Page 11

11

JOAO

I wait until ten to call Valentina Colonna, our chief hacker. “Hey Joao,” she says. “Hang on while I secure this line, okay?”

“Sure thing.”

She comes back after a minute. “You’re using the phone I gave you, right?”

“Yes.” For the moment, I am, although stopping at an electronics store is pretty high on my to-do list. I don’t like the idea of Valentina or anyone else being able to listen in on my conversations with Stefi.

“Good.” Her voice softens. “I was just about to call you. I heard the news. How are you doing?”

There’s been one giant revelation after another in the last week. What specific piece of news is she talking about? “When you say news, you’re referring to. . .?”

“Henrik Bach’s death,” she replies. “Daniel said you already knew about it. Are you?—”

“I’m fine,” I interrupt tersely. I don’t like talking about my feelings, and I’m hoping to cut this conversation off before it gets going, but Valentina doesn’t take the hint.

“You don’t sound like you’re celebrating,” she says. “And trust me, I get it. These things are never black and white. Take me, for instance. I have every reason to hate Angelica’s biological father, but without him, she wouldn’t exist.” She takes a deep breath. “What I’m doing a very bad job of saying is that it’s okay to feel a little conflicted about his death. After all, it was because of Bach that you were taken from your family, and it was his fault that there are no records about your true parentage. Anyway, I’m here if you need to talk about it.”

As a child, I used to fantasize about my parents. In my dreams, they were larger-than-life characters who would show up with flaming swords, kill Henrik, and rescue me from the hell I found myself in.

I gave up on those fantasies a long time ago, accepting that I’ll never find them. I’ve also realized that you don’t need to be connected by blood to be family. Venice is my home now, and the men and women of the mafia are the family I’ve chosen for myself.

It’s kind of Valentina to offer her support. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate your concern, but?—”

“Let me guess, you want me to change the topic,” she says wryly. “Dante predicted that you wouldn’t want to talk about your feelings.”

“I don’t know what I’m feeling,” I admit. I don’t want her to think that I don’t appreciate her support. “Like you said, it’s complicated.” It’s impossible for Valentina to understand what it was like growing up in Bach’s academy. I can only talk about it with somebody who was there. Someone like Stefi. “But thank you for caring.”

“Of course I care, Joao,” she responds. “You’re my friend. You’ve always made me feel welcome in the organization, and you’ve never once implied that I couldn’t do my job because I’m a woman. This is the least I can do.” Her voice turns brisk. “But you didn’t call me to talk about Henrik Bach. What can I do for you? If you’re calling about an update about the ambush at the restaurant, you’re right—they’re not Sidorov’s people. At least, none that we know about.”

It gives me no pleasure to know my instincts were right. But if the people waiting for Stefi weren’t bratva, then who are they? Who else wants Stefi dead? “Could they be mercenaries Sidorov hired? Have you identified them?”

“Not yet. I’m working on it, though, and I’ll call you as soon as I know.”

“Okay.” Valentina is the best in the business. I have no doubt she’ll figure it out. “I need some information. You maintain files on Cosa Nostra, don’t you?”

“Of course. What are you looking for?”

“A name. Someone killed in the last three months.”

I hear her typing. “I have twenty-seven matches. Can you narrow it down?”

“Yes. The guy was married with a seventeen-year-old stepdaughter.”

“Eighteen of them are married,” she replies after a minute. “No matches on a stepdaughter.”

Damn it. I was hoping this would be easy, but of course, the asshole would have kept his stepdaughter hidden. Cosa Nostra isn’t exactly filled with saints, but even they would have drawn the line at raping a minor.

What else did Stefi say? “He was killed outside Italy.”

“Aha. We’re down to three. Two drive-by shootings in Spain and one guy stabbed to death in an alleyway in Paris.”

“Paris.” A drive-by shooting is too impersonal, and Stefi would have wanted to inflict pain. “It’s Paris. What’s his name?”

“Brando Pignotti. Married to Severine Bellegarde two years ago.”

“Severine Bellegarde. That’s a French name.” The hair on the back of my neck stands up. I’m getting close; I can feel it. “What can you tell me about her?”

“The marriage happened in Paris,” she says after a minute. “She moved to Sicily after the wedding. Let me search French records. . . Hang on, Severine has a daughter from a previous relationship. Charlotte Bellegarde.”

Yes! This is the Charlie Stefi mentioned.

“I need Severine’s phone call log for the last three months.”

“Give me a minute.” I hear the clicking of her keyboard as she hacks into the telecom company. “Okay, I’ve just emailed it to you. How is this connected to Stefania?”

“Brando Pignotti has been raping Charlotte since he married her mother. Stefi found out and killed Pignotti. But if I know my wife, that’s not all she did. Stefi would feel protective toward the young girl. All I have to do is find Charlotte Bellegarde, and she’ll lead me to my wife.”

Valentina’s quiet for a long minute. Finally, she speaks up. “You realize you called her your wife?” she asks. “Twice in a row. But she isn’t just your wife, Joao. This woman is an assassin. If Cecelia d’Este’s file is to be believed, she’s killed seventy-three people in the last six years.”

“The file is wrong. The number’s lower.”

“Who told you that? Your wife? And you believe her?”

Her voice is openly skeptical, and my hackles rise. “I’m not interested in discussing this with you.”

“I know,” she says unhappily. “I can hear it in your voice, and yes, I know it’s none of my business. But I’m not the only one who’s concerned, Joao. This woman isn’t good for you. Just be careful. Please.”

I hang up and push Valentina’s words aside. Now’s not the time to dwell on them. Sidorov is after Stefi, and he got pretty damn close in Zurich. Right now, my only priority is finding her before she gets killed.

Opening up Severine Bellegarde’s call log, I get to work. I go through the entries one by one and cross off the numbers in her contacts. Most of the calls she receives are from her husband, her hairdresser, and her cleaning lady.

When I’m done with my analysis, I have one phone number I can’t account for. Severine received a phone call from this number three weeks ago, and it only lasted thirty seconds.

I try and put myself in Charlotte Bellegarde’s shoes. Her stepfather—the asshole who raped her and pimped her out to his friends—is dead. Her mother stood by and let it happen, and logically, Charlotte should be furious with her.

But feelings are complicated. I should be furious with Stefi, but instead, I’m doing everything I can to keep her alive.

Would Charlie call her mother? Not to talk, but to hear the sound of her voice? Stefi would never make such a mistake, but Charlotte is seventeen, and teenagers are not noted for their impulse control.

I search for the current location of the phone number and hit paydirt. Paris. 19th Arrondissement. A mid-rise apartment just off the Avenue de Clichy.

I’m coming for you, little fox.