by Cora Reilly
“Damn it. Gianna will be long gone when I arrive.”
“You’ll find her. You are the best hunter I know. She doesn’t stand a chance.”
I clapped his shoulder. “You let me go, even though you need me here.”
“You aren’t of much use to me if all you can think about is Gianna.”
“It could take weeks,” I said. “I won’t return until I’ve caught her.”
“I know. If Aria had run, I would have done the same.”
I nodded. I wouldn’t stop until Gianna was mine. I didn’t care if I had to search the entire world, if I had to turn every single stone, if I had to squeeze information out of every fucking person in Amsterdam, I would find Gianna.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Gianna
I barely got any sleep in the six hours it took the plane to reach Amsterdam. Worry for Aria had taken the place of worrying about getting caught. She was sure Luca wouldn’t see her actions as betrayal, but what if she was wrong? God, what had I done? I shouldn’t have involved her, shouldn’t even have told her about my intention to run away.
When I finally got off the plane and had successfully passed through immigration, I slipped into the first restroom I found and locked myself into one of the small stalls. At the bottom of my bag was the wig Aria had given me. It was long and blond. Nobody would be fooled by it close up, but it would only have to do until I dyed my hair later today.
Fear clogged my throat when I headed into the waiting area, half expecting someone from New York or the Outfit to wait for me, but that was impossible. Even if Matteo had figured out where I was by now, I was fairly sure that the Cosa Nostra didn’t have close relations to any crime syndicates in the Netherlands, and it would take some time for mobsters from Sicily to travel up all the way to Amsterdam. For now I was safe. At least until the next plane from the East Coast landed in Schiphol, which would be the case in a few hours.
I quickly left the airport with my suitcase, overwhelmed by the sound of people speaking in languages I didn’t understand. I knew a few words in Dutch but hadn’t bothered learning the language; the Netherlands had never been intended as more than a stopover.
I hailed a taxi and let it take me to a non-descript middle-class hotel in the city where I booked their cheapest room. Despite feeling tired from jetlag and the flight, I only deposited my suitcase in the room before venturing out again to buy a few items I needed.
Two hours later I was back in my small hotel room with light brown hair dye, scissors, a couple of new outfits that helped me fit in better than my super expensive designer clothes, as well as a pre-paid cell phone and a small laptop. After I’d connected my laptop with the wireless internet of the hotel and set up the blog Aria and I had talked about, I wrote a short post, saying that a new journey had begun and that I’d safely arrived at my destination. It was all a bit cryptic and nobody would probably read my blog except for Aria. I resisted the urge to write something more personal, or worse use my new phone to call her. I wanted to hear her voice, wanted to know if she was okay, but I couldn’t risk it. Even this blog was already risky. Instead I slipped into the bathroom and changed my hair.
Two hours later I stared at my new reflection. My hair was caramel brown and I’d cut it into a bob that reached my chin. Of course that wouldn’t stop people from recognizing me from close-up but unless I paid a surgeon to re-do my face, which I had no intention of doing, a new haircut would have to be enough. I’d just have to move from city to city until I was sure that Matteo had moved on to another target and I was safe. That would probably take a while. Matteo had told me numerous times that he wouldn’t give me up and I had a feeling he’d meant it.
I wouldn’t give him a chance to catch me. Tomorrow, I’d leave Amsterdam and head for Paris, and who knew where I’d be the day after that? This was a new beginning with endless options.
***
I stared up at the white ceiling of my hostel room. I’d been living in twenty different places in the last three months, never staying anywhere for more than a week at a time. Sometimes when I woke in the morning I wasn’t sure where I was, sometimes I even thought I was back in Chicago, and sometimes I found myself longing for it. Not for my father and the rules of our world, but for Fabi and Lily and Aria, and sometimes even for Mother.
I sat up, groaning, and went through my usual morning habit of reminding myself of my current pseudonym and everything that encompassed her before I got out of bed. It was almost noon. I still hadn’t figured out any kind of routine. Most days I spent exploring the city where I stayed while always checking my surroundings. This fear of being followed, of being hunted, would that ever stop? I doubted it. Whenever I saw men in dark suites, panic filled me. I’d lost count of the times I’d imagined I’d seen Matteo from the corner of my eyes.
I hadn’t made any real friends yet, which wasn’t all that surprising; I never stayed anywhere long enough to build a connection. Which was better anyway. I couldn’t risk getting close to anyone yet, maybe never. That didn’t mean I was alone. I always stayed in youth hostels wherever I went, and met people from all over the world. Of course I couldn’t tell them anything about me, not even my name. Currently I was calling myself Liz, short for Elizabeth, and was spending my year before college abroad road-tripping through Europe. That was pretty much my cover story wherever I went, only my name changed.
Lying to everyone 24/7 made any kind of friendship hard. I opened my laptop and checked my blog, which I still updated almost every day, even though I hadn’t gotten a comment from Aria in weeks. In thirty-one days to be exact. My eyes darted to my cellphone on the nightstand. As so often recently I felt the almost irresistible urge to call her and find out what was keeping her from visiting my blog. I had a feeling it was for my safety. In her last comment she’d warned me ‘not to waste time in one spot because there was too much to explore in Europe’. I’d taken that as a hint that Matteo might be after me and had jumped from city to city in the last few weeks, never staying anywhere more than one or two days, but I was growing tired of running constantly. I’d lost weight, and most of my clothes hung off me like they belonged to someone else. I wanted to belong again, to find a place to call mine.
I got dressed and stuffed my clothes into my backpack. I’d gotten rid of my suitcase four weeks into my journey. It wasn’t practical lugging a heavy suitcase wherever I went. I didn’t need most of my old belongings anyway. When would I ever wear evening dresses and high-heeled Louboutins again? That life was over. I stared down at my shabby backpack, at my cheap sneakers and jeans, and for a moment longing for something I’d thought I’d never miss came up in me. When I’d decided to run away from the mob, I’d known I’d miss my siblings horribly, and so far not a single day had gone by that I hadn’t considered returning to Chicago just to see them again, to talk to Aria again, to have a steady home again, but so far I’d managed not to miss the luxuries my former life had afforded me, at least not this insistently. So why was I suddenly missing the things I’d despised?
Everything I’d ever owned had been paid with blood money, and even my flight up till this point had been financed that way. But I was scarily low on cash and would have to find a job in the next place I stayed, though that would mean staying longer than just a couple of days unless I tried my hand at pickpocketing, which wouldn’t really be a big improvement over mob money, except that nobody got killed for it.
I swung my backpack over my shoulder and exited my small room. Fifteen minutes later, I’d checked out and left my alter ego ‘Liz, short for Elizabeth’ behind. I’d become someone new for my next destination. Maybe a Megan. It was August but heavy clouds draped over Vienna as I headed toward the train station. I’d loved the regal buildings but it was time to move on from Austria. I’d been living in the same country for almost two weeks and was getting antsy.
After I’d boarded my train to Berlin, I checked my cell-phone, a stupid habit I still hadn’t dropped. I never got a message from anyon
e. The date caught my eyes. August, 15th. The day I was supposed to marry Matteo.
Unwantedly the kiss we’d shared flashed in my mind and a small shiver ran down my back. I’d kissed three guys in the time since I’d arrived in Europe, all of them cute foreigners who weren’t interested in anything lasting, just like me, but none of those kisses had come even close to what I’d felt while kissing Matteo. Maybe it was because he’d had more practice than any other guy. Matteo was a gigolo, there was no doubt about it.
But what worried me most was that I found myself comparing every guy I met to Matteo, and they always fell short. They weren’t as good-looking, as interesting, they didn’t have a six-pack, and most importantly being in their proximity didn’t give me a thrill. It annoyed the hell out of me that despite being (hopefully) thousands of miles away from Matteo, he still held some power over me. I wished I’d never let him kiss me, then I wouldn’t have that problem.
I’d just have to find a nice guy who could make me forget Matteo and his annoyingly sexy and arrogant smile. Maybe my next destination, Berlin, would help with that.
***
I only stayed four weeks in Berlin before I decided to move on. Something hadn’t felt right, or maybe I wasn’t used to staying in a place for a longer period of time anymore. At least I’d worked as a waitress for the last three weeks and managed to earn some money. It wasn’t much but enough to buy me my train ticket to Munich and food for the next couple of days. I didn’t have anything left for a hotel room however, so that was a major problem.
I had spent too much at the beginning of my flight, never having learned to be economical. Money had never been an issue growing up. If there was one thing that women in the mob never had to forego, then it was money. I was a spoiled brat, that much I’d come to realize.
The moment I arrived in Munich I knew this could work. I loved everything about the city, but there was still the problem that I didn’t have any money to pay for a room. I didn’t want to spend the night on the streets. I wasn’t sure how safe it would be. As I walked through the city center, I noticed a few people singing and playing instruments, and they seemed to make a fast buck with it. There was always a heap of Euro coins in the hats they’d put on the ground.
I could play the piano. Father had forced Aria, Lily and me to take lessons from the moment we could talk but I had neither a piano, nor a keyboard I could use to make music. I had a decent singing voice, definitely nothing to get excited about but at least it didn’t make people want to hold their ears. Maybe it was worth a try.
A group of three girls with colorful hair was singing and playing the guitar at the next corner, and I headed for them. When they finally took a break, I approached them. I really hoped they spoke English. They looked to be in my age. “Hey. I was wondering if you know of any places where I could do what you do and sing for people? I’m out of money and this is pretty much my only shot at paying for a room tonight.”
The girls exchanged a look and I was half convinced they hadn’t understood me when the girl with short blue hair said in an accent I couldn’t decipher, “You need a permission. The authorities are pretty strict in Munich. They’ll fine you if you make music or any kind of other art in the streets without permission.”
“Damn. Is it easy to get a permission?”
The pink-haired girl shook her head. “No. They only hand out a few permissions and they make sure you can sing and actually play instruments before they allow you to make music here.”
I sighed and slumped against the wall of the building. The three girls exchanged another look, then whispered in a language that definitely wasn’t German before they turned to me. “We’re sharing a small apartment. If you want you can sleep on the couch in the living room until you find a job and can afford your own place.”
My eyes widened. “Really?”
Blue haired girl nodded with a smile. “You’re a backpacker, right?”
“Yes. Traveling through Europe before college.”
“We’re all from Croatia, but we’ve been spending the last few months in Munich. You’ll love it.” Pink-haired girl stood. “So what’s your name?”
I hesitated a moment before deciding who I wanted to be. “Gwen.”
Maybe Munich would finally become a place I could stay and figure out what I’d do with the rest of my life.
***
What was meant to be for a few days only had turned into two months. I was still sharing an apartment with the three crazy girls from Croatia. We’d become friends and I paid rent for my spot on the sofa, albeit not much. Of course every part of my life was built on lie after lie, but sometimes I almost forgot that I wasn’t who I pretended to be. I’d even found a job as a waitress in a café that catered mostly to tourists and my German had improved greatly.
Now that I’d finally found a place where I wanted to stay, I’d decided to give dating a real shot. When my flat mates introduced me to Sid, a fellow musician from Canada with long dreadlocks, I knew he was someone I could get used to, and maybe even make me forget that stupid kiss I’d shared with Matteo.
Sid was nothing like Matteo. He was nothing like men in the world I’d grown up in. He was a vegan, peace-loving idealist, and he never hesitated to convince others about his ideals. He could spend hours talking about the horrors of dairy farms and the dangers of the NRA. Sometimes I wondered what he’d say if he knew who I was.
This idealistic world-improver was his mask, I’d realized. Maybe everyone wore some kind of mask. What had been a novelty and endearing in the beginning, quickly started to annoy me. Still I couldn’t break up with Sid because it would seem like the ultimate failure. If even someone like Sid couldn’t stop me from thinking about Matteo, who could?
Sid’s hand crept under my shirt, then unhooked my bra. I made a sound of protest. We were in the living room of my shared apartment, so if one of my flat mates returned she’d get a show. His fingertips were rough from playing the guitar. He pushed me down until I lay flat on my back and he was half on top of me. His tongue seemed to take up too much space in my mouth and he tasted of stale smoke. Why had I thought a smoking guy was hot? Maybe in theory, but the taste and stink weren’t something I was too excited about. He started unbuttoning my jeans and kept rubbing his bulge against my leg like a horny dog.
“I want you, Gwen,” Sid rasped, already trying to shove my pants down my legs. Gwen. For the first time, the name didn’t make me pause. Two months using the same name seemed to be the magic barrier for getting used to a new identity. Pity that I got the feeling I wouldn’t use it for much longer. Munich was getting too comfortable, and Sid was simply getting too much. He was being too pushy.
“Not yet,” I gritted out, trying to hide my boredom and annoyance. It wasn’t his fault that I wasn’t into our make-out sessions. We’d been going out for almost four weeks, so it wasn’t really all that surprising that he wanted to sleep with me. And I wasn’t even sure what the hell was stopping me. Sid wasn’t a bad guy. He could be funny after he’d drunk a couple of beers or had a few drags of pot, and his guitar play and singing weren’t even half bad. And yet I didn’t want to commit to this relationship fully, didn’t want to go another step. Before I’d run off from home, I’d thought I’d jump into bed with every guy I met once I was free of my bodyguards; to spite Matteo and my father, more than anything else, so what was stopping me?
“Come on, Gwen. I’ll make it good for you,” he said as he tried to shove his hand into my panties.
I clamped my legs shut and pushed his hand away. I didn’t want him to touch me there. For some reason the idea that he’d be the first to do that made me sick. “I’m really not in the mood. And I’m getting my period,” I said to stop him from bitching around any more. It was a fucking lie. The stress of the last few months had pretty much stopped me from having much of a period at all.
But he didn’t know that. I just wanted this make-out session to be over, so I could grab my laptop and figure out where to run
off to next. Sid would find a new girl quickly. His cute Canadian accent, laid-back nature and dreadlocks were a huge hit among German girls.
He didn’t even bother hiding his annoyance, which in turn really made me want to push him off and tell him it was over. “You’re never in the mood,” Sid grumbled. “Jerk me off at least.”
Anger shot through me at his demand. When I didn’t react, he grabbed my hand and pressed it against the bulge in his pants. Where was the peace-loving idealist now?
With a bang, the door flew open. Before either Sid or I could move, three men stalked in. Matteo was one of them. Oh holy shit.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Gianna
Matteo made up the front, dark hair messy and wet from the rainstorm raging outside, his white shirt plastered to his upper body. In that moment, I almost felt silly for thinking I could ever forget him. He was more man than all the guys I’d met combined. His dark eyes settled on me, then on my hand, which was still pressed against Sid’s crotch. There really was no question what he’d walked in on, and his face twisted with fury.
“What the fuck, dudes?” Sid shouted.
‘Shut up¸ Shut up’ I wanted to scream. I didn’t get the chance. Matteo crossed the room in a few steps, grabbed Sid by the arm and hauled him off me. Sid landed on the floor hard, face twisting with pain, then anger. Matteo towered over me, nostrils flaring, eyes almost black, and a look in them that made me want to hide. I met his gaze straight on. He wanted to scare me. My fear was something I’d never give him.
Sid stumbled to his feet and almost lost his fucking pants. He must have unzipped them at some point to make it ‘easier’ for me. He headed for Matteo. I jumped to my feet, knowing I had to intervene before things got even worse.
“Get out of this apartment or I’ll call the fucking cops,” Sid said.
God, no.
