And if you run out of things to do, you could always listen to the tape about Mom’s murder….
It was the first thing she stuffed into her carry-on bag, but did she dare listen to it before successfully rescuing Teal? She honestly didn’t know which would be worse: knowing the tape was there but not listening to it, or subjecting
herself
to the details—or more likely, another set of lies—which were sure to undermine her poise and confidence.
When the phone on her nightstand rang, it provided a welcome distraction, and Sasha dived for it without bothering to check the incoming number, hoping it was Allison with an update on Teal.
Or her father with the green light for the trip.
Or Jeff…
Or with your luck, it’ll be
Carmine,
she teased herself before answering with a breathless, “Hello?”
“Sasha Bracciali?” asked a clipped, heavily accented female voice.
“This is she,” Sasha murmured, remembering that Allison had mentioned an intermediary named Delphi who might be contacting her by e-mail with more instructions for the rescue. No messages had arrived in Sasha’s in-box yet.
Maybe
this
was the mysterious Delphi?
Her pulse quickened as she said, “May I ask who’s calling?”
“Certainly,” the voice assured her coolly. “You are having the great honor of speaking to Major Svetlina Zelasko, beloved sister of the supreme commander of Kestonia.”
W ishing she had more impressive titles than
Mafia Princess
and
Unpaid FBI Snitch,
Sasha murmured, “This is a lovely surprise, Major Zelasko. I assume you’re calling about my request to visit your beautiful country?”
“I am told you wish to attend our gala.”
“Yes, very much.”
“I am also told you are the designer of gowns in America.”
“Well, I’m one of them,” Sasha agreed.
“It is my wish that you will design a gown for me.”
“Oh!
Of course.
I’d love to,” Sasha told her, amused that
her
career, rather than Big Frankie’s, might be her ticket into Kestonia. Then she realized what the major was really saying, and she corrected herself quickly. “Do you mean, for the ball? I’d love to create something for you, but there’s not enough time. It’s this Saturday night, correct? I can’t possibly get to Kestonia before Thursday, and that’s only if I leave right away.”
“Then you will leave right away.”
Sasha winced at the imperious tone. “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?
About your dress size for example?
I’m not a miracle worker, but—”
“I am one-point-seven meters tall and my proportions are perfect.”
“Lucky you,” Sasha said, grabbing a pen for some quick arithmetic. “So you’re about five feet seven inches, more or less? That’s just about my height. Assuming you’re not too busty, I might just have something you could wear.
Something really gorgeous.”
“You are asking if my breasts are
large?
They are not large. They are not small. They are perfect.”
“Once again, lucky you.
Especially because I have two sensational gowns, and I’d be happy to bring them both to Kestonia.
You can choose one—or both—as my gift to you.”
“These have been worn by you?”
Sasha grinned in frustration. “I’m afraid so. But only once
each,
and I had them dry-cleaned the very next day.”
“Ah.” The major hesitated,
then
explained. “If you were seeing the atrocity that my servant has devised for me to wear, you would understand that this is a serious matter.”
“I take fashion very seriously, believe me.”
“Good. You will come here with no delaying.”
Sasha cleared her throat. “The arrangements have been made, but we’re awaiting official confirmation—”
“I
am
official. Did you not listen? I am a major in the Kestonian army. And the only sister of Vlados Alexander Zelasko, the Supreme—”
“Grazie, grazie,”
Sasha interrupted. “I’m on the next plane. Thanks for everything, Miss…What shall I call you? Major?
Svetlina?”
“You may call me Major. And I will call you Sasha. It is a Polish name, is it not? Yet I approve of it.”
Unbelievable!
Aloud all Sasha said was, “Is Svetlina really Kestonian? It sounds Russian.”
There was a long, offended silence, then the caller muttered, “You will arrive without delaying? And bring with you my gowns?”
“I’m on my way,” Sasha confirmed. Then she forced herself to add an obsequious, “Thank you for the phone call. I’ll be forever in your debt.”
“You are welcome. And you may attend the gala yourself if you wish.
As long as my dress is completed to my satisfaction in time for the grand entrance.”
Sasha laughed. “Why do I see mice and a pumpkin in my future?”
“Pardon?”
“Never mind.
It suffers in the translation. I’ll see you in a couple of days, Major Zelasko. Thanks again.”
Ordinarily Sasha would have allowed the flight attendants to ply her with rich food and champagne on the transatlantic journey, but she needed a clear head, so she snuggled into her sumptuous first-class seat, sipping carbonated water and nibbling on fruit and cheese as she studied the manual and dictionary. She had brought the tape recorder on board, too, but kept finding excuses not to listen to it, the latest of which being that she should wait until they landed in Rome.
The Eternal City was the perfect place to hear her father’s confession for many reasons, all of them stemming from her childhood. He had taken her there so often, teaching her the history of Italy through mythology and proud readings from the journals of Caesar and Cicero. While other tourists flocked to Venezia or Firenze, the Braccialis treasured their Roman roots second only to their Sicilian ones, so much so that even when they were in Rome, they rarely spent time at the Vatican, choosing instead to linger for hours at the Colosseum and Pantheon.
Big Frankie and Rome—it was a combination seared into Sasha’s imagination. She had visited the city a few times since her mother’s murder, but it hadn’t been the same without him. She even wished he could have come with her for this part of the trip, but she knew that it was better this way. For all that their reunion had been a lovely
one,
the wounds were still there, not fresh, but not gone.
Would the tape recording change that? Or make it worse? She couldn’t begin to guess. But she suspected that her father had planned her itinerary with a stop in Rome in hopes that she would listen to the tape there, in the city that meant so much to both of them. Of course, he had had more practical reasons, too, because even though Italy was a bit out of the way, Kestonia-wise, Big Frankie’s most dependable contacts were there, and could ensure that the remainder of Sasha’s trip went smoothly, delivering her safely to the infamous Kestonian border.
After that, it would be Vlados Zelasko—a murderous, backstabbing dictator—who would guarantee her safety. Not the most comforting thought in the world, but Sasha was used to dealing with dangerous, powerful men. Assuming that her twin skills of flirting and lying translated well across cultural lines, she might just have him eating out of her hand.
The winter air in Rome was balmy by Chicago standards, even though the Italians were bundled up in parkas and furs. Sasha yearned to take a stroll, perhaps picking up a gelato while window-shopping and drooling over the latest fashions. But there was no time, so she asked the driver to take her directly from the airport to the Colosseum, which she had chosen as the perfect spot for listening to the tape.
Stepping out of the limousine, she paused to admire the 160-foot-tall structure, imagining as she always did what it must have been like to attend an actual event in such a magnificent venue.
A little violent, maybe, but so rousing.
So romantic.
So Roman.
The driver had arranged for someone to meet them with a ticket, allowing her to bypass the long line of tourists. Jeff would probably call her a spoiled princess if he could see this, but she didn’t care. This was her world—or at least, an important part of it.
This, along with parties and shopping and clothes.
If he wanted to be her boyfriend—and she had almost decided that she was going to
make
him want that—he had better learn to live with her faults.
Making her way inside, she could hear bits and pieces of information from surrounding tour guides.
First century
A
.
D
…. Three rows of eighty arches…70,000 spectators…A fortress in the
Middle
Ages…Periodically plundered for raw materials…
Dates and numbers and names—none of it meant a thing. No one really needed a tour of this place. One had simply to look around to feel the majesty of the towering walls, imagine the cheering crowd, visualize emperors in purple and gold, and hunky gladiators steeling themselves for battle as lions and tigers bounded into sight, roaring and ravenous.
Despite the crowds, Sasha imagined herself alone, suspended in time and space, experiencing the arena on her own terms.
Standing where her ancient countrymen had stood.
Allowing the majesty of the place to humble her, yet also to fill her with pride.
Remembering why she was really there, she moved to an empty alcove and leaned her cheek against the cool concrete. The gods would protect her here no matter what she heard on the tape. She would draw strength from these massive walls and spirit-filled aisles to deal with the confession, as well as whatever lay in store for her in Kestonia. Without further hesitation, she pulled out the recorder and held it to her ear as she pressed the play button.
Franco Bracciali’s voice was rich with emotion. “I have protected you from the truth for so long, my darling daughter, the lie has become an old friend.
Almost a member of the family.
By choice
and
by blood, one might say. I’ve told myself I was lying for your sake, but it has hurt you as much as the truth ever could. So I’ve decided to confess—”
Sasha stabbed frantically at the off button, realizing too late that she wasn’t ready after all.
“Sasha Bracciali?”
Startled, she looked up to see two men in exquisitely tailored suits. “Yes?”
“Your train leaves in one hour. We need to collect your baggage and take you to the station.” Motioning to his companion, the speaker added, “Tony will travel with you at your father’s request. But we need to move quickly.”
“I’m ready,” she assured them. “But Tony? You don’t really need to go with me—”
“It’s my pleasure. And Big Frankie insists. So…” Tony gestured toward the exit. “Shall we?”
She persuaded them to stop by the Bracciali penthouse so she could use the bathroom and check for messages on her laptop, which she was leaving behind for security reasons. To her dismay, an unnerving e-mail from Delphi awaited her.
According to the message, someone had attempted to hack into alumni files through AA.
gov
, the Athena Academy Web site. The breach had been detected before anything could be stolen, but Sasha was one of the intended targets, along with six other former students, all of whose names Sasha recognized as government agents, either with the FBI, CIA or NSA.
Delphi concluded by stating that Allison and the NSA were concerned and
were
considering aborting Sasha’s mission. If she wanted to cancel it herself, they would more than understand.
Sasha stared at the names of the other alumni, trying to imagine what was in the hacker’s mind. Obviously he or she had heard about Sasha’s trip. They knew the official reason or reasons—representing her father’s interests and indulging her own love of dress design by attending what might just be the last grand ball ever held on the continent.
But what if this hacker also knew Teal was in Kestonia? And wondered about the fact that Sasha was an Athena Academy alumna? The question in the intruder’s mind—and the reason for the attempt to access the records—was then obvious. Was this a coincidence, or was Sasha working for the government?
They’re just double-checking,
she decided in relief.
You’re a dress designer with no intelligence training whatsoever. You travel for fashion-related purposes all the time. They only need to search your name on the Internet to know that. Fancy parties, wild international celebrations—if one of your clients is there, so are you.
But you’ve never once been involved in anything with the government, at least as far as the outside world knows. And if any insiders knew about your snitching—which is hardly intelligence work!—you’d be dead by now. So the hacker is just double-checking.
It made sense, especially given the illustrious list of graduates they were also investigating. These were the women Athena Academy would tap for assistance. These were the women the NSA would turn to.
Women of substance, training and spotless integrity.
Not Sasha. Her Mafia ties aside, she had attended college at a design school! Not that her education hadn’t been sound, but it was a far cry from the others, who had graduated from Harvard, Yale and the like.
So she responded to Delphi with a simple, confident:
I’m not worried. It’s just a fishing expedition. Let’s proceed as planned. Wish me luck!
Then she locked her laptop in a cabinet in the guest bedroom, grabbed her purse and headed for the door.
Tony was a man of few words, but his demeanor—not to mention his double-wide physique—told onlookers all they needed to know. He was there to protect Big Frankie’s daughter, and doubtless had a pistol under his suit jacket.
Perhaps a knife, as well.
His steady brown gaze told the world he wouldn’t hesitate to use either.
Sasha had to admit, he made her feel safe. He also made her feel smothered, and she realized that if it hadn’t been for the rift with her father, she would have had many other such experiences over the last seven years. Big Frankie would have insisted on making arrangements, providing drivers, posting guards at doors, all in the name of keeping Sasha safe.