nightmares started playing back in his mind.
Sarica in a shower with Tueur—-
Sarica moaning the other man's name—-
And Tueur smiling at him as he made Giancarlo's girl come.
He wanted to smash his fist against the desk.
Punch another hole in the wall.
Anything to unleash the violence inside of him.
But this time...Giancarlo did none of it.
This time, even though despair and hopelessness still held him back—-
He was able to hear God's voice a little more clearly this time.
And it was enough to help Giancarlo hold back and stay still.
One day at a time.
That was the only kind of hope Giancarlo could give himself.
One day, he would learn to forget her again.
And then he could go back to simply...existing.
"Sir?"
His security chief had entered his office.
"Should we continue surveillance?"
"Yes."
Because it would always be Giancarlo's responsibility to keep Sarica safe...even when she was no longer his.
His security chief left, and he was alone again in his office. He rose to his feet and gazed out of his window. The earthy splendor of Kivr's capital was impossible to deny, but it was the wintry beauty of Boston that his heart bled for. The people of this kingdom had been good to him, but it was his people—-his famiglia—- that his soul longed for.
I want to go back, God.
You can.
But how?
How can I go back when I'll never be whole again?
SARICA TILTED HER FACE toward the sun, letting the warmth sink into her skin. Kivr's capital was a fascinating blend of old and new. Skyscrapers rising behind ancient stone walls. Wide streets shared by both camel caravans and sports cars. And women in either traditional robes or dresses launched in the most recently concluded Fashion Week in Paris.
There was so much to look at and admire, but because she was now an adult in her mid-twenties—-
Grrrr.
Her mind only had space for the Prince of Killers, who had not refrained from biting her head off in the video message he had sent her this morning.
To my most pathetic student to date.
Just recalling her fighting coach's first line had Sarica's teeth gnashing against each other. Since it was Maryse who had referred her to the Prince of Killers, she should have expected Dauphin to be just as "tactful" as the former Angel of Death.
Not.
The video message had lasted for only two minutes, but to Sarica, it had seemed like eternity, with the Prince of Killers spending every second pinpointing her every flaw.
You should head out to the nearest Lost and Found office in your area.
Because your self-worth has gone missing.
My wife is a saint. So of course she would give you permission to book a suite under my name.
She will think you are doing so for your safety, but we both know the truth.
You want to make your man jealous...because you have become a coward.
I expect more from you, Sarica.
I taught you better than this.
You are to face your problems head on and not hide or run away.
You must fight with the truth, even if it is only your heart - and not your life - at stake.
Sarica's phone buzzed at that moment, and a grimace touched her lips when she saw it was another video message, this time from Maryse. Since she was sure it would have the same browbeating content as Dauphin's—-
Never mind.
She would just listen to it later.
Like, maybe 5,000 years later.
She had better things to do with her time, such as moping and moping and... oh, coffee!
It was the scent that distracted her first, which eventually drew her to a boutique café tucked between a bridal dress shop and a mom-and-pop business selling handmade nougats. Its covered terrace offered a picturesque view of Kivr's most exclusive shopping district while delicate brass ceiling fans spun out a subtle beat that was almost hypnotic.
While searching for a vacant table, a movement caught her eye, and Sarica wondered if she had started to hallucinate.
She blinked several times, but the illusion didn't go away.
It really was her , Sarica realized in shock.
Her dark hair was now corn wheat gold. Her near-black eyes were now blue. Her lightly tanned skin was now like ivory. But despite all of these superficial differences, Sarica knew she could not be mistaken.
The woman in front of her could only be Justina Ruiz, whose disappearance almost seven years ago had many in the world accusing Giancarlo of murder.
Sarica managed to find a vacant seat three tables behind the other woman. Missing: Boston's Dancing Queen was the title of the documentary about the unsolved mystery of Justina's disappearance. While the sleeper hit had been smart enough not to make any direct accusations against Giancarlo, the leading questions it asked were enough to turn the public into a lynch mob.
La Strega and the rest of the Marchettis had never made any comment about the show, and since Sarica was his grandmother's ward, she was forced to play nice and feign ignorance when asked about the documentary.
But Sarica in front of her laptop was a completely different matter, and she could still remember the countless nights she had spent in those years, creating multiple anonymous accounts just so she could demolish every wild theory that trolls had posted about Justina and Giancarlo online.
Sarica's hands trembled as she studied the other woman over the lid of her coffee cup. Justina looked really, really good for someone the whole world believed to be assaulted, raped, and murdered. The documentary portrayed her as a country girl whose dreams of a bright future were destroyed by one of New England's less honorable famiglie.
In those days, Justina's wardrobe consisted mostly of plaid shirts and denims. But the woman in front of her now looked posh and self-assured, her dress worth well over several thousand dollars, and her bag twice as much.
Was it coincidence that Justina was in the same country as the one Giancarlo was in?
No.
She felt stupid even for asking such a thing. Coincidences ceased to exist the moment she believed God existed. And if that was the case, then—-
Oh no.
There was no longer any point figuring out how to introduce herself to the other woman—-
"Hello, Sarica. Would you like to join me for coffee?"
—-since Justina had turned around in her chair to look straight at her with a smile.
"Hello, and yes, I would absolutely love to." Sarica greeted the other woman back without missing a beat...even as she mentally kicked herself in the head for forgetting every lesson about stealth. Her mind raced as she joined Justina at the other table, and she bit back a sigh of relief when the other woman asked for menus.
Oh, good.
Studying the menu gave Sarica a chance to regain her composure. To think of the questions she could ask of Justina. To figure out the real deal between the other woman and—-
"The menu is hardly complex enough to warrant such intense study."
Sarica lowered her menu and managed a smile despite her skin prickling at Justina's amused drawl.
"Shall I order for you?" Justina offered. "Maybe something iced? Giancarlo mentioned your sensitive tongue, which is very like him."
"Oh?"
"Giancarlo has a talent for discovering people's vulnerabilities...and going out of his way to protect them from it."
Did this woman just make a dig about her?
"Oh, but before I forget...thank you, by the way. And I'm saying that with complete sincerity."
"For what?"
"Your passionate defense for Giancarlo online."
Sarica's expression turned blank. "I'm not sure—-"
"I used to work at a salon," Justin cut her off gently. "Hair colors were a specialty of mine, and your usernames..."
Sarica could only wince at this point.
"Item codes of a popular beauty company, and they just so happen to match the shade of your hair during time of posting."
Sarica forced herself to smile. "You got me."
"No, Sarica. You got him. While everyone was happy to drag Giancarlo down, you worked twice as hard in putting the truth out there. You didn't allow anyone to get away with painting him a monster online. Every loser in Boston wanted to feel good at his expense, but you single-handedly destroyed all of them. And as his wife—-"
Sarica's world crashed as Justina reached across the table to take her hand.
"I know it's several years too late, but I can't thank you enough for it."