“Why is that?”
“Your daughter is on board.”
Petrov leaps from his chair, his shocked face drawing close to the camera. “What is my baby girl doing on your plane?!” he snarls.
“She’s fine. Don’t worry.”
“You took her.” A low growl comes from Roman.
“Yes. I did. Her IT skills are extraordinary. I had her brought to Sicily to complete a job for me. It’s all wrapped up, so I’ve sent her back home.”
“If you’ve touched a single hair on her head, Rafael,” he says in a gravelly voice, “I’ll level that whole fucking island within twenty-four hours! Don’t you ever, fucking ever, dare to look even at her picture, you son of a bitch.”
I smirk. “I see where Vasilisa gets her poetic streak from.”
“Do. Not. Use my daughter’s name, motherfucker!” He grabs the screen, shaking it. “You are a dead man!” he yells.
I watch him lift a gun toward the camera. A split second later, the bang of a gunshot explodes and the video feed goes black. An unmistakable sign our meeting is concluded—Roman shot the laptop, aiming for my head.
Gripping the edge of my desk, I stare at the blank background of my display. It’s been less than an hour since I put Vasilisa on that plane, and already I’m feeling as if I’m partially dead inside. What will happen tomorrow, when she’s back in Chicago with her family?
Will she forget about me? Will she forget the foolish man who loves her enough to let her go, knowing it will likely kill him? Knowing the chance of her coming back to him is nil?
A raucous roar rips out of my throat. I swipe my arm across the desk, sending my laptop and other shit flying. It doesn’t ease the hopelessness and misery that’s suffocating me.
How long will it take before she calls me to say she’s never coming back?
A week?
A month?
I will fucking die in this goddamned limbo of not knowing.
Grabbing my phone, I send a message to Guido, then, another text with additional instructions to my pilot.
The low rumble penetrates my consciousness, ratcheting up the ache in my head. My throat is dry like I’ve swallowed cotton balls. The smell of leather invades my senses, and there’s more. Cypress, with a hint of orange zest.
“Rafael?” I mumble. “What time is it?”
“Almost five in the morning,” Guido’s voice replies.
I slowly sit up, blinking my eyes open, and take in the interior of the airplane. “What’s going on?”
“You should put your seatbelt on. We’ll be landing shortly.”
“Landing?” I fix my eyes on Guido, who’s sitting on the sofa across from me. “Where?”
“Chicago.”
Confusion hits me, then morphs into excitement. I’m going to see my family again! Happiness. Relief.
“Where is Rafael?” I ask, looking around.
“He stayed in Sicily.”
Pop.
My joy bursts, and I plummet straight into a pit of dread. “Why?”
“You kept asking him to send you home. So he did it. Isn’t that what you wanted?” He lays my old backpack on my lap. “Your IDs and other personal stuff are inside. I programmed Rafael’s and my numbers into your phone. Now, fasten your seatbelt. We’re descending.”
My hands shake as I take the backpack and move it to the spot next to me. It feels much heavier than I remember. I stare through the wide elliptical window at the city lights twinkling beautifully and growing bigger with each passing second. Closer to home. Farther away from Rafael.
I’m returning. Alone.
He sent me back.
No explanation. No goodbye. Just dumped me on his plane, like I’m some unwanted package.
I wipe my eyes while a hysterical laugh escapes me. Just months ago I cried like this because he wouldn’t let me go home. And now . . . Now I’m crying because he did.
By the time we land, my tears have dried up, but I’m still wrecked inside. I grab my backpack off the seat (it’s definitely heavier than it should be) and head down the aisle toward the exit. My feet feel like they’re made of lead, each step slower than the previous one.
“Watch your footing, miss,” the flight attendant says as I reach the door.
Three people are standing at the edge of the runway, their shapes backlit by the ground lights. I recognize my father’s formidable form immediately. My brother, a mere inch shorter, is on the left. And my mom, standing between them. She looks rather funny, flanked by two human mountains nearly plastered to her sides. I dash down the stairs and across the tarmac, falling into their embrace.
