41. Headed West
HEADED WEST
Copenhagen, Lisbon, Vienna, Budapest, Edinburgh, Moscow—
No, not Moscow.
I halt my recitation of European cities, which was probably premature anyway.
I’m in Madrid, very much under my father’s control.
But when—and I have to think when, not if—I’m able to get away, I need to know where I’m headed.
I never made it inside Dublin’s airport, let alone decided on a destination.
“Don’t do anything dumb,” Enzo says as I fiddle with my necklace. “You’ve already fucked us over enough.”
I recoil from the blatant hostility in my brother’s voice, glancing away and out the window. I’m not sure what time it is—late enough the sun has already set. Leaving Italy doesn’t seem like much of an accomplishment as I stare into the dark abyss past the lamps lighting the road.
This version of Enzo is unrecognizable from the brother who used to slip me treats.
Even from the one who lounged beside me at the pool.
As soon as I stole that drive, I became his biggest enemy.
I wonder what could possibly be on it. Wish I’d prioritized searching the contents during my week in Paris rather than finding a job that I left with no notice.
“How much longer?” I ask Gio, who’s driving.
“Don’t answer that,” Enzo tells Gio. To me, he says, “Traitors can’t ask questions.”
I scowl, crossing my arms across my chest right as the car screeches to a sudden halt. The strap of my seat belt scrapes my neck as I’m abruptly yanked back against the leather seat.
Enzo is calling out orders I can hardly hear over the blood pounding in my ears. I’m trapped between elation and fear as the men around me react, unsure what is happening and whether I should hope for it to succeed.
The gunfire starts a few seconds later, and I can truly hear nothing over the constant noise.
Enzo unbuckles my seat belt, and then his hand lands on my shoulder, forcing me to crouch down in the footwell. The carpet burns my palms as I land awkwardly, my heartbeat a wild ricochet in my chest.
“Why aren’t we moving?” Enzo shouts.
“They shot out the tires,” Gio calls back.
Gunfire halts, the sudden silence deafening after the assault.
Hope blooms. Wouldn’t an enemy have aimed for people, not tires?
Enzo swears loudly, withdrawing a gun from underneath the seat. Belatedly, I notice Gio and Antonio, who’s riding in the passenger seat, are already armed. Enzo is on his phone, relaying the situation in clipped syllables to someone. Salvatore probably or a local ally who can bring backup.
Icy terror freezes in my chest as I focus on the gun my brother is holding.
I’m not scared for myself, although I probably should be.
I have no way of knowing who is attacking us.
No part of this plan was well thought out.
Even calling it a plan is generous. But the point of it was not to injure my brother.
Or for my father’s men to get killed in an ambush.
My loyalty to my family might be hanging on by a thread, but it’s still there. I don’t want revenge; I want freedom.
Enzo is still on the phone.
I have just enough space to lift my elbow and flip the lock on the door. Then grab the handle and shove.
“We don’t have five—fuck. Carina!”
I half tumble, half stumble onto the road. Blood rushes back into my legs, sending hot prickles skittering across my skin.
There are two black SUVs on the road that’s otherwise empty. One angled ahead of the car I was in. One parked behind.
I scan the faces of the men standing in the street, blinded by the headlights beaming this way. Guns are raised, but no one fires at me.
Enzo yells my name again. I have seconds before my brother emerges after me. He knows I’m desperate. We’re on a highway in the middle of nowhere. My options are extremely limited.
Finally, I see him. Start running toward, rather than away from, the attackers. They let me pass, guns raised but no longer firing.
Lev grabs my arm, gripping it tight as he pulls me toward one of the parked SUVs. Russian is rapidly exchanged around me, the foreign language more reassuring than I ever believed it could be.
I’m pushed, gently but urgently, into the back seat of another car. The door slams, sealing me inside.
The gunfire starts again, but I can’t tell who is firing through the tinted windows.
Enzo wouldn’t have been expecting me to run in this direction.
To risk capture by the Russians. In addition to being outnumbered, he’s having to decide whether to risk hitting me or not.
I feel badly for my brother, realizing this will be viewed as another blunder on his part, but the price I might have to pay is too high.
A faint bruise lingers on my left cheekbone—a temporary reminder of what could become a permanent fate.
Doors open and close around me as strange men climb into the car. Lev is driving. I can smell the gunpowder clinging to the clothes, the air-conditioning blasting from the vents circulating the distinctive, metallic scent.
The two other men in the back seat give me appraising glances, but neither addresses me directly. They converse in Russian, falling silent when Lev speaks. Whatever he says has them nodding. One laughs.
I don’t understand what they’re saying, but I recognize their body language. The way they listen when Lev talks and their respectful expressions. He’s in charge here, same as he’s been in every situation I’ve observed him in, and it’s enough to calm me some.
We return to the private terminal where I landed earlier. I wonder if they were already here, waiting and watching, or if they caught up to us. I don’t ask. It doesn’t really matter, and I’m preoccupied with more important questions, like, What happens now?
I didn’t dare consider it before. The odds of Lev coming seemed so low.
Lev stops in front of a plane that appears to be in the process of preparing to take off. The stairs are lowered, and the jet is currently being fueled.
He glances in the rearview mirror, eyes briefly meeting mine before he says something in Russian.
The man next to me nods. He climbs out, and then my door is opened a minute later.
“This way,” he tells me roughly, gesturing toward the stairs.
I want to hesitate. Ask Lev for answers. But if they didn’t kill Enzo and the other men escorting me—and I really hope they didn’t—they might be pursuing us. I don’t want them to catch up.
So, I follow the man up the stairs and onto the plane without protest. It’s much fancier than the one I was on earlier, the cream-colored upholstery pristine. Dark wood accents gleam like they were recently polished.
I’m brought to the back—a bedroom, complete with its own private bathroom. The man shuts the door, leaving me alone. I don’t check to see if it’s locked. I pace, forcing myself to pull in deep inhales and exhaling for just as long.
The door opens again. I spin, expecting Lev.
It’s not him. The man who enters is a younger, less formidable version. Lankier than Lev, but unmistakably a close relative.
His eyes sweep over me. “So, you’re Caruso’s daughter.”
I say nothing.
“No English?” He smirks. “Perfect. I prefer women quiet. At least you’re pretty to look at.”
If he’s trying to goad me, it works.
“I speak English, Maksim.”
My using his name catches him by surprise. He hides it well, but not perfectly; the jump of a muscle along his sharp jawline accompanies the subtle shift as he straightens to his full height, surveying me more closely. I can practically see him thinking, wondering how I know exactly who he is.
I should have been more careful, more strategic, but I’m so sick of men pushing me around like the upper hand is their birthright. It’s supremely satisfying to be the one with the advantage for once.
“Good. You’ll be more fun to play with before we barter you back to your father.”
Maksim looks me over again, slower, and unease trickles down my spine.
I work hard not to show I’m unnerved. Enough is working against me already.
The bedroom door opens again.
Lev is the one who enters this time. He looks serious, but I relax like he flashed a smile my way. This is how I wish I felt around my father and brothers. I knew Lev was dangerous long before I witnessed it firsthand, yet I can’t seem to experience anything except a sense of safety around him.
Maksim says something in Russian.
Lev says nothing. He retrieves a bottle of vodka from the cabinet in the corner and splashes a healthy amount into one of the glasses set out.
At least he’s not smoking.
Rather than down the drink himself, Lev hands the glass to me. Our fingers brush as the glass transfers between our hands, and my heartbeat stutters for no other reason except the light brush.
“Since when do we serve prisoners?” Maksim asks. In English so I understand each word—especially the last one.
“That was a question,” Lev states.
The same muscle in Maksim’s jaw twitches. He responds in Russian, then strides out of the bedroom, slamming the door shut behind him.
I glance down at the glass. The strong smell is making my nose burn. “I’m sorry—”
“What the fuck happened to your face?”
Not what I expected him to say first. “N-nothing.”
His eyes narrow. “Do not lie to me, Carina.”
I take a sip of straight vodka, shuddering as the alcohol burns a trail down my throat. “I met Nico Morello.” Warmth settles in my stomach and spreads. “Did anyone die?”
Lev holds my gaze, not replying right away. His expression? Lethal. For a second, I glimpse how strangers must see him—entirely understanding the silence when I mentioned his name in Salvatore’s office.
“He hit you?”
“I’m fine,” I say quickly.
Nico is nowhere on the list of people I care about protecting, but Lev looks murderous, like he’s considering a stop in Sicily so he can shoot the man he previously told me to marry.
Abuse is unacceptable to him, yet my father was practically unfazed by the slap.
I didn’t have any doubts I’d made the right decision, but this would have eradicated them if they’d existed.
“Did anyone die?” I repeat.
He answers this time. “None of my men. I don’t know about anyone else.”
I manage a nod, then quickly swallow more vodka. My family will never forgive me if Enzo was killed. They’ll probably never forgive me anyway. And I shouldn’t care; I know I shouldn’t, but I … do.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper again. “I wasn’t—I didn’t know what else to do.”
I’m expecting questions, but he says nothing. When I gather enough courage to glance up, Lev isn’t looking at me. His gaze is aimed out one of the oval windows, watching the darkness fly by as we hurtle through the sky. Toward Russia, I think?
“Lev?” I say his name like a question, searching for some clue of what’s going to happen next.
“Try to sleep,” he tells me, stepping toward the door. “No one will come in here.”
I’m humming with adrenaline and uncertainty. The only way I’ll be able to fall asleep is with aid.
So, as soon as the door shuts behind Lev, I drain the glass. I retrieve the bottle of vodka, refill, finish a second serving, and then face-plant on the bed.
The last thing I register is the roar of the engines as I drift into sweet oblivion.