Page 3 of The Crimson Lily

L ast night’s events awakened something in me.

A part of me that was buried deep within and wanted to scratch its way out.

An ache for the unknown, for adventures and thrill.

So what? I’m a little crazy inside. Who isn’t?

As my dreams merge and flow in the twists and turns of my past, I realize the dagger of glass must be of extremely high value.

I don’t know how or why I know—but I’ll let that slide for now.

More than anything else, I want to get that freaking dagger, find out why the hell I’m mixed up in all this, and eventually hand it to the freaking Bratva.

The idea makes my heart race. It ignites a taste for puzzles and mysteries that have always been with me.

When I open my eyes, I’m face down on the brown carpet, and the light of a new day shines into the room. I spent the whole night on the floor. My pajama top is pulled up higher than my ass, and my body is sprawled. This view isn’t particularly graceful.

I lift myself up, planting my hands on the ground and pushing as hard as I can.

I see traces of my own nosebleed splattered around the carpet.

I really have to get that cleaned. I go to my kitchen, the smallest room in the apartment after the bathroom, grab two wet sponges soaked in soap, and get the scrubbing going.

The foam that forms as I fiercely rub the carpet is this undying crimson color.

The blood doesn’t really bother me. I’m more focused on brainstorming what the color of my next carpet will be and thinking that crimson doesn’t actually look so bad.

Once I deem it neat enough, I get ready for a shower.

My dried tears make my eyes itch, and the blood crackles under my nose make it look worse than it actually is.

As I touch my cheek, I feel a slight sting, like the imprint of a fading bruise.

I stagger to the bathroom, numb, turn on the water, and cast a glance at the mirror.

Darn it. That bastard yesterday actually left a bruise, exactly where his thumb held my cheek in place.

It’s relatively small—the Bratva hasn’t gone hard on me just yet—but my lips are swollen like they’ve been stung by murder hornets.

I wasn’t punched in the face, thank God, so I probably got that from my fall to the ground.

It doesn’t hurt though, so maybe there’s something wrong with me.

I should feel some sort of pain, but I’m perfectly fine, so I’ll blame it on the adrenaline that’s still rushing through me.

After a long shower, during which I wash off my bloody nose, I check myself again.

Nothing left to see but that thumb imprint that contrasts with my pale skin—nothing a little foundation can’t fix.

I don’t really want people to look and think I got into some sort of trouble.

Oh wait, I did. And why is still a big mystery to me.

My lips have returned to normal, but a headache still lingers in my skull.

Just like I’ve seen in movies, I pop into the kitchen to get an ice pack from the freezer.

I shall spend the morning in front of Netflix with ice pressed on my left cheek.

The lousy headache improves after a few sci-fi episodes.

As I begin to recover a few of my other senses now that the migraine is gone, all the events of last night come rushing through my mind.

I’ve been tied up, interrogated, questioned for something of which I barely have any memories.

I begin to feel this disoriented anger taking over, and the fear grips me again.

I desperately want to call someone so I can feel better, safer, but I have absolutely no one to call, no one to go to, no one to tell.

So I start pacing in front of the TV, reminiscing, ruminating.

My headache doesn’t bother me anymore, but I want to hide.

I want to cover my eyes and forget about last night.

I opt for the solution to sink into my bed and never come out.

It’s the beep of an alarm that wakes me up.

No—not an alarm. A repetitive loop of five amplifying ticks of an old mobile device.

Like those nineties’ phones bigger than a pocket.

It surprises me that, in that instant, I remember the nineties, or at least a little part of them.

June 6, 1999, the first birthday I can remember—the day my parents died.

Mechanically, I amble to whatever the source of the noise was. It comes from the vicinity of the TV. The coffee table. I walk toward it, toward this black piece of plastic that vibrates erratically like it’s about to explode. It’s a phone. I was right—a nineties’ device.

John F. Kennedy International Airport. Terminal 1. AF 7. 4:30 p.m.

I’m not even surprised. My initial thought: That’s definitely the Bratva. There’s no doubt possible—they left this phone for me, and I’m supposed to execute their orders and take a flight to who knows where. All right, time to go! I check the clock above the TV: 3:24 p.m.

Shit.

Have I slept that long? I need to think.

It says International Airport , so I’ll probably go somewhere abroad.

Yesterday, Olga mentioned something about my boss taking the safe across the ocean .

Europe? My best guess is Europe. What’s the weather like there?

Will we go to France, Belgium, Germany? As all these country names go by, I start remembering things about them.

Brussels was nice, Berlin was amazing, and Paris…

?That’s one of the most beautiful yet chaotic cities I’ve ever seen.

I’ve been to Paris! I have actually been to all these cities.

Yes! I remember now. Also, there’s the more obvious AF 7 part — that’s an Air France flight, for sure.

That makes sense to me. Paris is definitely where I’m going.

Good, Liliana. Now, time to pack your things!

Hang on, pack my things? What the hell am I doing?

Am I really about to dump all my clothes in a suitcase and head out the door just because the Bratva said so?

This could be them luring me somewhere so they can kill me.

So they can make me disappear. Have I become some kind of crazy person or what?

Yes.

I shrug. What do I have to lose? If the Bratva really wanted me dead, they would have killed me long ago.

Plus, I’m on extended leave anyway, so who’s going to notice that I’m off to Paris?

Who’s going to care? I pack as many things as I can come up with, not forgetting the Bratva phone, of course.

I even take my medical file, which I only just now notice lies open on the desk.

Maybe Olga decided to have a look after all.

The thought of Maksim suddenly crosses my mind, the man who interrogated me last night.

The man who didn’t give it his everything .

Oh, how I wanted to hit him right now. Fragments of the night rush by, mostly the vision of his silver eyes.

If he went soft on me, there’s probably a reason.

The Bratva wants me alive, in one piece, and with my motor functions up and running.

So, I’d better do as they say. I’d better head to JFK Airport now while I can still make it in time.

It would be a stupid idea to disobey the Russian mafia.

Too crowded. Terminal One is way too crowded. I’ve bumped into at least seventeen people. There’s too much noise. Ever since the world has been back on its feet after the 2020 pandemic?—

Hey! I remember the pandemic.

Man, I’ve remembered way more things in one night and a day than I have in the past two months. Maybe I should get the Bratva to beat the memories into me again. That proved way more effective than a therapist.

My taxi dropped me off at exactly 4:23 p.m. at the entrance of Terminal One.

Now I’m walking aimlessly, like a lost kid quietly searching for a parent, dragging a suitcase bigger than them.

My blond hair is tied up in a ponytail, and I’m wearing jeans with white sneakers, a simple beige shirt, and a blue letterman jacket.

I have a white scarf loosely draped around my neck, one I fetched from the bottom of a drawer, and a small brown purse strapped over my shoulder.

Glancing at the other people around me, almost all of them taller than me, I definitely look like a wandering child.

I didn’t find red pumps or other types of woman-like shoes in my closet.

I guess I’ve never been that much into heels. They look pretty, but no—not my thing.

I stop by the board listing departures and meet eyes with the 7:30 p.m. AF 7 flight to—you’ll never guess—Paris.

There is one slight problem though. What now?

How am I supposed to board a plane to Paris without a plane ticket?

I expected to get another one of these messages with further instructions, like a booking number, but I have nothing.

People have begun looking at me weirdly.

At first, I don’t realize why, but when I overhear one of them mentioning that mark on my cheek, I get it.

I forgot to put on makeup. Oh well, it’s not that bad, I think. So why are they staring?

Twenty minutes later, tired of walking in circles like a polar bear on melting ice, I head to the check-in line.

I figure the Bratva will have arranged something, and maybe I just need to give my name at the counter.

I make my way to the end of the line, analyzing my surroundings while pursing and biting my lips nervously.

My heart takes the highest of leaps.