Chapter 28 #2
“She’s my friend, Rodrigo.”
I say it before I fully think it through, which is maybe why it comes out sounding so certain.
Because it’s true. Somewhere between the running and the hiding and the absurd conversations about vision boards and ammunition, Alana became my friend.
A chaotic, morally questionable, possibly sociopathic friend who wears hot pink to crime scenes— but a friend.
She showed me that I’m powerful. And whether she’s a good person, or a bad person— I think there’s some part of her that actually cares about me. And even if there’s not, this adventure has shown me what I’m capable of— and I want to see it through.
“I can’t just leave her,” I say. “And we can’t run from the Twin Ledger forever.
Even if I go back to America right now, the Ledger has people everywhere— Alana is Exhibit A.
They’ll find us if we don’t finish this.
You know that. Marco isn’t going to stop looking.
” I take a breath. It feels like the kind of breath you take before jumping off something high.
“Maybe together— the three of us— we can figure out how to outsmart him. Shut the whole thing down. We can work with your contact at Interpol to finish them once and for all. And Alana can help us.”
Rodrigo watches me. Not like he disagrees. More like he’s seeing something in me he hasn’t seen before and is trying to decide how he feels about it.
“Billie,” he says quietly. “I need to get away from that woman.”
Something inside me aches. I can feel how much he means it. Only weeks ago, I was jealous that a man like Rodrigo was with Alana and not me. And now: I see the real picture.
“I know,” I nod, thinking through our options.
“And you will. But if we leave now, the Twin Ledger still has us on their list. I know I’m asking a lot, but—” I sigh.
“I need you to trust me. I can feel deep down in my gut that we have to finish this or we’ll be running forever.
And we need Alana to do it. I’ve spent my whole life being afraid,” I tell him.
My voice is steady, which surprises me. “Afraid of speaking up, afraid of asking for things, afraid of— I don’t know— taking up space.
And I can't do that anymore. I need to see this through.”
He’s quiet for a long moment. Then he nods, slowly, like he’s making a decision of his own.
“Okay,” he says. “Vale. We see it through. Together.”
I smile at him. He smiles back. And something warm and solid settles between us, like the foundation of a house being poured.
But underneath my certainty, there’s a thought I don’t share.
A small, cold thing curled up in the corner of my chest like a cat that doesn't want to be touched. The thought is this: what if Rodrigo doesn’t actually love me?
What if he loves the idea of me? What happens when the danger is over and I’m just Billie again— regular Billie, who can’t negotiate a raise and owns too many cardigans?
I don’t say any of this. Because last night was amazing. And because the croissant is really, really good. And because sometimes you have to let yourself have the good thing without immediately building a case for why you don’t deserve it.
We finish breakfast, get dressed, and take the elevator down to the lobby. The doors open and there she is: Alana. Rodrigo audibly sighs in dismay at her presence.
At least I don’t have to worry that he’s still attracted to her, I smile to myself.
Alana is sitting in a velvet armchair near the front desk, legs crossed, wearing a hot pink blazer over what a white silk camisole, her hair blown out to perfection, nails freshly done in a shade I can only describe as “crime scene red.” She’s got oversized sunglasses pushed up on her head and she’s reading a magazine— a fashion magazine— like she’s waiting for a brunch reservation and not hiding from one of Europe’s most dangerous criminal networks.
She looks up when she sees us. Her gaze flicks between me and Rodrigo with the precision of a surveillance camera, and a slow, knowing smile spreads across her impossibly beautiful face.
“Good morning,” she says, in a way that makes it clear she knows exactly what kind of morning it’s been. Strangely, she nods… almost as if she approves. “Okay, so, are we doing this? Because I’ve been, like, packed and ready since six a.m., and this lobby doesn’t even have good Wi-Fi.”
I look at Rodrigo. He looks at me. We made a deal, and we’re keeping it.
“We’re doing this,” I say.
* * *
We make it to the airport, and my hands sweat during the entire boarding process.
Will my new identity pass for a real one?
Will I be arrested for using fake credentials?
Alana, meanwhile, snacks on chips while we wait for our flight.
“Don’t worry, Billie,” she yawns. “I’ve done this a hundred times. ”
I can’t believe I’m getting on a plane with this woman again.
Rodrigo puts a comforting arm around my shoulders and whispers in my ear: “There is little border control between Spain and Italy. We will be fine, Billie. Eres hermosa y valiente. You are beautiful and brave.”
We board the plane without issue, and after a short four-hour flight followed by a very uncomfortable taxi ride, we arrive in Tuscany.
It’s stunning. The village where Rodrigo’s family owns their home has cobblestone streets and buildings the color of terracotta and rust, and flowers everywhere— spilling from window boxes, climbing stone walls, tucked into corners.
The air smells like pine and something herbal I can’t name.
I catch myself thinking the word quaint, and then charming, and then I just stop trying to think at all.
What I process first is Benny.
He comes barreling out of the front door before we’ve even parked, arms wide, shouting something in rapid Spanish that I can’t follow but that clearly translates to some version of you’re alive and I’m very emotional about it.
He grabs Rodrigo in a bear hug that lifts him slightly off the ground, which is impressive given that Rodrigo is not a small man.
“Primo! Primo! I thought you were dead! I told myself— Benny, this is like the movie, the one with Bruce Willis, when everyone thinks he is dead but he is not dead?—“
“Die Hard,” Rodrigo says, muffled against his cousin’s shoulder.
“Yes! Die Hard! You are my Bruce Willis!”
Rodrigo extracts himself with the patient grace of someone who has been bear-hugged by Benny many times before. “Benny, this is Billie.”
Benny turns to me. He’s rugged, a little weathered, with the kind of face that suggests he’s seen traumatic things but decided to find them funny. His eyes are warm and slightly manic, like a golden retriever who’s had too much coffee.
“Billie!” He takes my hand and shakes it with both of his. “You are the one my cousin will not shut up about. He says you have eyes like the deer from the Disney movie.”
“Benny,” Rodrigo says, in a tone that is both a warning and a surrender.
“Bambi,” I say. “He means Bambi.”
“Yes! Bambi!” Benny beams at me like I’ve just solved world peace.
“This man adores people with names like ours, isn’t it true?
Billie! Benny! We are practically related already.
” Benny winks at his cousin, then freezes when he sees Alana, standing behind us with yet another bag of chips in her hands. “You brought La diabla? No, no, no…”
“Nice to see you too, Benny!” Alana winks at him, then strides into the house. I’ve got to find the best bed. Be a doll and show me?”
Benny trails after Alana as if it’s her house and he’s merely the guest. The front door swings shut behind them, and for a moment it’s just me and Rodrigo. Rodrigo grabs my arm. Not hard— never hard with him— but with an urgency that snaps me out of my Tuscan reverie.
“Now,” he says. “While she’s distracted. We need to call Melissa.”
Right. Melissa. My actual best friend, who is eight months pregnant and probably sitting with Interpol right this second.
We go inside.
The chalet is exactly what Rodrigo described and somehow more than I imagined.
It’s warm in the way that only old stone houses can be warm— not from heating, but from decades of absorbing sunlight and cooking smells.
The ceilings are low and beamed with dark wood.
There are paintings on the walls— not expensive ones, I don't think, but beautiful ones, landscapes and abstracts in colors that make me think of wine and earth. Some of them, I realize, are Rodrigo’s.
I can tell by the brushwork, by the way the colors bleed into each other with a gentleness that reminds me of how he touches me. They feel like him.
I don’t say this. I file it away for later, when I’m not in crisis mode.
The kitchen is small and tiled in blue and white, and mounted on the wall next to a wooden shelf of cookbooks is a landline phone.
An actual, honest-to-God, corded phone. The kind with a curly wire that you can twist around your finger while you talk, which is exactly what I do when Rodrigo dials the number and hands me the receiver.
It rings twice.
“Billie?!”
Melissa’s voice hits me like a wave— loud, bright, so full of relief that I feel my throat close up. I can picture her exactly: enormous belly, wild eyes, probably gesturing with both hands even though she’s on the phone.
“Mel,” I manage. “Hey.”
“Oh my God. Oh my GOD, Billie. Do you know— do you have ANY idea— I have been losing my MIND. I’m eight months pregnant and I have been losing my actual mind, Billie, my blood pressure is a health hazard at this point?—“
“I know, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry?—”