Chapter 33
Willow
It’s a soft blur, a nightmarish out-of-body experience where I watch as he gathers three burner phones from the box, places them in an outer coat pocket, lifts a handgun from his desk, and loads the chamber with a steely, unreadable expression. He’s quiet and avoids looking at me, as if by evading me, all issues resolve.
The man who moments earlier tearfully declared his love for me has morphed into a cold, determined stranger.
It was always an arrangement. He’s never lied to me. Yet he’s working for someone in an undercover role. That much is clear. What does it mean? Will he disappear, only to reappear in court to testify against syndicate members? Will he testify against Nick? Or other groups who purchased weapons illegally through him? Did our arrangement aid his efforts to entrap the syndicate? Will my father face charges for shipping illegal cargo, or will those charges be placed against the corporate entity? It’s not like my father loaded the cargo himself.
In a haze, I lean against the balcony, watching Leo descend the stairs to the elevator. When he reaches the floor, he calls, “Collapse the stairs.”
Why? Who does he believe is coming after me? I press the button beneath the railing, and the elevator doors close. The floor vibrates from the shifting of the stairs. Like an earthquake, the vibrations seize on cracks and fracture my chest. It hurts to breathe.
He’s leaving. Maybe not today, but soon he’ll be gone. And once the truth comes out, he’ll be my family’s enemy.
I stumble back to our bedroom, lift my mobile, enter the bathroom, move to run the shower, but stop because background noise won’t make this call safe. It doesn’t matter if I must watch my words. I need to hear Scarlet’s voice.
She picks up on the first ring. We speak about nothing. I can’t open up to her or the dam will break and I’ll tell her everything, and I can’t do that. Not if someone might be listening on her end or monitoring my call. Both scenarios are realistic if the famiglia or the syndicate suspects Leo is the mole. And based on our premature departure and my observations today, he believes someone suspects him.
He saved me. I’ll die before I do anything to risk his life.
When I’m on the phone with Scarlet, my brother passes her, and she hands me off to him. He sounds happy enough, but we discuss nothing of importance. Our father is away on business, and our mother is somewhere in the house, and somehow that little update transports me to our family home, and I smell the sweet gardenias and feel the salt breeze across my brow.
After the call ends, I curl into a ball in the middle of Leo’s bed. Hours pass, and I eventually move into the den. Perched on an armchair, vibrations filter through the fabric and the stairs slowly expand.
It has to be Leo. He can control the stairs with his phone. But it might not be him. The eerie calmness blanketing me is cognitively unsettling. As the vibrations rumble, I slowly awaken and self-preservation kicks in.
If it’s not him, I’ll run for the panic room. The lift door slides open.
Leo steps out into the foyer. His stern, blank expression tells me which Leo has returned. He climbs the stairs and wordlessly traverses the flat to his office. I follow, and he must sense my presence, because, without a backward glance, he says, “Look at these. Two potential flats. Let me know which you prefer.”
He’s behind his desk, fussing with the keyboard and mouse, and he rotates his monitor.
“That’s where you were? House hunting?”
“Needed to be done. You can’t stay here.”
“Why?”
“It’s not safe.”
“What about my studio?”
“We’ll find you another one.”
“I have an agent. Anyone who wants to find me can find me through my agent.”
He closes his eyes, and his jaw flexes. When his eyelids flicker open, he astutely avoids looking at me. “Your new security detail starts tomorrow. Check out these properties. You don’t like this flat.”
“Who says?”
“Willow.” Exhaustion pierces my name. “You close the blinds in the bedrooms and always stay away from the edge. You don’t like heights.”
True. I dutifully bend to view the photographs on the monitor, although it’s difficult to take in what I’m seeing. If I have to say goodbye to him, I’d prefer to stay in a place that holds memories.
“I can come with you,” I say as I press an arrow for the next photograph. I don’t know why I say it. The words feel pointless, as I inherently understand he will not change his mind.
“No. You can’t.” He steps away from the desk and fiddles with something on a shelf on one wall. Three shelves shift forward, contents firmly planted as if glued to the protruding shelves, to reveal a storage space. He removes a black duffel and drops it on the sofa.
He leaves his office, and I stand there, frozen, inspecting the gap in the wall. Guns hang on the side. Three handguns and two assault rifles.
Leo re-enters with an empty black duffel that is a replica of the stuffed one on the sofa. He unzips the full one and lifts a zipped leather bag.
“This is cash.” He unzips the empty duffel. “I want you to keep this on hand. Cash is the only untraceable entity. In this bag, there are pounds, euros, and US dollars.” He removes the outer coat he’s wearing and slips his hand inside. “Here’s an EU passport with an alternate identity. Two more passports will arrive later in the week — one United States, and one from the UK. You need to store them in this bag. Do you understand?”
He tilts his head, listening with his back to me.
“I’m heartbroken, not deaf.”
“You—” He stretches an arm out as if pushing back on an invisible force.
“Please don’t.” I’m not above begging.
“I don’t have a choice.”
“You do have a choice. Choose me.”
“I am choosing you. I’ll always choose you.”
My eyes fill with unshed tears and hope.
“What’s best for you.” The brief bubble of hope bursts with his determined countenance. There’s nothing I can do or say. Unless… Can I convince him his beliefs are wrong? What’s best for me is for us to be together.
He steps past me, gaze locked on the ground, and opens the box of burner phones. “Keep some of these in the duffel. If you suspect someone is following you or you are in danger, use these.”
He pauses, and I half expect him to ask me if I understand, but he twists his head, and his neck cracks. His jaw flexes, his eyes a stone wall of resolution.
“This is an alternate plate for the automobile. If you ever find yourself on the run, switch the plates out. But do so after you get away from your flat, so no one can be certain which automobile is yours. CCTV canvases London. The chances someone will connect the plate change to your vehicle are too great if you do it in your garage or anywhere near a traffic cam.”
I am listening, but I swear, once again, the surreal sensation threatens to drown me.
A loud beep sounds. He gently sets me aside and touches the mouse. The photographs of a flat in Notting Hill go away, and in its place, there’s a view of the downstairs garage. That view switches, replaced by a side street view.
“Fuck,” he snarls.
“What?”
“Ex-Mossad.”
He presses a button, and the shelves move back into place.
“Where?”
“Black-haired man in the gray sedan.”
“You know him?”
“Recognize him.”
“Is he here for you?”
“Possibly.” He pulls one of his burner phones from the box. “He takes odd jobs.”
I move aside as he messages someone. On the opposite side of our building, on Olympic Park, there’s another occupied car. The occupant dangles a cigarette out the car window.
“Can you zoom in?”
He clicks a few keys, and my view zooms closer, although the car I’m looking at doesn’t stay centered and now it’s nearly off the screen. But I see enough.
“That guy is Italian. He’s Lupi Grigi.” I can’t remember his name, but I remember his face. His unofficial title, or what everyone calls men like him, is a foot soldier.
“Fuck.” Leo puts his jacket on and scans me, his eyes running over me for the first time since this morning. “Get a hat. A coat. Shoes you can run in. Let’s go.”
“Where are we going?”
“I’m taking you to a safe place.”
“We’re not safe here?”
“Obviously not,” he grinds out. “Go. Move. Now.”
When I return to the office, everything is put away. The duffel he’d been filling now bulges. Barely visible ear pieces peek from his ears.
“Let’s go.”
“How are we getting out of here? Someone is watching both sides of the building. Why don’t we wait them out? They can’t get into the building.”
“We don’t sit and wait. We move.” He’s already at the stairs. “Come on.”
We don’t enter the lift. He opens the closet door, then opens another door within.
“What’s this?”
“Stairs.”
“Huh. I always wondered why there wasn’t stair access.”
“We built the wall out to accommodate the motor for the stairs. I took the opportunity to disguise the stairwell entrance.”
“Wouldn’t anyone with floor plans know it exists? Or anyone in the stairwell?”
“First,” he says, as the heavy metal door closes firmly behind us, “few people casually roam the forty-first floor of a stairwell.” He pulls a handgun from somewhere on his waist and motions for me to go before him. “I’m right behind you.”
“Second?” I ask, fixating on the metal end of his gun and the device attached to the barrel that I’m fairly certain is a silencer.
“Second what?” he asks.
I let one hand glide along the stainless-steel railing for balance. He’s right at my back, and I push myself to go faster. “You said first. What’s the second?”
“You always need an unexpected escape plan. That’s difficult to pull off in a skyscraper.”
“There’s the roof.”
“And that’s one plan. But I didn’t think you’d be down with paragliding through London.”
“Flying high above with nothing but a rickety contraption to keep me afloat sounds like hell.”
“Exactly.”
The shuffling of our feet on concrete steps becomes the only sound. I always assumed there was a stairwell, somewhere, at least for the lower floors, but I’ve never seen a door with a stair label.
On every floor, we pass a metal door with a sign and a number. When we pass the number twenty, it’s the halfway mark, and perspiration coats my skin.
“What’s your real name?”
“You don’t?—”
“No one is listening in this stairwell. I just want to know…I’ll never tell anyone.”
“I wish I could tell you. I do. But I can’t. If one of these guys were to get you, they’re trained to get information out of you.”
“I’d never tell them.”
“Everyone has a breaking point.”
He’s saying they would torture me, and I’d break. Maybe he’s right. They could bring Orlando, or my parents, or Scarlet before me, and I don’t know what I would choose. Would I hold his secret or let them hurt someone I love? Would they do that for a name? No, they’d do it because they thought I knew more, which means they will do it if they catch me, period.
We pass the tenth floor.
“What’s the plan? Will I be on the run forever?”
He doesn’t answer, or if he does, I don’t hear him. Maybe he perceived my question as rhetorical, but… “Why don’t you take me with you?”
“I won’t do that to you.”
That’s my opening. When we get in the car, I’ll discuss it with him. Break his steadfast resolve. When I’m not out of breath and he’s set down his gun. Whatever he thinks he’d be doing to me, I can handle it. I want to handle it.
He slows when we pass the second floor and flattens his body against the wall, the hand with the gun held high. We pass the lobby floor slowly, then quickly descend two more floors to the garage.
“They’re going to recognize your car,” I say, remembering the false plate he stuffed in my duffel. Both duffels hang off his left shoulder.
“Which is why we’re going to steal one. Ideally one with tinted windows. Ready to go car shopping?”
“You’re in a shopping mood today, aren’t you?”
He glances back at me and lifts a finger to his lips. He pushes open the door. It opens directly into the garage, bypassing the elevator well.
A distant engine rumble floats through the garage. The faint scent of exhaust permeates the space. He checks his mobile, and a grin flashes.
“This way.”
He takes me straight to a black Land Rover with tinted windows. He tosses our duffels in the back seat.
“Get in,” he says. “Back seat. Lie down on the floor.”
When he comes around to the driver’s side, I do a double-take. He’s wearing a baseball cap and a two-inch red beard. His hair’s not red, so anyone glancing at a car going by won’t suspect it’s him.
He drives the vehicle slowly through the garage. He slides sunglasses on as we exit the building and enter the drive. We slow, and I presume he’s waiting for the gate to open. Seconds pass.
The car proceeds slowly.
Minutes later, he says, “Okay. You can sit up. Put on that hat. Shades too.”
I push up, do as he says, and climb into the front seat.
“Now where to?” My real question is how much time I have to convince him to take me along. Because, somehow, I’m certain this means he’s leaving for good.
He doesn’t answer, which is annoying, but his grim countenance keeps me quiet. We turn, and he watches his rearview as much as the road.
Rain droplets splatter on the shield. The wipers clear them away.
He accelerates, weaving through cars.
“Fuck.”
With a growl, he floors the vehicle, and the sharp squeal of tires screeching pierces the air.
I reach for the seatbelt as he curses, “God dammit.”
The seatbelt clicks, and I bend, attempting to see behind us through the side view. Rain coats the glass.
“Sit back,” he barks.
He’s flying through the rain-soaked street. Cars honk. He swerves, and my body jerks. My hands grip the armrest. Pedestrians stare. Buildings whir by. My body jerks with each hard swerve. I close my eyes. I can’t look.
“It wasn’t supposed to happen like this,” he mutters. “Dammit.”
He needs to focus on his driving. I’ll ask questions later. A siren’s wail joins the sound of honks.
Getting pulled over by a police officer will be a good thing. No one will hurt us if we’re in a police car, and then we’ll leave the station.
I’m whipped into the car door from a sharp angle he takes. My head hits the back of the seat from the force of his acceleration. I crack one eyelid open and see we’re somehow on a road with few cars in front of us.
Rain lashes down. The storm is intensifying, or perhaps it’s our speed.
“You okay?” he asks.
I swallow and will my heart to slow down a little. Sure, I was raised in a mafia family, but I’ve never been in a car chase. My stomach lurches.
“Are they gone?”
“We lost them. But more will be coming. You okay?” he asks again.
Leo’s knuckles are white on the steering wheel, his jaw clenched.
I force my eyes open, my heart pounding in my chest. The world outside blurs into a mix of gray buildings and flashing streetlights. My stomach keels with each turn, the lingering adrenaline making me feel simultaneously wired and exhausted.
“You good?” Leo asks, his eyes flicking between me and the rearview mirror. There is genuine concern in his voice, a softness that contrasts sharply with the hardness in his eyes.
I nod, not trusting my voice. The reality of our situation sinks in. We’re running, truly running, and I don’t know where we’re going or when—if ever—we'll be able to stop.
“We need to switch vehicles soon. This one’s too conspicuous.”
I glance back, half-expecting to see a parade of black SUVs in pursuit. The road behind us is clear, but that does little to ease the knot in my stomach. “What are we going to do?”
He takes a sharp turn down a narrow alley. The Range Rover’s sides scrape against the brick walls, leaving a trail of paint behind us. I wince at the sound, but Leo seems unfazed.
“It’s complicated,” he finally says, his voice low and tight. “This isn’t your family. At least, they aren’t the only ones.”
The alley opens into a deserted parking lot. Leo slows the vehicle, his eyes scanning our surroundings. “We need to ditch this car. Can you run?”
A blistering barrage of gunshots ring.
“Fuck!” Leo shouts. “Is your seatbelt buckled?”
It is. I tug on it to show him, eyelids clamped closed as the engine roars.
“Is it?” he shouts.
“Yes!” I cry, squinting one eye as my whole body shifts left as he jerks the vehicle.
“How the fuck did he find us?”
Up ahead is a bridge.
“Fuck!”
“What? Who is it?”
We’re in a rundown area I’ve never seen before. If I were to guess, these are warehouses. Maybe we’re nearing a shipping district.
“Get down.”
I lean forward, doing exactly what he says.
A bullet splinters the side mirror. I scream.
“Stay down.”
Leo holds a gun in his hand.
He’s driving like a madman.
The tires screech. Shots pierce the air.
The back window shatters.
“What the fuck?” he shouts.
“God dammit!”
He’s so loud, it’s as if he’s shouting at the gods.
“Hold on. Do you hear me? Willow, hold on.”
I close my eyes. The sirens return. Louder than before. A screeching of tires infiltrates the car. We maintain forward motion. Boom. My body snaps forward.
A loud crashing sound overtakes every other noise. I’m jerked, and my neck whips. The seatbelt cuts into my collarbone. Something big and fast explodes into my face. It takes a second to register, but it’s the airbags on my front and side. My ears ring. Dots mar my vision.
We dip forward, floating, sailing through the air. My stomach remains somewhere up on the road, high above.
The seat belt is so tight against me that when we crash, slamming into water, my head moves but not my body. Dazed, I’m still—frozen in time until water bubbles around the windows.
“We’ve got to get out of here!” I screech. The back window is out. We’re going to sink like a stone.
Leo’s hand covers mine. “Willow. I’m so sorry. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”
Muddy brown water climbs over the windows.
He’s not doing anything.
He’s sitting there.
Still.
Glassy eyes.
He’s giving up.
His mouth moves, muttering nonsense.
“No,” I plead.
I unsnap my seatbelt, pushing against the airbags for space.
We can swim out the back.
We need to get out of here.
I can barely see out of the vehicle, but I can tell we’re moving. The stream is moving us.
Fast.
Like a boat.
Rain splatters the water, sending water up to the sky only to fall back down again.
The front of the vehicle dips forward.
The brown line rises.
We’re sinking.
Falling to the depths.
“Willow, look at me.”
He’s calm.
Resigned?
This can’t be the end.