Chapter 3 - FRANKFURTSix years earlier, I was nineteen and stupid enough to believe Europe could erase an American girl's problems.
It didn't.
It only changed the language of them.
My mother had died.
My father had disappeared years earlier.
College debt followed me across the Atlantic.
By my second month in Frankfurt, I was sleeping in a hostel and counting coins before buying bread.
That was when Matteo found me.
He called himself Matthew Vale.
He owned a translation company.
At least, that was what I believed.
He hired me to organize files.
Then he discovered I learned languages quickly.
German first.
Polish next.
Fragments of Russian.
But Matteo taught me something stranger.
He taught me criminal slang.
“Formal language is what men say when they expect witnesses,” he once told me.
“Street language is what they say when they're planning something.”
I thought he was joking.
Until the warehouse.
I told Luca everything.
Almost.
How Matteo received a phone call.
How his face changed.
How he told me to stay inside the office.
How I followed him anyway.
The black van.
The masked men.
The gunshot.
The blood.
“And you saw him die?” Luca asked.
“No.”
“You said—”
“I saw blood.”
My voice cracked.
“I heard the shot.”
Luca stood near the window.
Dawn had started turning the lake gray.
“You never saw a body.”
“No.”
“Neither did I.”
I looked at him.
He walked toward the photograph.
“Matteo disappeared six years ago.”
“The same night?”
Luca nodded.
“He was investigating a trafficking network using shipping contracts to move people through European ports.”
My stomach turned.
“What?”
“He believed someone inside my organization was helping them.”
“Did he know who?”
“No.”
I thought of Martin.
The restaurant.
Keller.
The translator.
“What if tonight wasn't about the docks?”
Luca looked at me.
“What if the contract was about me?”
Silence.
The idea sounded narcissistic.
Until Luca didn't laugh.
“You were hired at Bellini's three months ago,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Who hired you?”
“Martin.”
“Did you apply?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
I opened my mouth.
Then stopped.
A website.
A job listing.
I had applied at three restaurants.
Bellini's called within ten minutes.
Martin interviewed me personally.
He asked where I had lived.
Whether I spoke other languages.
I lied.
He hired me anyway.
“Oh my God.”
Luca reached for his phone.
“Marco.”
The door opened immediately.
“I want everything on Martin Hale.”
Marco nodded.
“And Keller?”
“Find out when he entered Chicago.”
Marco left.
I sat on the bed.
Nietzsche jumped beside me.
“You think Martin knew me.”
“I think coincidence is a bedtime story.”
Luca crouched in front of me.
His position surprised me.
Powerful men usually liked looking down.
Luca lowered himself until our eyes were level.
“What didn't you tell me?”
My pulse jumped.
“Nothing.”
“Blair.”
“I told you everything.”
“No.”
His voice remained calm.
“You told me everything you decided I could know.”
I hated him.
Mostly because he was right.
“There was a book,” I whispered.
“What book?”
“Matteo gave it to me.”
Luca's expression sharpened.
“The night he disappeared?”
I nodded.
“He told me if anything happened, I should run.”
“Where is it?”
“I don't know.”
He stared.
“I swear.”
“What did it look like?”
“Blue cover. Small. Numbers inside.”
“A ledger?”
“Maybe.”
“Blair.”
“I was nineteen!”
I stood.
“I was terrified. Men were chasing me. Matteo was bleeding. I took a train to Paris and then flew home.”
“And the book?”
“I mailed it.”
Silence.
“To whom?”
“Myself.”
Luca blinked.
“It was the only address I trusted.”
“Your Chicago address?”
“My mother's house in Ohio.”
“Where is the package?”
“I never opened it.”
Luca stared at me.
“Why?”
“Because my mother's house burned down three weeks after I returned.”
The silence became heavy.
“Accident?” Luca asked.
“That was what they said.”
His eyes darkened.
I understood before he spoke.
“Blair.”
“No.”
“The book may have survived.”
“No.”
“Insurance inventory. Fire department evidence. Storage—”
“No.”
I backed away.
“You don't get to turn my mother's death into a treasure hunt.”
His face changed.
Regret.
Real regret.
“I shouldn't have said it that way.”
“But you meant it.”
“Yes.”
At least he did not lie.
Marco returned.
He looked pale.
“Boss.”
Luca turned.
“We found Martin.”
“Where?”
“His apartment.”
“And?”
Marco glanced at me.
That was enough.
“Say it,” Luca ordered.
Marco swallowed.
“He's dead.”
My legs weakened.
But Marco wasn't finished.
“There was something written on the wall.”
Luca's face hardened.
“What?”
Marco looked directly at me.
“One word.”
I already knew.
May you like
Before he said it.
“Frankfurt.”
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