Chapter 2 - THE BULLET IN THE GARAGEThe sound was not like the movies.
It was louder.
Sharper.
Ugly.
Glass exploded across my hair.
Luca hit me so hard we both crashed against the leather seat.
Then the garage became chaos.
Marco shouted.
Gunfire answered from somewhere behind us.
The driver slammed the SUV into reverse.
I could not breathe.
Luca's hand was behind my head, forcing my face against his chest.
“Stay down.”
Another bullet struck metal.
I heard myself scream.
“Blair.”
His voice cut through everything.
“Look at me.”
I did.
His face was inches from mine.
Calm.
Too calm.
“Are you hit?”
“I don't know.”
“Do you feel heat?”
“What?”
“Blood feels hot before it feels wet.”
Frankfurt.
A tiled room.
A man shouting the same thing in German.
I pushed the memory away.
“No.”
“Good.”
The SUV turned violently.
Luca grabbed the seat.
Marco fired through the broken rear window.
Then we were moving.
Fast.
I looked behind us.
A black sedan followed.
“That's them?”
“Probably.”
“Probably?”
Luca reached beneath his jacket.
The gun appeared in his hand.
I moved away instinctively.
His eyes flicked toward me.
“You saved my life twenty minutes ago.”
“That doesn't make guns less frightening.”
“No.”
His voice softened slightly.
“It shouldn't.”
The sedan accelerated.
Marco shouted something to the driver.
Luca looked through the shattered rear glass.
Then he looked at me.
“Can you understand Polish?”
I blinked.
“What?”
“Polish.”
“A little.”
He pulled out his phone.
A voice recording played.
Two men.
Static.
Then Polish.
I listened.
My heart stopped.
“Play it again.”
He did.
The second time, I understood every important word.
“They're not following us.”
Luca's eyes narrowed.
“They're pushing us.”
“Where?”
I listened again.
Bridge.
West.
Second vehicle.
“Toward the river.”
Luca swore.
He leaned forward.
“Turn east. Now.”
The driver jerked the wheel.
The sedan behind us immediately changed direction.
Luca smiled without humor.
“Good girl.”
I stared at him.
“Don't call me that.”
For the first time that night, Luca Vescari looked surprised.
Marco laughed again.
Luca ignored him.
The chase ended seven minutes later.
I never learned exactly how.
One moment the sedan was behind us.
Then two Vescari vehicles appeared from opposite streets.
The sedan vanished down an alley.
Nobody followed.
“Why aren't we chasing them?” I asked.
“Because that's what they want.”
Luca put his gun away.
“They want us angry.”
“You don't seem angry.”
“I am.”
That frightened me.
We reached his house after midnight.
House was the wrong word.
It was a stone fortress overlooking Lake Michigan.
Security gates.
Cameras.
Armed guards.
My cat, Nietzsche, arrived fifteen minutes later in Marco's arms.
Nietzsche hated everyone.
He especially hated Marco.
The scratches across Marco's hands proved it.
I grabbed the carrier.
“You kidnapped him incorrectly.”
Marco stared at me.
“I got shot at tonight.”
“So did I. Hold the carrier from underneath.”
Luca turned away.
I swear he was hiding a smile.
A woman named Rosa showed me to a guest room.
The bedroom was larger than my apartment.
I stood in the middle of it feeling ridiculous.
Then I noticed the photograph.
It rested on a shelf beside the window.
Four men standing in Frankfurt.
Younger.
Smiling.
One was Luca.
I recognized Marco beside him.
The third man was unfamiliar.
The fourth made my knees collapse.
I grabbed the shelf.
No.
Impossible.
Luca entered behind me.
He saw my face.
Then he saw the photograph.
“Blair?”
I could not answer.
My finger shook as I pointed toward the fourth man.
A man I had spent six years trying to forget.
A man I had watched die.
At least, I thought I had.
“Who is he?” Luca asked.
I turned toward him.
“You tell me.”
His expression changed.
“That is my brother.”
My heart stopped.
“Matteo Vescari.”
The room tilted.
Luca caught my arm.
I pulled away.
“He's dead,” Luca said.
“No.”
My voice broke.
“No, he isn't.”
Luca became perfectly still.
“How do you know?”
Because Matteo Vescari had once called himself Matthew Vale.
Because he had found me crying behind a Frankfurt train station.
Because he had given me a job.
Because three months later I watched masked men drag him into a warehouse.
Because I had heard a gunshot.
Because I had carried his blood on my hands.
I looked at Luca.
“Because your brother is the reason I speak German.”
Luca stared at me.
Then he asked the question I had feared for six years.
“Blair, what happened in Frankfurt?”
I looked at Matteo's photograph.
May you like
And finally told the truth.
“I was there the night your brother disappeared.”
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