Page 39 of The Crimson Lily

“William trusted you, but you knew the Kinzhal Strastey did not belong in the hands of the Syndicate,” she begins to explain.

“Before that move, there were tensions between multiple organizations. The mafia. The Bratva. Even the Triad and Yakuza were mixed up in this stupid competition.” Chiara takes a sip of her drink as if to collect her thoughts. “The dagger was an act of war.”

I shake my head, having learned nothing useful. Sure, crime bosses all over the world like to play chess! But what does this have to do with me ?

“What’s so special about this dagger?” I ask, still shaking my head with a frown.

Chiara inspects me, incredulous, then she seems to remember something.

I lost my memory—I need more than general details.

“The Syndicate has been recruiting members from each rival organization for decades now. The balance of power has shifted. The Kinzhal Strastey is not a simple object. It’s a key. ”

Thanks, Chiara, but I already know that. I heard that before, in Paris. Those exact words spoken by Yi Zhang, whom I now conjecture to be Triad turned Syndicate at some point in his life. Why not, after all?

“A key to what?” I query, growing very impatient now. “To a door? To a building? To a bank?”

Chiara shakes her head. “No, no, not a key to a place.” She clears her throat to explain. “It’s an authentication key.”

My eyes round more than Chiara’s earrings. I still have absolutely no idea what’s going on here, and it’s really getting on my nerves now. I down a large portion of my Italian whiskey to calm myself.

“The dagger is an access key to a covert Russian satellite weapon system,” she discloses, almost whispering.

What. The. Actual. Fuck.

I just stare at her, actually at both of them, my mouth agape, not knowing how to respond. My eyes bounce between Giovanni and Chiara, perpetually, like the last thing I’ll ever do in my life is switch between his face and hers.

After five good minutes and the rest of my whiskey, I eventually muster the will to speak. “What the fuck does that mean?” I’ve officially lost all trace of patience.

Giovanni intervenes to save Chiara. He puts his hand flat on the table as an invitation for me to listen carefully.

“The Russians built a system to operate weapons that can destroy satellites.” He pauses, waiting for a nod on my side, which I eventually grant.

“The dagger contains a digital key to access that system.” He pauses again, and I nod.

“Now, imagine for a second that an international criminal organization like the Syndicate gains access to that system. Just imagine.”

I lean back, crossing my arms, maintaining Giovanni’s gaze. I begin to think, collecting all evidence I’ve acquired so far.

But I have to ask two questions first.

I turn to Chiara. “How do you know about all this? How high are you in the Syndicate?”

“I’m not supposed to know,” she replies, then purses her lips nervously. “Which is why I’m hiding here.”

I veer to Giovanni. “I found that dagger in a tomb in Siberia. Why the hell would there be an authentication key to a weapon system in that dagger?”

“Some Russian hacker wanted to be funny, I don’t know!” he answers. He almost sounds cynical. I can see he has absolutely no idea.

All right, say all of this is real, and I didn’t end up in a Hollywood movie.

What could the Syndicate achieve with access to anti-satellite weapons?

The answer is actually pretty clear. Chiara even mentioned the balance of power being in danger.

An international crime organization with the potential to destroy satellite communications, navigation systems, and weather predictions will have a hold on the world’s throat.

They will have all the necessary power to make the world bow at their feet.

Could they even kill the internet? Indirectly, maybe. That would make things ten times worse.

No, not the internet! a little voice in me shouts, possibly to add a little humor to this funky situation.

“So, what?” I blurt. “All the mafias worldwide are racing to get that access themselves?”

Giovanni dismisses my hypothesis with a motion of the hand.

“Crime groups don’t bother with things that have a global impact.

We want the world to stay the way it is.

” He takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly.

“The Syndicate got political the minute they got their hands on that dagger. They got firepower to threaten entire nations. That’s a threat against all of us, and that’s why you, as the Bratva’s civilian informant, are sitting here, in the Mafia Capitale’s quarters. ”

I collapse in my seat, twitching little nos with my head, not knowing what to say or do. Mr. Zhang, back in Paris, was right. This is far bigger than I imagined. I welcome back that feeling of numbness I rely on every time things get too complicated for me.

“What’s my part in all this?” I ask Giovanni, exhausted from this Mount Doom of information.

Chiara lays a hand on my arm to get my attention. “You are one of the two people who know how to retrieve that key from the dagger.”

“Who’s the second one?” I jerk, knowing darn well the answer is…

“William de Loit,” Chiara replies.

I fall silent. Not that I have thoughts in my head, just a constant buzz and whirling.

I take my empty glass in one hand and stare at the bottom of it.

The music is what hauls me back to the speakeasy.

It’s no longer jazz. A classy blonde with a Betty Boop figure is singing soft blues tunes by the bar.

I peek over my shoulder to examine her and how the many men in the Gatto di Strada seem mesmerized by her, Giovanni included.

“If the Bratva want their dagger back, wouldn’t they have access to the system?” I ask as I turn back, ticking the glass on the varnished table, catching Giovanni’s attention again.

Giovanni shakes his head. “They’ve had it for years and have done nothing with it, but just to be sure, we’ll figure out a way to erase that key. Just…?keep that detail to yourself, okay?”

Great, now I have to keep a secret. Not that I mind, but if Maksim asks me, I won’t be able to lie. Speaking of Maksim, I miss him so much right now, more than ever before.

“So,” I tick my glass one last time and straighten my posture, ready to ask my Liliana Springfield question. “What’s the plan?”

Chiara looks away for a second. She has a purse against her left flank, which she furiously searches through.

I hear some rattling of plastic, papers, and maybe keys.

I think she’ll pull out a phone or an important piece of paper.

Maybe a picture, or even a rabbit. She turns back to me and, against all expectations, places a brass coin before me.

I don’t dare touch it, so I just gawk at it.

“This is the token they use to identify themselves during gatherings,” Chiara explains.

“Don’t they know each other’s faces?” I murmur the question in a tone that is way too evident.

Chiara chuckles a little—something I did not expect either.

“The Syndicate likes to make things dramatic,” she says. “They meet outside the city at night. Sometimes in a forest, other times in abandoned houses. They’ll wear coats and masks to be unrecognizable.”

I take the token in my hands and fiddle with it. I flip it and look closer, noticing how rough the edges are and how imperfect the art is. It’s supposed to be a quill, I think, not a banana leaf. The four dots should be stars. This coin is definitely handmade.

“I was finally granted my own token. Now I know where they’re made,” Chiara says. “The next meeting is this Thursday,” she announces, and I instantly look back at her. “It’s time to end this.”

“We’re going to infiltrate the meeting,” Giovanni adds to her words. “We’ll gather as much information as we can.”

Wait. Am I supposed to join? This isn’t a concrete plan.

This is just the title of it! Am I the one who’s supposed to come up with the plan ?

Next Thursday, Maksim will be there. That fact makes everything better.

I don’t know what else to say. At this point, I’m just saturated.

I need to be alone, to be by myself, to do some thinking.

I need to process everything I learned just now.

I plant my elbows on the table and plunge my face in my hands, then let out a loud sigh and rub my eyes.

“I just need a moment,” I plead.

Chiara and Giovanni take the next hour to discuss the plan .

Thank goodness I don’t have to say a word.

I don’t make an effort to understand it either.

I sit there, blank, staring into the bottom of my whiskey glass.

I want to leave. I want to go back to the hotel and hide in bed for the rest of the evening.

I rise to my feet, both of them looking at me with expectant eyes.

“Let me get you a taxi,” Giovanni offers when he realizes I’m leaving.

He dials a number on his phone and takes off to the back of the bar, where the jazz isn’t as loud. Chiara, on the other hand, searches through her bag again and grabs some paper and a pen.

“Liliana, I know someone who…” she hesitates, then clicks the pen and jots some numbers down. “His name is Alberto Rossi. He’s a therapist who could help with your memory.”

I accept the paper, mechanically thanking Chiara, unsure whether I even want to look at it. I fold it in two and shove it in my jeans pocket.

Giovanni returns a minute later with my coat, which he places around my shoulders himself, like a true gentleman. He walks with me upstairs, through the pasta shop, and into the narrow street of Rome’s center. A black car rolls up to us the minute we’re outside.

“Get some rest, bella ,” Giovanni soothes. He hands me yet another piece of paper I have to deal with. “This is my number. Call me if you need anything.”

I thank him and vanish into the taxi. My head is about to blow. I haven’t had a migraine since Paris. Now it’s back with a vengeance.

I am spinning my phone around with my fingers, thinking about Maksim, checking every five minutes to see if he texted or not.

Nothing. My stomach is clenching itself at the idea of something bad happening to him.

I can’t help but focus on that feeling, which spreads through my body like a poison.

I squeeze my phone like my life depends on it, doing my best not to let worry invade me.

Then, as if Maksim heard my call to him from miles away, my phone rings, and I immediately answer the unknown number.

“Thank goodness!” I exclaim and swallow my worry. “Maksim, where are you?”

Stupid question.

“I’m still in New York,” he replies.

“Shouldn’t you be on the plane?” I question and immediately regret it. My tone is way too inquisitive. I don’t want to sound like a control freak.

But Maksim remains unmoved. “I’m boarding soon.”

My worry is surging out of my throat again.

I can’t control it. I really don’t want to cry.

I don’t want to be weak, but everything I’ve discovered today is overwhelming.

It makes me feel powerless. How do these people expect me to stop an international crime organization with access to a freaking anti-satellite weapon system?

How am I, little Liliana Springfield, supposed to go up against this behemoth that even mafias all over the world haven’t been able to destroy yet?

I want to tell Maksim about my day but figure the taxi driver has better things to do than listen to this crazy Hollywood script.

“Just…” I stutter. “Just come here.”

I hear him sigh on the other end. “I need to meet with a local contact first when I arrive,” he discloses. “I’ll be with you in the night.”

Sure, as long as he’s with me tomorrow evening, all the rest doesn’t matter.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

Maksim, asking a question like that, out of the blue? That’s a first! I’m so surprised that my worry disappears into thin air.

“I’m just…?tired and overwhelmed, that’s all,” I answer.

“I’ll make you feel better tomorrow, zaya ,” he comforts. “I promise.”

His husky voice sends warm shivers down my spine.

I don’t want him to hang up. I want him to keep saying these beautiful words to me, but he has to leave.

He has to board the plane and come to me.

Oh well, that’s a decent excuse. I send him a digital kiss goodbye and hang up.

Right here, I have another chance to tell him how I feel about him.

I could take the opportunity to open my heart to him.

But I don’t, and now I feel stupid for chickening out yet again.

What am I afraid of? That he won’t return my feelings?

Yeah, that’s probably it. That’s most definitely it.

Only when the taxi pulls over at the Grand Hotel Flora do I notice I still have Giovanni’s number on the paper in my hand.

I look at it, asking myself for a second if that Italian man gives his numbers to all bella biondina ladies.

I smile at my own thought, greeting the man wearing a patrol cap at the entrance, then disappear through the door and rush to my room, where I’ll crash onto the bed and never get up.