I watch Gia and Elisa bundle the three kids into the back of a sleek black SUV from my hiding place at the window. I was supposed to go visit Leo and Natalia with them, but I faked PMS to get out of it. I hated lying to them, especially after we had a great night last night, chatting for hours about everything and anything, but I need to snoop, and this is the only chance I’ll get. The guys left an hour ago for golf, and I’ve no idea when they’ll be back.
When the car disappears out of sight, I grab the letter I wrote and head out of the bedroom. I haven’t seen any cameras in the house, but I’m assuming they’re all part of the Italian mafia—the names are a dead giveaway—and privy to the same technology Cristian uses. Maybe Gia and Joshua don’t have cameras inside their house because the estate is like Fort Knox, but I can’t take silly risks. So, this is the best idea I could come up with.
I walk into Cristian’s room, closing the door behind me. I’m trusting they don’t have cameras in the bedrooms. The bedroom is tidy, the bed neatly made, and Cristian’s weekend bag is already packed and resting in the corner. Placing the letter on the bed, I head to the bag to search it. My heart plummets as I inspect the carefully folded clothes and his toiletries bag. But that’s the sum total of the contents. There is nothing of relevance, nothing that is of any use to me. Tears prick my eyes as I sit back on my knees. I wasn’t overly hopeful, but it’s still a blow. I rub at my eyes and check the bag is how he left it before pulling the zipper closed. Then I place my decoy apology letter on top and leave his bedroom.
I walk to the kitchen in a bit of a daze. I’m failing my mother. I’m a lousy spy. An ineffectual seductress, and I don’t know where I go from here. I don’t know what to do, and I wish I had someone to talk to. Finding some peppermint tea in the cupboard, I put the kettle on to make a cup, hoping it will help to settle my nerves. I must keep my wits about me if I’m to come up with a new plan.
My eyes skim over the island unit as the kettle whistles in the background, and my gaze returns to the large, padded brown envelope sitting on the counter. My feet move on autopilot before I can track the motion. Cristian is written on the front of the sealed envelope. Feeling around it, I detect what I think are multiple folders inside. The kettle reaches a crescendo before clicking off, and my brain fires into action. Bringing the envelope to the kettle, I hover the sealed side over the steam, rejoicing as the edges of the flap start lifting. It takes another round with the kettle before the flap is loosened enough for me to open it without breaking it.
I glance out the large window on instinct, but there are no cars approaching. Too late, I wonder if there are cameras in here. Panic jumps up and slaps me, but I’ve come this far, so I might as well continue. Carefully extracting the contents, I separate the three files and place them flat on the counter. There’s a note too:
Cristian,
This is all I’ve managed to find so far, and we won’t know for sure until we speak to these women. Given the need for discretion, I felt it more appropriate to provide this in print rather than risk leaving a digital footprint. Let’s meet for coffee during the week to discuss after you’ve had a chance to review the intel.
Best, Gia.
I frown as I flip open the files, finding personal information on three women and their young kids. One of the ladies is American, the other two are European, and they’re all single mothers. What is this? Could Cristian be searching for a wife? Or a new nanny? Did I completely fuck it all up last night? No, it can’t be the latter. Gia would have prepared this before my failed seduction attempt. The first option makes more sense. I’m guessing arranged marriages are commonplace in their world. It’s also an additional reason why Cristian rejected me last night and seems determined not to pursue the attraction between us.
Pablo has requested information on Cristian’s business and mafia dealings, and I’m fairly sure this intel is completely unrelated, but it’s all I’ve got. I snap pictures of all the files, hoping Cristian doesn’t have access to the content on my cell phone or, if he does, that I can transfer it to my cartel cell and wipe it in time before he checks. I google how to reseal the envelope, happy to find the glue has become sticky again, and it secures easily. Then I reposition it where I found it, make myself a peppermint tea, and hightail it back to my room.
The tablet I asked Gia for before she left is staring temptingly at me from the top of the dresser in my bedroom. I’ve been too afraid to use my cell to search for news of Mom and me, in case Pablo’s contact somehow has access to it, but he won’t have access to this. Still, I need to be cleverer than I was back in the kitchen. I can’t search for that in the off chance Gia somehow finds it, but I figure it’s safe to look up my best friend.
I input the password Gia gave me and log in. Creating a fake Gmail account, I use it to set up an Insta profile. Barely breathing, I pull up Rory’s profile, and tears instantly sprout when I see my friend’s beautiful face. My heart thuds painfully in my chest, and I wish I could write her a message, tell her what happened, and beg her for help. My finger hovers over the message button for far too long. Tears stream down my face as I contemplate the pros and cons, but ultimately, I know I can’t do it. I can’t risk Pablo going after Rory, period.
I read through her posts with a heavy heart, happy she’s out there living her best life, but sad she’s doing it alone. I should be by her side as she parties, goes to yoga, jogs around campus on our regular route, and attends classes as a senior. In less than four months, she’ll graduate with her degree. That was supposed to be me, too, and anger crashes through my despair. I want Pablo Fuentes to pay for what he’s done to me, to Mom, to all the other women he’s got trapped in his enclave.
My tears reappear when I discover she posts weekly, asking for news of me and Mom and tagging various state agencies. Rory’s posts have been shared thousands of times, and there are so many supportive comments.
In the immediate aftermath of our disappearance, it looks like the mainstream media picked up the story, and my face was splashed everywhere. I watch the brief clip of the CNN report Rory has pinned on her page with a massive lump in my throat. If I were to google my name, I bet tons of articles would pop up.
My crying gets louder when I see pictures and videos from Ithaca. Our community seems to have rallied around our disappearance. Everywhere Rory walked in town, there are posters tacked to walls and light posts pleading for help in finding us. The mayor even released a statement, and a GoFundMe page was created to raise money for a private investigator and a reward to offer to anyone with information. I can barely see my old high school friends through the tears blurring my vision. I recognize several people holding posters as they walk up to the town hall to join other protestors.
Rory’s most recent video post is a heartfelt, frustrated condemnation of the authorities and their failure to protect American women. Rory states that a quarter million American women go missing every year, and hundreds go missing in Mexico while on vacation, and the government does not do enough to find them. She vows to continue pushing for intervention, promising she won’t give up until she has answers. The online petition she’s set up has over twenty thousand signatures so far.
My bestie is the absolute best, and I miss her so freaking much. Without her efforts, I wonder if anyone would’ve even known we were missing or cared.
My heart hurts, the pain so extreme it feels like I might stop breathing. I hug the tablet to my chest as I purge more tears. As if I needed other reasons to love Rory. I knew she wouldn’t forget. I knew she wouldn’t let me down. I want to contact her so badly, but my selfishness and recklessness got me into this mess, and I have zero desire to tangle Rory up in this nightmare.
It pains me to exit her page and delete my account and the Gmail, but I do it. For Rory. I permanently delete all traces of my activities from the tablet and curl up into a ball on top of the bed, clutching a pillow and hugging it for dear life. My tears dry as I let my melancholy go. I have to find a new plan. I can’t give up just because my first seduction attempt failed.
I don’t know at what point I fell asleep, but I wake with a jolt when I hear Cristian calling me.
“What’s wrong?” I sit upright, resting my back against the headrest as I brush knotty strands of hair out of my eyes. Cristian is sitting on the side of the bed, so close I can count his eyelashes. Warmth emanates from him in waves, and the urge to wrap myself around him is strong. I’m vulnerable right now, and I long for the safety of his strong arms.
“I should be asking you that.” His gorgeous green eyes radiate compassion as they study my face. I can only imagine what he sees—splotchy skin and swollen eyes—and the obvious conclusions he’ll draw. He holds up the small envelope I left in his room. “I read your note. Your apology isn’t necessary. Clean slate, remember?” he softly adds.
“I feel like I keep messing up, and it’s only a matter of time before you fire me.”
“I’m not planning to, Sloane.” He stands and lifts one shoulder. “Come with me.”
“Are we leaving?” I swing my legs off the side of the bed, stifling a yawn as I rise.
He shakes his head. “Elio is with the others at Nat and Leo’s place. The guys went there after our round, but I didn’t stay. Elisa said you weren’t feeling well, and I wanted to check on you.” His eyes peer deep into mine. “Is that the truth, or have I done this?”
“You haven’t done this,” I truthfully reply. “I’m not feeling great. Being around your friends, your family, reminds me of everything I no longer have.” I force a smile. “For so long, it was only Mom and me, and now she’s gone, and I feel so lost and so alone.” It’s probably the most real I’ve been with him. I work hard to trap more tears. I cannot keep crying in front of this man. I slap a hand to my chest. “It hurts so much sometimes it feels like I can’t breathe.”
Cristian envelops me in his arms, and I go willingly. I don’t cry, and we don’t speak. He just holds me, and it’s everything.
“I’m sorry you’re hurting,” he says before breaking our embrace.
I wrap my arms around myself. “Thank you for being so understanding.”
“You don’t have to thank me for that. Come. I have something for you.”
Curious, I follow him out of the room and down the hallway till we come to the master bathroom. A delicate floral fragrance tickles my nose as I step into the opulent room. A freestanding tub occupies pride of place under the window, offering an expansive view of the rear gardens and the woodland behind it.
“I thought a bath might help.” He dips his fingers in the water. “It’s still warm.”
My cheeks flush, wondering if Elisa told him I had my period or if he guessed. He knows now it’s not the truth either way.
“It smells lovely in here.”
“I found some scented oil and put some in, and I left towels for you by the sink.”
“This is really thoughtful. Thanks, Cristian.”
“You’re welcome.” He backs up. “Take your time. We’re not leaving for a couple hours yet.” He lingers in the doorway.
“Okay.” My smile is genuine, and fresh hope is tentatively building as he remains in place, staring intently at me, almost like he wants to say more and he’s reluctant to leave.
He clears his throat, and his expression is tender when he says, “I can’t relate to what you’re going through as I’ve never lost anyone I loved more than life itself, but it’s totally normal to grieve, and it’s always better to let it out than keep it bottled up inside.”
I may not be grieving in the traditional sense, but I am grieving for everything Mom and I have lost. Even if we somehow manage to get out of this alive, we will never be the same people again. Our lives have been permanently altered in an irrevocable way. “You must think I’m a basket case.”
“No, Sloane. I think you’re human.”
I don’t deserve his compassion, but I’m too selfish to refuse it. “I swear I’m not usually this much of a mess.”
“You don’t need to make excuses, and you’re not alone, Sloane. My friends have already adopted you, and you have Elio.” He runs a hand through his hair, messing up the styling. “You have me,” he adds. “I know things are a little strained between us, but you can lean on me, Sloane. You can be Elio’s nanny and my friend, if you want.”
I see it for the lifeline it is, and I fully grasp it with both hands. “I would like that, Cristian.”
His lips curve ever so subtly. “Good.” He finally steps back. “I’ll leave you to your bath before the water goes cold.”
