Velella

27. Start a War

START A WAR

As soon as she stops struggling, I spin her around. Back against brick, Carina lifts her chin to look at me.

For a few seconds, we stare at each other. Longer than a few seconds maybe.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

I raise an eyebrow, taken aback by the bite behind the words. It’s not a tone I’ve heard from her before.

“I have the same question, Carina Caruso.”

There’s a rapid spasm in her expression—guilt or fear, mixed with apprehension. Then it smooths. “You preferred not to talk.”

I’m in a shitty mood, following a shitty week. Yet I nearly smile. “I didn’t lie about my last name.”

She bites her bottom lip briefly. “How did you find out?”

“Doesn’t matter,” I say dismissively.

The triumph of finding her first is fading, replaced by the realization of what’s supposed to happen now. I should have already called Igor so he could start his war. We could be in the air in an hour.

“Of course it matters,” Carina hisses. She glances around, scanning the street before refocusing on me. “How did you … find me?”

“I’m smarter than your father’s men.”

She purses her lips, leveling me with the sort of harsh look that never affects me.

Hers does.

“I know you”—I pause—“like Camille Saint-Saens.” I didn’t have to add that last bit. “I saw there was a Samson and Delilah performance. Figured you might go.”

“You were looking for me? You followed me from the theater?”

I nod once, answering both questions.

“You could have called.”

Carina’s challenging tone makes me think she suspects I tossed the cell I used to contact her. I wonder if she’s tried to reach me since, then quickly banish the thought.

I reassess her current animosity and consider it might have more to do with our last interaction than my sudden appearance. Right now, there are more pressing matters.

I try to convey that urgency as I ask, “Why did you run from your father?”

Her eyes narrow. “How do you know that I did?”

We scrutinize each other, both unwilling to share more secrets. I can’t confide we have an informant inside her father’s operation.

“Leave, Lev. That’s what you’re best at.”

She only makes it one step before I press her against the side of a building again. This time, I don’t move away. I hold her captive, close enough that I can feel each shallow rise and fall of her chest.

“I’ll scream,” she warns.

I smile. “That would be very bad for anyone who came to rescue you.”

Carina bucks, her entire body twitching with irritation.

But no fear. All that’s visible in her expression is annoyance, and I can’t decide if I should be glad about that.

I don’t want her to be afraid of me; I don’t like that she’s not.

We would meet up and fuck—that’s it. She shouldn’t trust me to keep her safe.

Yet she seems to believe my threat because she doesn’t shout for help.

“What do you want?” She stops moving, the words weary.

I catalog the purple shadows beneath her eyes. The defeated slump to her shoulders. However she’s hidden in this city, it hasn’t been pleasant.

She’s waiting for my answer, and I don’t have one. Everything pleasant she’s provided in the past—sex, companionship, an escape from my constricted existence—had to end. Any leverage Igor will gain from her isn’t what I want.

“Are you staying there?” I glance at the hostel located across the street. I assumed it was her destination, which is why I grabbed her rather than continued following behind.

She hesitates, then nods.

I step away. “Go get your stuff.”

Carina doesn’t move. “I know you’re used to being the boss or whatever, but I don’t take orders from you.”

“I have somewhere safe for you to stay.”

I’ll take her outside the city for the time being. It’s a temporary solution, but an improvement from standing in the street.

“I’m good here.” She crosses her arms.

“Others are looking for you,” I remind her.

Carina’s expression doesn’t change, but her throat does work with a hasty swallow before she says, “They couldn’t pick me out of a lineup, let alone name my favorite composer. I’ll be fine.”

I check my watch. “You have five minutes.”

She studies me, and it’s an unusual instance in which I have no idea what she’s thinking. Carina has always been expressive, appeared the more open between us, and I’m belatedly considering how much of it was an act. I never questioned her intentions before.

Without saying a word, she turns away. She checks both directions again before crossing the street, and then she disappears inside the dilapidated building with a faded sign. I rest one shoulder against the brick, wondering if she’ll run. There’s probably a back exit.

A small part of me hopes she will. I don’t want this responsibility, and I have a four-hour flight home to decide which details to tell Igor about my failure.

This isn’t my business or my problem. I offered my help, and she’s rejecting it.

I check my watch again. One minute left until the deadline I gave her. I suppose I didn’t specify it was a countdown to me leaving. Maybe she’s expecting me to chase, to continue the hunt to track her down.

I tilt my head back, surveying the dark sky.

The city lights are too bright to pinpoint any stars, but I imagine them twinkling overhead the way they do when I run before the sun rises or after it sets.

My fingers twitch with the urge to pull out a cigarette, but I’ll save that for later tonight.

I’m in no rush to return to Serebryanovo.

Might as well spend a final night in France.

“Ready.”

My neck jerks right; I’m more startled than I ought to be.

Carina has returned, the dress she was wearing swapped for a pair of shorts and a pink sweatshirt with the Eiffel Tower’s outline printed on the front. A canvas backpack is slung over one shoulder.

Relief and regret war in my chest. I’m careful to mask both with my blank expression as I straighten and start walking, expecting her to follow.

We continue down the block, our silence stark in comparison to the chattering groups we pass.

I’m thinking, strategizing, trying to figure out the safest way out of the city.

I’ve been taking public transit, but every station has security cameras.

Misha—and whoever the Italians employ to hack on their behalf—could be pulling footage from anywhere.

The safest, quickest way to get out of the city is to steal a car.

I glance at Carina, not sure how she’ll react to theft.

Her eyes are focused straight ahead as her backpack thumps her back in time with each step.

She’s not wearing any makeup, and her hair is pulled up in a simple ponytail.

A sudden vision of her sitting across from me in her university’s library appears, circumspect and academic.

When I spied on her that day, I thought it would be the last time I ever saw her.

That it would be the last time I ever sought out a woman.

I spot a Volkswagen sedan parked ahead. In good condition, but not new. Unremarkable and reliable.

I reach out and grab Carina’s hand, tugging her to a halt. Her head swivels right when I thread her fingers between mine, wide eyes meeting mine. She looked less stunned when I yanked her off the street.

“We’re taking that car,” I tell her quietly, nodding to the vehicle ahead.

She glances at the sedan, then back at me. “Taking—you mean stealing?”

I smile at her scandalized tone. “What do you think paid for your private schools?”

Without waiting for a reply, I drop her hand and stride toward the car.

I break the window with a quick jab of my elbow, the model dated enough that there are no glass sensors.

I unlock the door, watching Carina round the fender out of the corner of my eye.

I’m not accustomed to being so aware of someone else.

She’s not trained or armed; she’s relying on me to remain in control of this situation.

A cluster of unfamiliar emotions coalesces in my chest that I quickly shove away. They won’t help me handle this.

I slide into the driver’s seat and expose the wires to spark the engine, trying to focus on the task and also observe my surroundings.

Two guys down the street are looking this way.

One pulls a phone out of his pocket and raises it to his ear.

Heat sneaks down my spine, an uncomfortable pressure settling in my stomach.

I haven’t done this since I was a teenager, and back then was simply to prove that I could.

Finally, the engine turns over. I lean back in the seat, shifting into Drive and pulling out of the spot in an efficient maneuver. Even if someone took down the plate, we’ll have a solid head start. I weave through traffic, mentally plotting the fastest route out of Paris.

“Where are we going?”

“I told you.”

“ ‘Somewhere safe’ is not an address.”

“Why did you run?” I ask again, following the signs for A6.

She’s not the only one with questions. And the sooner I get answers, the sooner I can decide what to do next.

“I don’t see how my family is any of your business,” she says stiffly.

I attempt to exhale some annoyance. “I am trying to help, Carina.”

“Are you? Or do you just feel guilty about ghosting me?”

My fingers tighten on the wheel. “I did not ghost you.”

“No? I guess I missed the goodbye.”

I have to release another measured exhale. “I was trying—”

My phone begins buzzing. I grab it so I can see the screen. Misha.

“Say nothing,” I state, then answer, tucking the phone between my shoulder and cheek as I continue to drive toward Fontainebleau. “Anything new?” I ask, switching to Russian.

Misha’s sigh is frustrated, answering for him.

“Not really. I dug into her life in Chicago, in case there was someone she might be in contact with there, and nothing. A condo owned by a Carina Carson sold three days ago. She was a member of the symphony, and they received a resignation letter two weeks ago. She never had any social media. I’ve hacked her email, but nothing of interest there.

” He hesitates, then adds, “I think Igor is losing interest.”

“Anything from Andrea?”

“Nothing. Either he can’t communicate or there are no updates. Caruso still has men combing Paris—they haven’t found her either.”

I eye Carina, who’s staring out the window, absently playing with a necklace she’s wearing. It’s new; I’ve never seen her wear it before.

Misha updates me on a few other matters, and then we hang up.

As soon as I drop the phone, she asks, “Who was that?” When I don’t reply, she adds, “You didn’t mention me.”

“You speak Russian?”

“I recognize my own name.”

“Maybe I spoke in code.”

“That would require advance planning. Which”—she glances pointedly at the broken window—“appears to be an unfamiliar concept.”

I almost smile again, but say nothing. We lapse into silence as I continue to speed toward Melun.

Neither Misha nor the Italians will have any reason to check the cameras here, so we can take a train the rest of the way to Fontainebleau.

If Igor gives up on this idea and requests my return, I’ll have limited time to make a decision.

When we arrive at the train station, Carina doesn’t ask more questions. I park as far from the entrance as possible, wiping the wheel free of prints before slashing a back tire with the knife I keep on me at all times.

She watches with an impassive expression, but I can sense her disapproval. Either she’s too tired to argue or she’s accepted it’s pointless.

I purchase tickets, and we board the next train when it arrives. Carina remains quiet, occasionally fingering the pendant hanging from a thin chain for the seventeen minutes that the trip lasts.

Nine people, including us, exit the train at the same stop.

I lead her over to one of the loitering taxis, relaying an address to the cabbie in rapid French. Then hold the door open for her.

Carina doesn’t hesitate before climbing in.