Chapter Twenty-Two

The drive to wherever we’re going isn’t long at all compared to how long we were on that stupid plane, but it still feels like an eternity passes before we drive through the entrance cut into a high stone wall and finally come to a stop outside a large stone villa. If I had to guess by the architecture, I’d say we were somewhere in rural Italy. But then again, I’m no scholar of architecture or anything.

Vasili cuts off the engine but doesn’t immediately move to exit the vehicle.

“Who lives here?” I ask.

“Someone your father used to know, I’m told. Whatever it is your father hid from Petrov, this man has it.”

“So how are we going to play this?” Will holds up his bound wrists. “Do you want them to know we’re your hostages, or are you going to cut us loose and we pretend we’re all the best of friends?”

Or that I’m a hired escort, I think as I look down at my short skirt and fishnets, which now have a golf-ball-size hole near the knee.

Vasili eyes the rope tied around Will’s wrists for a moment, then sighs in resignation. “Very well, I will cut you loose. But do not do anything stupid. Remember, Petrov still has your mother, and he will kill her if you cross him.” He directs that last part to me, spearing me with a look so full with the threat of violence I can almost feel it.

There are worse things than meeting new people dressed like a hooker. Like Petrov getting impatient and possibly hurting my mom because I took too long waffling about the way I look. I nod my understanding, and Vasili produces a switchblade from his pocket. He makes short work of cutting through our bonds, then closes his knife and steps out of the car. “Come, let’s get this over with,” he says before shutting his door.

I wait for Vasili to open my door, not that I have much choice with the child safety locks engaged. As soon as I exit the vehicle, Will slides across the seat and climbs out behind me, but I don’t move to give him much room. I’ve never been a fan of the unknown, and the idea of walking into the home of someone who could be either friend or foe and demanding items my father entrusted to him when I don’t even know what I’m asking for sets me on edge. I like to scope things out, do my homework, before going into a new situation. But I don’t have that luxury here. I settle for looking around for any information I can glean from my surroundings.

The building looks old but well cared for, I notice as we approach the house. Two large shade trees hang over a small stone courtyard area rimmed by lush green shrubbery. A wrought-iron table with three chairs sits to one side, leaving a wide path to the wooden front door. When we reach it, Vasili holds out the key Petrov had pulled from my journal. “It would look suspicious if anyone but you had this,” he tells me. “And remember, we’re here for the items your father left with them.” He reaches for the thick metal door knocker and gives the door three heavy thuds with it.

Several minutes pass, and I begin to think maybe no one is home. Then the door opens to reveal a spritely, dark-haired, and olive-skinned girl at least a year or two younger than me. This can’t possibly be the person my father left something with. She couldn’t have been much older than five when he died.

“Buonasera,” she greets us in Italian, which means I was right about where Petrov has brought us. Her tone is friendly, but she looks warily from Will to me to Vasili.

“Buonasera,” I reply, and her attention returns to me. “Inglese?” My Italian is a little rusty and I’d like to avoid the potential for miscommunication. And to the best of my knowledge, Will doesn’t speak Italian. I want him to bear witness to whatever’s about to happen.

“English, yes,” the girl answers with a barely detectable accent.

I’m not really sure how to explain the situation, so I dive right in. “My father left me this”—I hold up the key —“and a note to come here. I believe he left something with someone who lived here.”

Her chocolate-brown eyes widen, and she turns to look into the dimly lit foyer behind her. “Vinny,” she calls, and almost immediately a boy about my age slips into view behind her. He’s taller with more masculine features, but the family resemblance is clear. She steps back from the door, and he fills the space in her absence.

“Who are you?” he demands, but he’s not looking at me. His gaze is focused on Vasili.

“I’m a friend. Here to…keep her safe.” Vasili perfects a precise American accent, effectively hiding any traces of his European origins from his voice, and he looks to me when he speaks as if daring me to contradict him.

Vinny watches me for confirmation, but as tempted as I am to rat Vasili out, I keep my mouth shut and nod. Vinny returns my nod and steps out of the way. “Please, come in.”

I enter first with Will close on my heels, and Vasili brings up the rear. The girl who answered the door leads us into a small receiving room off the main entryway. The furnishings are old, a heavy wood-framed sofa with worn brown plaid fabric and two matching brown club chairs, but cozy and angled around a wide stone fireplace. She motions for us to sit on the sofa and then claims one of the chairs across from us.

Vinny takes the other one. He looks me over, spending extra time in the area near my skirt hem and again at my exposed cleavage, but he’s not leering at me. Instead, I almost feel a little judged. “You are Marisol?”

I swallow first embarrassment, then indignation at his judgy perusal of my attire. I nod.

“And who are you?” he questions Will.

“Will Campbell.” Will offers no further information, but there’s a spark of recognition in Vinny’s eyes, like the name is familiar to him.

Vinny turns to Vasili. “And you?”

“Robert Smith,” he answers, again with no trace of his usual accent. Vinny’s eyes narrow in suspicion, but he doesn’t press Vasili for more.

“You knew my father?” I ask to move things along.

“Not me—us—no. Our grandfather.” Vinny is still watching Vasili carefully.

At the rate this is moving, we’re going to be here forever. “Who is your grandfather? Who are you?” I know my annoyance is starting to show in my voice, but I don’t care. Petrov has my mother, and the only thing standing between her and freedom is these two tight-lipped teenagers.

The girl leans forward in her chair to answer. “I’m Giada, and this is my brother Vincenzo. Our grandfather, Paolo, was a friend of your father’s.”

Now we’re getting somewhere. “Is he here? May I speak with him?”

Vincenzo and Giada exchange a serious look, then Giada says, “Sí, I will take you to him.”

Vasili moves to stand, but Giada stays him with a raised hand. “Only her. You must wait here with my brother.”

I am on my feet, ready to follow Giada to wherever her grandfather is, in record time. More than just a meeting with her grandfather and the answer to this mystery, this might be my chance to change our circumstances. This might be the only opportunity I have to get help for us. And for my mother.

She leads me back into the main foyer and up a flight of stairs to a narrow landing. At the end of the landing, we enter a large bedroom. Dim light filters in through shuttered windows on two walls and streaks across the floorboards toward an ornately carved four-poster bed. An older man lies deathly still on one side of the bed. His frail frame looks all the more so in comparison to the large bed and the oversize wood furniture situated around the spacious room.

“Nonno, someone is here to see you.” Giada approaches the bed slowly and speaks to her grandfather tenderly.

“A visitor?” He opens his eyes and tries to sit up but ultimately needs Giada’s help to get into a full sitting position. Once he’s propped up on a pile of pillows against the headboard, Giada motions for me to come forward. She moves a high-backed chair from the corner and places it next to the bed for me to sit in. Once I’m in the chair, she perches on the edge of the bed close to his feet.

“Sí, Nonno, this is Marisol. Gabriel’s daughter. She is here with the key.” Then to me, she says, “This is my grandfather, Paolo Fabrizio.”

“Hello, sir.” And now I have his full attention.

He looks me over carefully, as if he’s scrutinizing every detail of my appearance to determine the truth of my identity. “Sí, you look like your father,” he finally says. “I’m glad you are here now. I had begun to worry I wouldn’t be around to see the day.” He closes his statement with a harsh, wet cough.

“How did you know my father?” I do my best to mimic Giada’s soft tone. Anything louder would feel out of place here.

“We were friends once, a long time ago. I was with the carabinieri—they are like military police. Until Petrov Rosinsky killed my daughter and her husband. He left my grandchildren without parents all because he was angry with me. Your father, he tried to save them, but he ended up saving me. And he was like a son to me. I know it is unusual for someone like me to be friends with a thief, but your father, he was a rare breed among thieves, honorable and courageous. For many years, I tried to get him to give up his criminal ways, to go straight. But he wanted to gather as much information on Petrov Rosinsky as he could before he got out. He wanted to help me right all of Rosinsky’s wrongs, to help the people he had hurt. But Rosinsky got him before he could finish his work.”

“Is that why he left me the key?”

“Sí, he hid his records from Rosinsky, left them with me for safekeeping, so that one day someone could continue his work and take down Rosinsky’s organization.”

“So why didn’t you continue his work?” I ask. It seems like a logical question. If this man has had my father’s records incriminating Petrov all this time, why didn’t he finish the job?

His expression turns sad, and he drops his gaze to his hands in his lap. “I wanted to, truly I did. But I could not. I had lost my daughter and was the only person my grandchildren had left in this world. I could not risk their lives or risk leaving them completely alone. I was selfish, I know, but they were so young and so innocent—” His voice breaks in a fit of hacking coughs. When he finally settles, he adds, “Then I got sick. I’m dying.”

I’ve already guessed as much. “I’m sorry.”

Paolo reaches out a gaunt hand to pat me on my knee. “Don’t feel sorry for me, child. I’ve lived a long life. I’ve known many years and lots of love.” He smiles tenderly at Giada. “My only regret is that I will not be around to see Rosinsky get what he deserves.” He lifts his hand weakly from my knee and points across the room to a heavy oak credenza. “There’s a false panel on the side; the release is on the edge of the foot. What you’re looking for is in that compartment.”

“Thank you,” I tell him and rise from the chair. Giada stands as well, and together we cross the room. She gets to the credenza first and kneels next to it to feel for the release. The entire right side swings open with a dull pop. Inside sits a small wooden chest, no bigger than a shoebox. A metal latch stretches from the lid halfway down the box itself, and on the front is a small keyhole. Just large enough for the key my father hid in my journal?

I slip the key into the hole, and it turns easily. I don’t know what I expect to find inside the box, but what I do find is a neat stack of papers, copies of bank statements, contracts, faxes, handwritten notes, emails, and surveillance photos of Petrov meeting with dangerous-looking men. I lift the stack out of the way, and underneath, the box is filled with pocket-size leather-bound journals, at least fifteen of them. They’re stacked neatly, spine up, and each shows wear around the edges and cracking along the spine—like my father carried them on his person and used them often. I pull one out and flip through the pages, which are yellowed from age.

Every line of every page is filled with my father’s handwriting. Names, dates, and amounts are all listed in hastily drawn columns, and the spaces between are littered with little notes about the information, comments like elderly or five children, life savings and family business. These are records of the wrongs Petrov committed against people, businesses he ruined, lives he ruined. There are death dates and causes, lists of crimes, and more. So much, it would take more than what little time I have left to sort through everything.

“Petrov Rosinsky must be a very horrible man.” Giada reaches for a book and flips through the pages. “My grandfather has told me much about the man, but I had not realized he hurt so many people.” She slips the book back into the box. “What are you going to do with these?”

These books could bring down the man who killed her parents. My father was killed for these records, and I’m about to turn them over to the very man he died trying to take down. I want to be able to tell her that I’m going to do the right thing, that I’m going to give these to the authorities, but I can’t lie to her. I can’t even look at her. “I’m, uh… still deciding what my next move should be.” It’s not a lie, but it’s definitely not the whole truth.

She accepts my answer without comment, but I suspect she realizes there’s more to my story than I’m letting on. “More to the story,” I say out loud as an idea begins to form in my mind.

“Pardon?” Giada’s expression is full of confusion and only grows more so when I pull a short stack of books from the box and set them back inside the secret panel.

I fan my hands over the remaining logs to spread them evenly throughout the box. “I’m going to leave a few of these here, if that’s okay. For safekeeping. Don’t want to put all my eggs in one basket, ya know?” I can tell by the look on her face that she doesn’t know.

“How can we reach you to get you the rest of the files?”

I spot a pen and notepad on the credenza and jot my phone number down before handing it to her. “That’s my cell,” I say. Not that it’s going to matter, since Petrov confiscated it with all my weapons. “But…I might not be able to answer.”

She narrows her eyes at me in confusion and waits for me to elaborate.

“I’m not exactly here of my own free will…”

Understanding dawns in her expression, and she looks wildly from her grandfather to the box to me as I replace the stack of loose papers and photos. I close the box, lock it, and then, pushing the secret panel on the credenza shut, I return to Paolo’s side. “Thank you, Signore Fabrizio, for protecting my father’s secret all this time.”

“I’m sorry he was not able to see what a lovely and brave young woman his daughter has grown into.”

His words sit heavy in my heart as I take the box back downstairs to Vasili. I’m not brave; I’m ashamed, and for the first time since he disappeared, I’m glad my father isn’t around. I wouldn’t want him to see me betraying him this way.