“I thought…” He stops himself, letting out a quick laugh.
“That I wanted you to die?”
“Not that you wanted it.”
“That I didn’t care? That I’d let you get yourself killed?” I put my palm against his chest. The pound of his heart is the same. Not weaker or slower for the sacrifice he thought he had to make for me. “Dario. Really?”
He runs his fingers through his hair, looking away. He’s as tall and powerful as he ever was, but his vulnerability is unbearable.
“We should go.” He kisses the top of my head. “We’re already behind.”
CHAPTER 6
SARAH
The wide, rollup door next to an open chain-link storage cage is marked DANGER—LIVE ELECTRICITY. Dario inputs a code that seems to go on forever.
“Aren’t you going to get electrocuted?” I point at the yellow sign.
“That’s fake.” The light goes green, and he presses his finger to the pad. “This is our ride.”
There’s a loud clack and a beep, then the door rolls up, revealing a pristine black Audi parked in a tight space, another rollup door on the opposite side—in front of it.
“This is the ghost car.” He reaches for a briefcase on a high shelf. “Registered to a fake name in a shell corporation. Untraceable. I have it maintained and taken out once a month.”
“It’s nice.”
He pops the trunk and puts the briefcase, my art box, and my suitcase inside. “I’ve never even driven it.”
Dario slaps the trunk closed, and in the echo, a word forms in the concrete cavern.
“Sarah?” The thick clap of a door closing follows.
I recognize the voice. The familiarity shakes my guard loose, and I turn to see one of my father’s many security men crossing the lot from the stairway door.
“Sonny?”
He’s big at the shoulders and bigger in the waist, with a full head of sandy hair and a mouth full of perfect teeth. Daddy called him Muscles, because he had them, and Rock, because he was as dumb as one.
“We found you.” He seems happy to see me. His smile is relaxed and genuine.
I glance to the side, looking for Dario, but he’s not there.
“What are you doing here?”
It’s the only question I can think of besides, Where did Dario go?
“I knew you’d be down here!” He reaches for his pocket, and I flinch before I realize what he’s pulled out is a phone. “I’ll get you out before the swatters are done clearing upstairs.”
“I don’t want—”
Behind him, Dario appears, fast as lightning. A sleeve appears across Sonny’s neck—an arm. Another arm locks the first in place.
“Sonny Graco.” Dario swings the man to get him on his heels. “Nice to see you.” Sonny claws at Dario’s arm. “How many?”
Another minute of struggle and Sonny’s legs flap like two flags in a storm.
“He can’t breathe!” I shout, as if Dario doesn’t know.
“How many with you?” He jerks Sonny’s head to the side. “Show me!”
Sonny makes a gacking sound and holds up four fingers.
“Thank you.” Dario lets him go.
I exhale, but it’s too soon for relief.
Sonny’s on his knees for half a second when Dario takes out a knife and slits his throat.
I’ve never seen a person die, so I don’t know if it always happens in slow motion in the space of a blink. My senses are heightened. I hear the lights buzzing, smell the copper of fresh death. The air against my skin is warm and heavy.
By the time I gasp, Sonny is already on the ground.
“Wait,” I whisper too late.
“We’re going.” Dario grabs my elbow.
“He has kids.”
“They all have families. Come!”
I let him pull me away, into the car, wide-eyed and empty as he drives up the ramp, through the gate, and into the streets of Manhattan.
Along the East River, joggers slog through the gray foam air and the slabs of the Queens skyline are softened in the haze.
We’re stuck in traffic, trapped between movement and stillness. We are bodies flung through the air on our heels, shoulders forward, chests back, waiting for the ground to hit us from behind.
Dario squeezes my cool, dry hands and says, “Welcome to New York,” which is meant to console me about the traffic.
Timothy never had to take me far and always seemed to be able to avoid a jam.
I wonder if he’s alive. And William. And how many more?
“Just so you know,” he starts after a pause. “You don’t have to worry about Willa.”
“She doesn’t have to worry about me either.” I take my hand away and fold the left fist under my right palm. “You can tell her that.”
“She’s my wife by the law. You’re my wife by scars.”
I rub the sore lines on my fingers. The tissue is still sensitive. “I don’t even know what you think that means.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Why you feel comfortable saying your wife isn’t really your wife.”
“She’s…” He stops himself with a quick wave and starts over. “It was a situation. I met runaways all the time. Hired them to do stuff. This one, Rosemarie… she was maybe thirteen. I knew before she even opened her mouth she was Colonia. Nico was the one to get the story out of her. She was sold into marriage to some old fucking pig. She got out.”
“How?” I’m surprised. Once a girl is promised, she’s in a transitory place, owned by everyone and no one. So she’s protected and watched by both families.
“She’s a smart, smart girl. Funny too. But once she told Nico shit, she never told another outsider, she got spooked. She ran off and got picked up by Protective Services. Willa was her social worker. So, I caught Willa on her way home.”
“Ah.”
“Ah, what?”
“You met her and saw how she was and you had to have her.” I shrug as if it’s obvious. He shoots me a glance that says it’s anything but. “Look at her. And she’s so… I don’t know… she knows her business. If I were a man, I’d want to marry her.”
He looks away as if he can hide his chuckle. “It wasn’t like that. I mean, maybe a little.”
“Thought so.”
“At first, she didn’t believe me about the Colonia. But it got through when Rosemarie’s foster parents reported a story the girl told about wedding scars. Everything clicked, and Willa… when she gets fired up, watch out. She was all in. Wanted to know all about them… you. The Colonia. First thing was to get Rosemarie a permanent home with people who knew what the Colonia was about and that was me, and now Willa. But the adoption was going through Catholic Charities, and they don’t adopt to single parents.”
“So you got married.”
“We did.” He faces me. “It was business.”
“You cared about another person together.” I turn away. “That’s not business.”