by Rosie Somers
“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.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Guilt eats at me the whole drive back to the plane, but it’s too late to do anything about it now. Vasili took the box from me the minute we were out of the villa and in the car, and now it’s on the passenger seat next to him. He’s been using it as an armrest.
Will leans closer to me and grabs one of my hands in his. It helps that Vasili didn’t bother to tie us up again when we left Paolo’s villa. Maybe he doesn’t care if we escape now that he has what Petrov has been after all this time. Or maybe he just doesn’t think we’re a threat. And really, he would be right. I’m not a flight risk as long as my mother is still under Petrov’s control.
The drive seems to fly by. I can’t tell if we’re actually driving faster than the trip out there or if it’s just my dread and fear and the quickly encroaching nightfall making the scenery seem to speed by. Not that it matters. What’s done is done, and as much as I hate myself for it, I wouldn’t undo it right now if I could. I set my head on Will’s shoulder, close my eyes, and do my best to bury my lingering guilt over what I’ve just done.
When the car pulls to a stop, I’m not ready. I may never be ready for the moment to come, the moment where my betrayal of my father’s memory and his sacrifice is complete. But I open my eyes and sit up anyway, waiting stoically for Vasili to let us out of the car. The plane is still unguarded, and bright light filters through all the windows as well as the open fuselage door. It seems counterintuitive to me that Petrov, a man who I would assume has enemies all over, would fly anywhere without extreme caution and a number of armed guards. But I haven’t seen any evidence of any henchmen except Vasili, Niko, and the pilot since we left New York. Except, of course, my turncoat of an uncle.
We’re only halfway up the stairs when Petrov appears in the doorway. He looks much less put together than he has up until now. He’s removed his sport coat, and his yellow polo is wrinkled and partly untucked from his slacks. His black hair is disheveled, as if he’s been running his hands through it nervously while we were gone. Was he worried we wouldn’t come back? I don’t know exactly how long we were gone, but it can’t have been long enough for him to think we’d taken off with the evidence. My stomach flips at the thought that he might have freaked and hurt my mother in his worry.
“Where is it?” Petrov’s voice is practically frantic as he visually inspects first me, then Will. When his gaze comes to rest on Vasili, bringing up the rear with the wooden box in hand, he claps with delight and giggles like a crazy person. The more time I spend in this man’s presence, the less he seems like the masterful leader of a widely feared crime syndicate and the more he seems
like a mental case with too much power.
He steps aside and ushers us into the main cabin of the plane, and I’m relieved to see my mother in the same place where I left her. Her gag is off now, too. That’s a good sign, right? I try to cross the cabin and go to her, but Niko appears from somewhere behind me and restrains me with a tight grip on my elbow.
“Put it there.” Petrov gestures with an exaggerated wave toward the chessboard, and Vasili is quick to obey, knocking the chess pieces to the floor so he can set the box there. “Who has my key?” He holds his hand out waiting for someone, anyone to place the key in his palm. I dig it out of my pocket, but I take my time delivering it to him. It’s the last piece of a scary puzzle, the only thing left standing between Petrov and the records he’s been so itchy to get his hands on that he kidnapped Will and my mother. And then me.
But I can’t hold out forever, and eventually, I have to give Petrov the key. He yanks it from my grasp like he’s taking a coveted toy from a playmate. Even his expression is one of childlike petulance.
His hand shakes with nervous excitement as he slips the key into the lock and turns it, and I half expect him to squeal with delight as he pulls the latch and lifts the lid. His eyes practically bug out of his head when he gets his first good look at everything in the box. Maybe he was expecting less, I don’t know.
A sick feeling rises in the pit of my stomach as I watch him sift through the pictures and loose papers at the top, then set them aside and lift out one of the logbooks. He leafs through the pages reverently, and his lips quirk into the faintest hint of a smile, like he’s remembering the details of each entry and reliving the moments. And enjoying them. It’s almost as if the crimes he’s committed weren’t just for material gain or to increase his wealth and power but because he genuinely enjoyed hurting his victims. Like some sort of white-collar sadism. The rest of us are standing in rapt silence, a captive audience to him reveling in the reminder of his evil deeds.
After several moments, he reluctantly sets the log back in the box and replaces first the loose items then the lid. He lands his attention on me. His cold, empty gaze is unsettling and sets my already frazzled nerves on edge. “Is that everything?” he asks.
I swallow hard and nod, unable to make my tongue work to answer him verbally.
It seems to be enough, though, because he nods and locks the box, then tucks the key into his pants pocket. “Good.” Then he picks up the box, tucks it under one arm, and addresses Niko. “Kill them.”
My insides twist into a frantic knot, and I’m stuck between wanting to attack Petrov, claw at his face with my bare hands, and wanting to plead for my life. “What?” My voice is shrill and panicked, but I don’t care. “You said if I got you the stuff you would let us go!” I must have lunged in his direction a bit with my words because suddenly Niko is holding me back again.
Petrov watches me, eyebrows raised, before answering. “Hmm, so I did. You poor deluded child. You actually expected me to keep my word? To behave honorably?” He seems so surprised by the idea that I might have actually trusted him to do what he said.
Before I can answer him, he spins on his heel and heads for the door next to the wet bar. When he’s about to cross the threshold into the other room, he calls over his shoulder, “Oh, and Niko, do it on the ground. We don’t want to bloody up the jet, hmm?”
Niko doesn’t respond, but his fingers tighten ever so slightly around my upper arm. A heartbeat later, his grip loosens just as subtly, then he lets go altogether.
“Petrov.” My uncle’s voice booms through the cabin, and Petrov turns immediately, half inside the other room. I have to turn slightly to follow his gaze, and when I see what my uncle’s up to, I back away a few steps. Uncle Samuel has placed himself directly behind Niko and has a gun pressed to the other man’s temple. Niko stands stock-still, but his eyes are darting around the room, from person to person, probably trying to work out the best way to extricate himself from this situation. Vasili hasn’t budged; he’s still standing just inside the exit, right behind Will.
“Don’t be stupid, Sam. What are you going to do, shoot him? You’re not a killer.” Petrov’s tone is all pandering condescension, like he’s talking to a rebellious toddler.
Uncle Samuel is unflinching, all business. “If it will save my family, I am. You said you’d let them go, and I’m holding you to that. It’s the only reason I helped you find them in the first place.”
Petrov chuckles. “Do you think I care if you kill him? Go ahead. He’s just an employee, someone to do my dirty work.”
Petrov’s pronouncement causes Vasili’s stoic facade to crack, and a hint of thinly veiled fury flashes over his features before he recovers. He reaches slowly into his coat, and suddenly the room explodes into chaos.
Niko knocks his body backward into Uncle Samuel’s and the two men lunge into an impromptu wrestling match over my uncle’s weapon, even as Vasili pulls a gun out of his shoulder holster. Will reaches for Vasili’s gun, but he’s just a moment too late to get the upper hand. Vasili levels it at Will’s chest, and Will backs up, two steps, three steps, four, until he’s standing almost next to me. Satisfied that Will is far enough away from him that he can’t wrest the gun from him, Vasili changes aim to target me.
At almost the exact same moment, Uncle Samuel regains control over Niko and forces him down into one of the captain’s chairs in front of the chessboard.
“Let him go, Flores.” Vasili’s command is little more than a gravelly whisper, but the sound carries the weight of a shout. “Or the girl dies.”
“And the mother.”
While I’ve been focused on the melee in front of me, I’ve forgotten all about Petrov. He’s ditched the box, probably in his private room on the other side of the door, and he’s pulled my mother from her seat to hold her captive in front of him. And he has a bar knife pressed against her throat.
Uncle Samuel looks from Vasili to me to Petrov as if debating the best course of action. I silently will him to somehow suddenly be an excellent marksman capable of shooting Petrov, but not my mother, and putting us all out of our misery. Instead, my uncle lowers his aim, and Niko is quick to get up from his seat and relieve Uncle Samuel of his weapon and aim it back at him.
“Now that we’ve settled that,” Petrov says, his voice still disturbingly neutral, “everybody off the plane.”
Vasili steps out of the way and motions for Will and me to disembark first. Will sets a hand on the small of my back to encourage me to walk in front of him, once again placing himself between me and potential harm. But we both know what’s coming. It doesn’t matter which one of us faces the business end of those guns first; Petrov has ordered us all to be killed. It will be my turn eventually.
Chapter Twenty-Four
They line us up like prisoners on the tarmac underneath the jet, shoulder to shoulder. Uncle Samuel, my mom, me, then Will all in a row, and it’s clear Petrov is envisioning a sort of unofficial firing squad for us. My stomach is in tense knots, and my heart is pumping painfully behind my ribs. My breath is shallow and labored, and my nerve endings burn, even inside my brain. Is this what a panic attack feels like? It’s no surprise that I would be having one right now. The moments right before I’m murdered seem like a pretty good time to have my first full-blown panic attack.
To my left, Will stealthily links his fingers through mine and gives my hand a light squeeze. I’m sure the action is meant to comfort me, but it just makes me feel worse. I feel guilty for getting him into this mess in a roundabout way. If I hadn’t decided that I needed to be a regular teenager, my mother wouldn’t have asked him to keep an eye on me, and he wouldn’t have been kidnapped by Petrov’s men to use as a bargaining chip. And he wouldn’t be about to die next to me. Does his family even know he’s gone?
“Do it,” Petrov urges Vasili in that emotionless monotone I’ve come to recognize as the voice he uses when issuing orders. His boss voice.
Vasili still has his weapon in
hand, but it’s lowered at his side. He makes no effort to lift it despite Petrov’s command to do so. “I don’t think so.” His voice is whisper soft but clear as day. Relief makes me a little light-headed. He’s refusing to kill us, and as much as I dislike him, I could hug him for it right now.
Petrov, on the other hand, is turning tomato red, and his lips are pursed in a thin, furious line. “What do you mean, you don’t think so?” he grates out between clenched teeth.
“If you want them dead, you will have to get someone else to do it. After all, guys like my brother and me are just someone to do your dirty work. Isn’t that what you said?”
Petrov sputters angrily, and for a moment, I think he might be about to charge Vasili and inflict the violence he’s so clearly feeling right now. “I only said that because I knew he wasn’t going to kill your brother. He’s too weak-willed for that. His only strength is in the number of drinks he can inhale and still remain conscious. I said what I did to buy you time to get your gun out. And it worked.”
Vasili still looks skeptical. He places his weapon back into his shoulder holster and holds both hands up in the air. “I’m washing my hands of this. If you want it done, do it yourself. I don’t work for you anymore.”
Niko mirrors Vasili’s posture and says, “Yes, we do not work for you anymore.” They both back away several steps and cross their arms over their chests in tandem.
