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“Go where?”

“Moscow.”

“Moscow!” Panic clogs my throat like bile. “Are you insane?”

“Paris then. It’s on my way. I could drop you off with Jacques Devereaux if you prefer.”

I feel the ground shift under my feet again as red flags wave frantically in my mind. My uncle’s name in his mouth feels like a violation. Rocky knows far more about me than he should.

Does he know aboutMaman, too?

Impossible.Papa sealed her records. No one except Uncle Jacques, Clemenza, Papa, and me knows about her diagnosis.

I shake my head, suddenly hyper-aware of the space between us. “Listen, Rocky—”

“Cade,” he interrupts, his green eyes pinning me in place.

“What?”

“It’s Cade. Cade Quinn.”

“You’re not Rocky Savage?”

He shakes his head from side to side, a non-answer that answers everything and nothing.

“Alright . . . Cade?” His name feels foreign on my tongue, but somehow more real than ‘Rocky’ ever did.

He grunts in response and then reaches for my hand again. “Come on, we don’t have much time.”

“Wait!” I sputter, my mind whirling. “I-I can’t just leave. I have work. And business school. And Papa. Um, No, thanks. I’ll . . . I’ll figure something out.”

Relief flashes across his face, quickly replaced by a wince of regret. Without another word, he turns to leave, his long strides eating up the space.

I follow, pulled by an invisible thread of intrigue and desperation. He wants to help but also doesn’t. The contradiction makes my head spin.

At first, I think he doesn’t realize that I’m behind him, but then Rocky—Cade pushes the door to the stairwell and holds it open for me. The hinges squeak loudly, the sound echoing in the empty hallway.

I eye the endless flights of steps below us. “You plan to go twenty-three floors down by stairs? Why not take the elevator?”

He grabs the wide banister, his large hand wrapping around the brushed rolled steel. “Let’s just say, there are a few faces I’m not ready to run into. As for you, princess . . .” A sad smile pulls acrosshis lips as he tests the banister’s strength, “. . . I hope you learned to do this as a child. Or at least you can watch me and learn fast. Otherwise, you’re fucked. In which case, have fun in the Middle East. I hear it’s lovely this time of the year.”

I blink, taken aback. That might be the longest string of words he’s ever said to me. Apt, considering it’s a farewell speech. Before I can fully process what he could mean, he perches on the banister.

In a heartbeat, he’s off, sliding down at breakneck speed. My breath catches as he reaches the landing, expecting him to crash. But with fluid grace, he breaks his momentum, only to repeat the same sliding motion down the next flight of stairs.

The whoosh of his descent grows fainter with each passing second. I lean over the railing, trying to catch a final glimpse, but he’s already out of sight.

And then . . . nothing.

He’s gone.

“Thanks for nothing,” I mutter, trying to ignore the twisting in my gut and the sinister voice telling me that I just let my final hope of surviving this nightmare slide away.

As I turn to leave, I recall his cryptic words and an icy finger creeps up my spine. My hand hovers over the door.

. . . roll around in the mud you’ve tracked in.

. . . have fun in the Middle East.