25. The Chase
THE CHASE
One of the players wearing a navy jersey manages a kick past the diving keeper, and the bar around me erupts in cheers. I don’t join in the celebration; I continue chewing my dinner. Stewing.
Six days.
It’s been six days since I landed in Paris.
Six days of watching the surveillance video Misha pulled from Gare de Lyon’s servers, searching for clues of where Carina went after arriving at the train station.
Six days of updates from Andrea, saying the Italians are still looking too.
If I wasn’t so pissed about chasing in circles, I’d be proud.
I’ve never met or dealt with Salvatore Caruso personally, but he’s a prominent member of Cosa Nostra.
We’ve bumped up against his smuggling operations a couple of times, although most of his business is constrained within Sicily.
Payment for protection, agriculture channels, exporting forgeries.
His men are competent—well funded and well organized.
And he’s Carina’s father.
I’ve known that for a week, and it still hasn’t sunk in. Still seems impossible.
Yet parts make sense. I pulled a gun on her, and she didn’t flinch. How she disbelieved my mugging story, but didn’t once suggest I call the police. How she never spoke about her family, with the exception of Isabella, who probably wasn’t a real relative.
But she didn’t have security. I would have noticed. Unheard of for a Mafia princess, even one living outside Italy.
Did—does—she know who I am? She barely reacted when I shared my last name.
If that was the only time we’d met, I might believe she was acting oblivious.
But I know Carina. I know she fills a glass with water before bed and that she has a triangle of three freckles above her left breast. I know where she went to college and that Camille Saint-Saens is her favorite composer.
I know she came here because it’s where she studied abroad her junior year.
I finish my food and toss some euros on the table to cover the bill, shouldering my way through the crowd of football fans and back outside.
I should have asked Carina more about her time here. Found out if she’d had favorite hotels or restaurants—places she might return to. She’s smart enough to do the opposite, but at least that would give me a list of places to check rather than wandering the city aimlessly.
Like I’m doing now, passing more football fans as I walk along the cobblestone streets.
Up ahead is a theater. On the marquee? Samson and Delilah by Camille Saint-Saens.