“The Venetians were a powerful empire,” Julian replied. “They built things to last, somewhat.” He led us to a private water taxi and we climbed aboard, not a piece of luggage between us; everything was abandoned at our hotels when we darted from the café. I was even without my laptop, which gave me that feeling you have when you forget your watch and keep looking at the lonely freckle on your wrist. I sank onto a faux leather bench in the back of a wood-trimmed speedboat and wondered how long I’d be wearing this beige peasant blouse, which most likely reeked of panicked sweat given the events of the day.
Marcus sat beside me, grabbing my hand as our boat skimmed the water, passing under one pedestrian bridge after another, the setting sun casting a tangerine glow on the buildings painted in bright hues of cobalt, rose, mint, and every color in between. The fact that my sister was potentially being held someplace so beautiful almost made the ordeal even more twisted.
A cloud of white mist sprayed my face as we sped into the mouth of an expansive bay and pulled into a bustling dock. Crowds of tourists meandered on the walkway before us, shopping at tiny vending stands selling elaborate feathered carnival masks and cheap plastic key chains.
“Piazza San Marco’s.” The driver pointed. Julian handed over a wad of cash, his grin so smug it was clear he loved the power his money gave him.
“Thank you,” I said, a little tight-lipped.
“My pleasure.” He offered his hand to help me out of the boat, then lowered his voice. “I plan on buying a burner phone as soon as possible. I’ll have people look into whether my father is behind this, and if he is, I’ll do everything I can to help.”
I nodded, unconvinced, but trying to look grateful. It took a lot of internal pep talks to remind myself that someone was working hard to blame me and my sister for actions that our parents committed, so even if Phillip Stone was behind this, it didn’t mean Julian was, until proven otherwise.
...
Julian booked three rooms at a pleasant, understated hotel near Piazza San Marco. Given his pompous demeanor, I had expected him to demand designer water and a minimum number of fresh-cut flowers, but an all-cash budget seemed to limit his provisions—especially since he was now purchasing three new wardrobes, which included a black-tie affair.
Within minutes of procuring his new mobile device, Julian contacted an old news informant who he swore, “knew everything going on in Venice.” The man was working to track down an address for where Keira may have been moved, and he expected to have more information within hours. However, the man also had tickets to the symphony that evening and would meet only during intermission. According to Julian, this necessitated that we all dress for the occasion.
“Do you really think this guy knows something?” I asked as we walked toward the city’s version of Rodeo Drive.
“He’s been right in the past,” Julian offered.
“Says the guy who published a fake news story,” Marcus grumbled. If I was annoyed at Julian holding the monetary power in this little trio, then Marcus was straight-up hostile. Though I had to assume that Marcus’s anger had more to do with his family being full of potential underground criminals than Julian being rich and entitled.
Julian halted in front of a posh boutique so sparsely stocked, each clothing item was displayed like a work of art. Even the hardwood floors gleamed as if they’d never been stepped on. “Let’s get dressed for the symphony, shall we?” He offered me a bended arm.
“I already told you, I’m wearing jeans,” Marcus rebuffed.
“Brilliant. Then you’ll stand out in the crowd like a sodding tourist, and everyone will notice you.” Julian peered at me for assistance.
There was a trap waiting for us somewhere in Venice; whether it was being set by Phillip Stone, Randolph Urban, or an evil overlord I had yet to meet, I didn’t know, but drawing undue attention to ourselves did not seem like the brightest plan. Besides, I literally could not afford to offend Julian. I had to eat and sleep. And Charlotte wasn’t arriving in Italy until sometime later tonight—in Rome. I’d used Julian’s new phone to leave a message telling her of our change in location, but who knew when she’d make it to Venice.
“Marcus, I can’t ignore this lead,” I insisted. “Cross said Keira was still in Venice, and this guy might know where. Do you have another suggestion as to how to find her?”
Marcus gritted his teeth then finally hissed an irritated, “fine,” before adding something in Spanish about throwing the spoiled pendejo off the nearest canal bridge.
We entered the store, bells ringing overhead.
“Mr. Stone, wonderful to see you again,” greeted a forty-something sales associate in perfect English the moment we crossed the threshold. She flicked her shiny black hair behind her shoulder. “What are we shopping for today?”
“Casual wardrobes for my friends and me, plus outfits to wear to the symphony this evening.” His tone was authoritative.
“Excellent.” She smiled, brown eyes twinkling with dollar signs. She glanced at me. “My name is Isabella, and I understand you’ll be needing a dress for this evening.” She quickly guided me toward a rack, her graceful hand on my back, and plucked a sunny yellow cocktail number. “You have the perfect figure, and this canary tone will make your smoky eyes pop. Doesn’t she have beautiful eyes?” she cooed, gazing at Julian.
“Yes, she does,” he replied politely.
Marcus aggressively slammed down a thick chrome hanger. “Does it really matter what we look like?” he spat.
The associate gasped like he’d offended her reason for being. “Let me find you a fitting room.” Then she scurried me away before Marcus could ruin her commission.
Moments later, I stepped out in the silk cocktail dress, the color of a dandelion, with a pair of gold heels on my feet. The climate-controlled store felt frigid against my bare legs, and the straps of my uncomfortably high dress shoes dug into my pinkie toes. I couldn’t be expected to wear this in public. One good breeze aimed at this short flowy skirt, and all of Venice would see my undergarments—also being provided by Julian. I tugged at my hemline, ready to rip off the dress, only I heard a quick intake of breath. I glanced up to see Marcus and Julian smiling at me the way you expect a prom date to beam when you walk down the stairs.
“It’s too short, right?” I pressed the thin fabric against my wildly exposed legs.
“Nonsense! It was made for you,” countered the sales associate, glowing with such pride, I almost thought she’d sewn it herself.
“Que hermosa.” Marcus stepped toward me, gazing as if he were seeing me for the first time, like I’d changed somehow. It was only a dress.
I fidgeted with the spaghetti straps. “It’s too much.” I peered at Julian, referencing the price, the fabric, the style, everything. It was too much for what we were really doing in Venice.
“It’s quite stunning, actually. Perfect.” He nodded politely at Isabella. “Well done.”
She shined at the recognition, then swiftly whisked Julian away to find his own fancy attire. An hour later, many shopping bags were filled and promised to be delivered to our hotel. Marcus and Julian were both dressed in black pants and pale button-downs, though Julian added a sport coat and Marcus insisted on keeping his motorcycle boots, which I loved. Apparently, Marcus could even make formal attire look edgy—with his boots and his chain-link wallet—and I couldn’t help but notice his chest filled out his slim shirt in a way Julian’s couldn’t. It wasn’t that Marcus was big or bulky, or thin and scrawny; Marcus was solid and defined like someone who used his muscles outside of a gym, like an athlete or a soldier. And the light blue fabric illuminated his maple eyes and hair. It was nice seeing him in something other than black.
“You clean up well,” I said as I strolled beside him, trying to stifle the swooning smile that wanted to stretch across my face. I was in Italy to find my sister, not stare at Marcus in a new shirt. But it was so hard not to notice.
“You do, too.” He slowly looked m
e up and down, not even pretending to hide his lingering gaze. “You should wear that dress all the time, like to sleep, eat breakfast…”
I blushed and stared at my feet. “Might be a little impractical.”
“Maybe, but I still think all our outfits are unnecessary.”
“Oh, really?” Julian countered, then pointed ahead.
We had reached La Fenice Theater, and the plaza was filled with symphony-goers dressed like attendees of a black-tie wedding in uptown Manhattan. In fact, we might have been underdressed.
“Whoa,” I muttered, surveying the glamorous scene.
“Exactly.” Julian nodded to me before stopping in front of the white marble staircase to the structure’s columned entrance. “Now, my contact is going to meet me in the men’s bathroom. He left only one ticket at will-call, so you’ll have to wait here.”
“What?” I snapped, skidding to a halt. “Since when?”
“It’s a new development. He just sent me a text.”
“You got us dressed up for nothing?” Marcus barked, reaching for his collar like he was prepared to yank off the shirt right here.
“This is my sister, Julian. You can’t expect me to sit outside.” My eyes insisted he couldn’t be serious.
“But he’s my contact, and he doesn’t know you.” Julian shrugged. “I can’t help it if he doesn’t trust you.”
“Well, what if we don’t trust you?” Marcus practically ripped the words from my lips.
Julian sighed, running his hand through his boy-band hair. “I realize you’re under the impression that my father is behind this, but I don’t yet share your view. Even still, I have my own reasons for wanting your sister back.” He looked me squarely in the eyes. “You and Keira may be the only two people on Earth who can clear my name; you know your father set me up.”
“And you think I’m going to go public with that? Look what’s happened to my sister for just quietly researching my parents’ pasts.”
Marcus grunted in agreement.
“That’s exactly it.” Julian smiled like someone who’d been struck by an epiphany. “Everyone thinks your sister is dead, but if she comes out of this alive—which I’m sure she will—and you go forward with your story, everyone will believe you. And no one will be able to touch you. You’ll be public figures. Girl back from the dead. I can plaster your faces on every news outlet from here to New Zealand, making it way too dangerous for any harm to ever come to you again. Think about it.”
Marcus rolled his eyes, stepping back as if the offer were ridiculous.
I didn’t scoff.
If we did come out of this alive and returned to being anonymous nobodies in Boston, whoever did this could keep coming at us again and again and again. We’d always be looking over our shoulders for one of my parents’ countless enemies. But raising our profile would make it riskier to take us out, though I doubted it was safer than going into hiding altogether, which might be our only other option. Not to mention, Cross sternly advised us not to let Julian plaster us on some newspaper. Still, it would be a decision Keira and I would have to make together, once she was safe. In the meantime, it did give me a new perspective on Julian. If he needed us, then he might genuinely be trying to help us—assuming he wasn’t working for his father.
“Fine. Go talk to your contact. We’ll wait,” I replied grudgingly.
“What?” Marcus snapped.
I looked at him, my eyes trying to stress how limited our options were. I needed to know what his informant had to say. “If you’re screwing me…” My voice trailed off as I shot Julian a heated look.
“I’m not. I assure you.” Then he darted into the theater, passing through a towering gray metal detector before striding toward the will-call booth.
Meanwhile, Marcus and I lingered in a café across from the theater, passing time with a bottle of Pellegrino as we imagined every worst-case scenario—from Julian being attacked in the bathroom, to Keira being relocated to the Amazon jungle, to Phillip Stone popping out of the bushes with a bazooka aimed at our heads.
Finally, Julian emerged.
“We’re in business. Let’s go,” he said as he approached our table.
We popped from our seats, and I threw my last remaining euros on the table. I couldn’t ask Julian to pay for everything. I had some pride.
“What did he say?” I asked, hope ringing in my voice.
“Let’s not talk here.” His voice was low as he led us toward a nearby walkway. There were no cars in Venice, at all, just water taxies, ferries, gondolas, and pedestrians—a city utterly blocked from the clutches of big auto, a true time capsule.
“He knew about your sister,” Julian whispered as we hurried on foot through a dimly lit alley. No one was around. “Not her name, but he heard about an American girl being held at the same flat that I mentioned. It’s a well-known safe house. He agreed it’s empty now. But for weeks, two men were spotted routinely entering and exiting the building.”
Two men. I didn’t want to think about what they were doing, what Keira was going through, especially after what Luis said on that mountaintop about his colleagues feeling lonely. My stomach rolled as I swallowed the bile that rose in my throat.
“Where is she now?”
“He has some leads. He thinks she’s in a hotel.”
“Where exactly?” My voice was desperate. There had to be at least a hundred hotels in this tourist town.
“He’s still working on it. He expects to hear more tomorrow.”
I couldn’t wait another twenty-four hours. I’d spontaneously combust from anxiety alone. We were so close.
“We should go to the apartment, the one where she was held, see if there’s evidence.” I was ready to run there in high heels. It was like I was starting to feel her, in this city, in my gut. I wanted to reach out and grab her.
“The flat’s a trap, don’t you think? And my contact is reliable. We should wait,” Julian insisted, as we moved through shadowed walkways.
“How do we know your contact isn’t in on it?” Marcus accused, his eyes small as slits. “He could be telling us what they want us to hear, purposely keeping us away from the apartment, or making up anything to keep your dinero flowing.”
“He’s got a point, Julian. Are you paying him?” I asked, and Julian looked away guiltily. He should know people say anything for money; his family owns tabloids. “I’ll text Charlotte your contact’s name and have her look into him. She’s probably in Rome by now.”
“I can’t give you his name,” Julian shot back, shoulders pressed to his ears. “He’s a source, and I have a terrible reputation as a journalist as it is. Why don’t we give him a day and see if he comes up with anything?”
He clearly didn’t know me very well. We had an address. I was going. At least it was something we could do.
Julian stopped walking, grabbing my elbow as we halted in a near-black piazza. The square looked abandoned, full of dilapidated buildings with drawn shutters and closed chipped doors. An empty flagpole stood dead center as a reminder of the life that used to occur here. I imagined it was hard to attract permanent residents to a city with no cars and sinking real estate. “How about we agree on dinner tonight? We haven’t eaten in a while. We’ll talk after we’ve had a good meal? Regroup?”
Marcus audibly sighed in time with his growling stomach. It was the first thing Julian had said right to him all day.
My own stomach was bubbling with hunger, but my heart was telling me to run in the potential direction of my sister, and my brain was telling me I needed to stop and think before I got myself killed. I was at war with myself. “Okay.” I nodded reluctantly, finally siding with my brain.
We continued winding through the dim alleys, the straps of my gold shoes digging into my toes. I squirmed in my heels, Marcus’s motorcycle boots beginning to look ingenious.
“So what have you been doing since you got fired, Julian?” Marcus suddenly asked, grinning as if this were a cheery topic of discus
sion.
“Oh, just trying to clear my name. You’d be surprised how time consuming it is,” he replied sardonically.
“Yeah, I’d imagine you’d do just about anything.”
“Well, I wouldn’t work as an errand boy for international criminals.”
“No, you’d just accept daddy’s money, who is an international criminal.”
“Quit it,” I interrupted, shooting Marcus a look. I didn’t care how much he disliked Julian; I’d join forces with the devil himself, if it meant finding my sister.
“Lo siento,” Marcus replied, sounding slightly embarrassed, as we stepped into St. Mark’s Square.
It was exactly like the postcards. An elaborate basilica stood on one end with a soaring brick bell tower anchoring the other. Couples were actually dancing under a bright full moon to the classical music of string quintets, gliding past the intricate rosy exterior of Doge’s Palace with the serenity’s only interruption coming from fluttering flocks of pigeons. It was so dreamy, it felt like a backhand to the face. This was where you should fall in love, not fight for your life.
“Hermoso,” Marcus said, resting his hands on my shoulders, only I didn’t feel butterflies in his touch. Instead, a thick mix of guilt and dread wound within me, as if this majestic scene showed just how far away I still was from my sister, as if I were on the brink of failing her yet again, standing on the other side of that bedroom door so close, but still unable to open it, still too late.
“She’s here somewhere. She has to be,” I whispered, almost to myself, and Marcus dropped his hands, acknowledging the ache in my voice.
We continued toward the restaurants lining the canal, water lapping over the edge as gondoliers waited for lovers to take a ride. My eyes stared longingly at the tourists, slipping from wine glass to wine glass, fish entrée to entrée, wanting to be them, until my gaze stopped short. Every muscle in my body suddenly clenched reflexively.
“Oh my God,” I murmured, horror in my voice.
“What? What is it?” Marcus looked about, head jerking frantically, searching for the danger.
Proof of Lies (Anastasia Phoenix) Page 22