31. The Fume of Sighs
THE FUME OF SIGHS
“Can I have one?”
I heard her approach across the patio, but I don’t glance at Carina until she speaks.
“Now you like smoking?” I ask, slipping another cigarette out of the open box on the metal table and holding it out to her.
“I don’t like it. I’m just … if you can’t beat them, join them, you know?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know. I beat them.”
Carina rolls her eyes. “And yet you keep smoking.”
She holds out a hand again, and I pass her my lighter.
She traces the engraving, which I’ve seen her do before. What she hasn’t done before is say, “I looked up what this means.”
I watch her spark the lighter to life, holding the flame to the end of the cigarette before releasing the button and handing it back to me. I thumb the engraving before slipping it back into my pocket.
A charged silence follows, echoes of everything we’ve said and all that we haven’t hovering in the evening air.
I tap my cigarette against the side of the crystal dish set out for that exact purpose, weighing where to start.
“I donated to the symphony,” I finally say.
“I know. Lincoln. Subtle.”
“I wasn’t trying to be subtle. I wanted you to know it was me.
” I sense her look my way, but I keep my gaze straight ahead.
“I didn’t want there to be any complications with the funds, so I did it through a foundation we funnel money through.
Samuel Belvedere is on the board of directors.
He was trying to impress me, so he arranged for us to attend a performance after a business dinner. I didn’t know until just before.”
I watch Carina shift position out of the corner of my eye. She lifts one leg, setting her bare foot on the edge of the seat and letting her arm rest atop her knee. The cigarette dangles carelessly between two fingers, a tendril of smoke rising and dissipating.
She studies the thin stream. “Shakespeare said smoke was ‘made with the fume of sighs.’ I’ve always liked that saying.”
“Love.”
Carina’s head jerks in my direction. “What?” Her tone is sharp, no longer lyrical or nostalgic.
“The saying is, ‘Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs.’ ”
She flicks some ash on the tray. “You’re a know-it-all.”
“I’m right. It’s from Romeo and Juliet.”
Carina sighs, sinking back into her chair. “Who was the woman?”
I assume we’ve shifted to reality, not that we’re discussing Juliet.
“His daughter,” I answer. “Also to impress me.”
“Sound like Samuel Belvedere and my father would get along.” She moves the cigarette closer to her mouth, inspecting the stick before taking a small suck. Carina exhales more smoke, then says, “I could tip off the IRS that your foundation is a front.”
I smile at the threat.
“I will if you try to send me back to Italy.”
Any amusement dissipates faster than the smoke she just exhaled.
“No point to that until we find out how badly they want you back.”
Instantly, I have her full attention. She swivels her torso, dropping her leg so she can really look at me.
“That’s your angle in all this? Use me like bait?”
“Like leverage,” I state calmly. “They had men crawling the city, looking for you. That draws attention. We have overlapping interests that can be redistributed.”
She spits out a few ugly names in Italian. I’m not fluent, but I know enough of the language to recognize the insults.
“I killed the last person who called me that.”
That comment shuts her up fast. She stares at me, eyes sparking with fury and fear.
I still can’t decide if I want her to be wary of me or not. Both possibilities piss me off—for different reasons.
“How many people have you killed?”
The question catches me off guard. No one else has ever asked.
“I don’t know.”
She huffs. “I’ve seen your scars. Unless you’ve been mugged on a regular basis, carrying a gun—”
“I didn’t say none. I don’t know how many, Carina. I stopped counting.”
I watch that reply register, waiting for the disgust to appear.
She’s remarkably blasé as she comments, “So, a lot.”
I shrug. Numbers are relative. A hundred seconds pass fast. A hundred graves cover a significant amount of ground.
Our shooting session must have sparked this curiosity. The number of potatoes Carina hit—or didn’t hit, rather—was a lesson that murder isn’t as simple as pointing and pulling a trigger. You have to work at being a successful killer.
“Do you get used to it?”
Naked curiosity blankets her tone, and I’m not sure if I should feel relieved or uncomfortable that she hasn’t run in the opposite direction yet. I didn’t avoid discussing work with her only to protect myself. This was darkness I didn't want Carina anywhere near.
“Yes, and no. It is part of the job. Unavoidable.”
“You could change jobs.”
I turn my gaze on her, ensuring she sees the sincerity when I say, “That will never happen, Carina. Never.” I snuff my cigarette, abandoning the smoldering butt on the tray.
Carina slumps lower in her chair. Looking away, at the pond, she says, “I’m going back to Paris in the morning.”
“You can’t go back to Paris.”
Her head jerks left, annoyance evident in her expression. “I can if I want to.”
I hold her gaze. “You can’t go back.”
“You sound exactly like my father,” she spits, which I know is not a compliment.
“Who is still looking for you.”
“How do you know?”
“I know.”
“How?” she demands.
I exhale. “An informant. He’s the one who told us you’d run.
” It’s dangerous for her to have that knowledge, but she needs to understand I’m not speculating.
That returning to Paris will be a matter of when, not if, she’s found.
“I know they’ve sent more men recently. They’re still searching.
They’ll keep searching until they find you. ”
Carina glances away again. Not before I catch a spasm of … something on her face.
“You are not telling me everything,” I realize.
Silence.
“I’m trying to help you.”
“Are you? Or are you just doing your fucked-up job?”
“If I were doing my job, we would be in Russia.”
“And if you weren’t doing your job, you’d let me go.”
I shake my head. “Where would you go, Carina? You want to hide in a hostel for the rest of your life?”
“I want … freedom. I want choices. Even before this happened, my father controlled everything. I want to be away from it all—for real. Forever.”
I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “I can get you a new identity. Passport, papers, money. You can fly to wherever you want. Anywhere away from Chicago and from Italy, from anyone who might recognize you. You will be hiding, but you can live a normal life.”
She gnaws on her bottom lip, thinking. “Or?”
I settle back in the chair. “Or we go to Russia.”
Her nostrils flare. “Those are my only two options?”
“Yes.”
“Why can’t I just stay here?” She sweeps an arm across the terrace. “We were careful, leaving the city. You just said they think I’m still in Paris. They can’t check every town in France.”
“This house belongs to a man my family does business with. Next week, he’ll bring his mistress here.”
She makes a face. “Glad I washed the sheets. Don’t you have other safe houses?”
“They could be inhabited at any time. You would not be safe in any of them.”
“I still don’t understand why I can’t go back to Paris. They can search as much as they want. That doesn’t mean they’ll find me.”
“They will. And then my father will know they succeeded and I failed.”
She hesitates before speaking again, catching my slip. “You don’t have a lot of faith in me.”
“I could say the same.”
“You told me not to trust people.”
“And you said you wanted choices. I am giving you them. Take my help and disappear, or come to Russia.”
“If I went to Russia … what would happen?”
There’s a sudden clench in my chest. I didn’t think that was an option she’d entertain at all, and I’m not sure I could actually allow it.
“I am not sure,” I admit. “We would decide what to ask for in exchange for your return. Then arrange a meeting.”
“Could I—would I have the option to stay in Russia, if I wanted?”
Another clench, tighter.
I force myself to shake my head. “You are a Caruso. No one would believe your loyalties were different.”
“If I were loyal to my father, I wouldn’t have run.”
“Blood is blood. This could have been your father’s plan—for you to be captured and brought to us as a spy.”
She scoffs. “You really think I’d do that?”
“No, I do not. But I would have thought differently if I had first met you yesterday.”
“You would tell them though, right?”
“I am not the pakhan. It does not always matter what I say. I can promise you won’t be harmed, but I can’t promise anything else.”
Carina connects the dots quickly. “Your father is the pakhan?”
I nod.
She exhales. “How long would the new identity take?”
“I know someone in Dublin who owes me a favor. He should be able to get it done in a day.”
“Really?”
“When people need new identities, they need them fast. He is used to working quickly.”
“And he’d mail them here?”
I shake my head. “He only accepts payment in cash. We’d fly there.”
“How? I don’t have—”
“I have a plane.”
Carina mutters something under her breath. “I don’t have any money to—”
“I’ll handle it.”
“I can’t ask you to do that.”
“You didn’t. My fucked-up job pays very well. I can afford it.”
She scoffs, then looks away. I study her profile, searching for clues about what she’s thinking.
“I need some time to decide.”
I stand. “You have until morning.”