Diary of a Teenage Jewel Thief

by Rosie Somers

  And surprise—Uncle Samuel is holding up the wall next to the bar, glass full of amber liquid in hand. Well, he’s certainly on the right plane—this must be heaven for him. Across from the bar, behind the chess players’ section, are two more forward-facing rows of captain’s chairs, and in the last row seated next to the window is my mother. A white cloth is stuffed into her mouth and tied behind her head in a makeshift gag, but other than that, she appears no worse than when I last saw her back at Petrov’s brownstone hideout. I let out a relieved sigh, then check over my shoulder to make sure Vasili wasn’t close enough to hear. I don’t want to show any more weakness or vulnerability than I already have, don’t want to give them any more leverage to hold over me.

  When I turn back to my mom, she meets my gaze with a pointed look I can’t quite decipher. I wish I were better at reading looks. Or minds.

  Vasili nudges me toward the back of the plane and pushes me down into the window seat in front of my mother. Then he steps over to the bar to join Uncle Samuel in pouring himself a drink. No sooner do I have butt in seat than Will appears in the cabin door with Niko herding him along like an animal to the slaughter. When they reach us, Will shrugs off Niko’s hold on his shoulder, and the larger man retaliates by punching Will in the kidney, hard. Will grunts in pain and drops into the seat next to me with his elbow pressed protectively against the side where Niko punched him.

  Vasili meets Niko in the aisle with a half-filled tumbler, and together they head for the seats surrounding the chessboard. Uncle Samuel follows but lumbers past them to plop haphazardly down on the far end of the bench seat. He keeps his eyes downcast, like he’s too ashamed to make eye contact. And well he should be.

  A beefy, dark-haired man I haven’t seen before now emerges from the cockpit and moves to shut the cabin door. There’s no sign of Petrov. Is he already on board and tucked away in some other section of the plane? Is he not coming with us? No one else seems to notice that he’s not in the room, which means they must know where he is, whether he’s on the plane or not. The idea that he could be in some other section eats at me. I don’t like the idea that he could sneak up on me again.

  Except now, I’m already his prisoner, so it doesn’t really matter if he gets the drop on me.

  Muscles goes back to the cockpit, and a few minutes later, the heavy whirring of the engines begins to build. Uncle Samuel is still drowning his shame in his cup, and Niko and Vasili are heavily involved in their game.

  I take advantage of their distraction and the growing noise outside the plane to turn to my mother and peek at her through the gap between Will’s seat and mine. “Are you okay?” I whisper.

  She nods and tries to say something around her gag, but all that comes out is a muffled, garbled mess of grunts and disconnected syllables. Her expression is both sad and earnest, and it occurs to me that she might be trying to apologize.

  “This isn’t your fault,” I tell her. Her eyes glass over, and she shakes her head sadly.

  “She’s right,” Will confirms. “Petrov is the one to blame here. Petrov and his lackeys.”

  My mother nods, but I can tell by her expression that there’s so much more she wants to say. Unable to do so around the gag, she turns to look out the window as we begin taxiing down the runway. I do the same.

  Darkness stretches on the horizon, made even darker by the light inside the cabin. Where are we? Where are we going? My future seems just as dark, just as mysterious as the world outside this plane.

  …

  We’ve been flying over water for hours. It’s full daylight and has been for quite some time before we’re over land again. Petrov must be taking us to someplace in Europe. Someplace where he has power. The landscape we’re now flying over is a checkered pattern of green pasture, farms, and fields in various shades of greens and browns, with the occasional building cropping up here and there.

  My eyes are gritty and ache from lack of sleep. I dozed off a couple of times during the flight, despite my best efforts not to, but each time, it only lasted for a short while before fitful dreams jarred me awake again. Will is awake and staring past me out the window, glassy-eyed. Has he been awake all this time?

  Uncle Samuel is passed out with an iron grip on his umpteenth glass of liquor. How he can be unconscious and still hold his drink perfectly upright is beyond me. Vasili is nose deep in a thick book, and Niko is equally involved in some game on his phone.

  I turn to check on my mother, but a door behind us opens and I drop back into my seat facing front. A heartbeat later, Petrov strolls past us, looking fresh and fit, as if he’s slept peacefully all night. That’s probably exactly what he was doing, I realize. His black slacks and yellow polo are precisely pressed, not a wrinkle in sight. Even his black loafers look freshly shined.

  I sink lower in my seat in a futile attempt to become invisible. Then Will settles his hand over mine, where it clutches the armrest between us. I still haven’t forgiven him, but his touch is comfort and strength, and I use it to muster all the bravery I don’t feel right now. Which turns out to be completely unnecessary as Petrov passes us and heads straight for the cockpit without even so much as a backward glance in our direction.

  “Where do you think we are?” Will asks me once the cockpit door closes behind Petrov.

  I shrug, then answer quietly, “Somewhere in Europe, I guess.”

  The entire cabin exists in some weird sort of quasi-silence for the next few moments. Then Petrov comes out of the cockpit and heads for Uncle Samuel. “Wake up.” His voice is deep and gruff and filled with annoyance, and he follows up his command by kicking Uncle Samuel’s foot.

  Uncle Samuel snorts and wakes with a start, sitting up quickly. Through it all, his drink stays perfectly balanced in his hand. He rubs his red-rimmed eyes with his free hand and looks up at Petrov with something like fear in his expression. Petrov turns away from him and claims the seat next to Vasili.

  “Put on your seat belts. We’re about to land,” he says to no one in particular as he secures his own over his lap. I do my best to collect both sides of my seat belt and clasp them together with my hands tied. The process takes longer than I would have liked, and by the time I’m officially buckled in, we’re already descending toward the ground.

  The landing is bumpier than what I’m used to, and I’m not sure if it’s because we’re in a smaller aircraft or if it’s because we’ve landed at the world’s most rinky-dink airport. If this even is an airport. The tarmac below the plane is so narrow, it’s not even visible from my window, if it exists at all. For all I know, we’ve just landed in a dirt field.

  Not far from us, a tall chain-link fence separates our grassy area from another equally barren area on the other side. In the distance, hills roll across the horizon, and I think there might be a farmhouse or two out there, but all in all, the entire place looks pretty deserted. No real airport terminal, no real buildings even.

  As soon as we roll to a stop, Petrov is out of his seat and standing at the front of the cabin preparing to address us. His expression is gleeful and expectant. He claps his hands in front of him. “Okay, here’s how this is going to go…” He pauses to look pointedly at me. “You and your little boyfriend are going to go with Vasil here to retrieve the…items. I am going to stay with your uncle and keep your mother company to ensure your swift return. And you will return swiftly, won’t you?” It’s more a statement than a question, and I nod my agreement immediately. It’s not like I have any other choice in the matter. “Good, good. Vasil, do see that our young friends behave.”

  Vasili rises from his seat and stretches. His shirt pulls up at the waist to reveal a holstered gun on his hip. A glance at his face tells me he meant to reveal his weapon, likely as some sort of silent threat regarding what he’ll do to us if we step out of line.

  Will and I stand together, and he leads me down the aisle toward Vasili, keeping his body between us, trying to offer what little protection he can. Without further discussion, Pet
rov opens the cabin door and waits for us to file through. On the other side, the airstairs stretch down to the tarmac ready for us to depart. I’m last to exit, and before I do, I turn back to get a good look at my mom.

  I love you, I mouth, and she nods back at me.

  “Don’t worry, your mother will be fine. As long as you bring back what your father took from me,” Petrov says and gives my shoulder a little shove toward the exit. I step through into bright sunlight and carefully pick my way down the steps. On the ground, another black SUV with darkly tinted windows is already running, and Vasili holds the rear passenger door open in wait for me.

  A timid-looking man with more hair on his face than on his head is dressed in a nondescript olive jumpsuit and yellow reflective vest and haunting the space at the bottom of the steps. An airport worker maybe? The only sign that this is even an airport is the narrow strip of asphalt under the plane and a single flight tower at the far end. I think about asking the worker for help, but when I glance back up the stairs, Petrov is there watching me. Besides, I don’t even know what country we’re in or what language to ask for help in. I climb peaceably into the SUV and resign myself to going with Vasili to God only knows where to retrieve God only knows what.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The drive to wherever we’re going isn’t long at all compared to how long we were on that stupid plane, but it still feels like an eternity passes before we drive through the entrance cut into a high stone wall and finally come to a stop outside a large stone villa. If I had to guess by the architecture, I’d say we were somewhere in rural Italy. But then again, I’m no scholar of architecture or anything.

  Vasili cuts off the engine but doesn’t immediately move to exit the vehicle.

  “Who lives here?” I ask.

  “Someone your father used to know, I’m told. Whatever it is your father hid from Petrov, this man has it.”

  “So how are we going to play this?” Will holds up his bound wrists. “Do you want them to know we’re your hostages, or are you going to cut us loose and we pretend we’re all the best of friends?”

  Or that I’m a hired escort, I think as I look down at my short skirt and fishnets, which now have a golf-ball-size hole near the knee.

  Vasili eyes the rope tied around Will’s wrists for a moment, then sighs in resignation. “Very well, I will cut you loose. But do not do anything stupid. Remember, Petrov still has your mother, and he will kill her if you cross him.” He directs that last part to me, spearing me with a look so full with the threat of violence I can almost feel it.

  There are worse things than meeting new people dressed like a hooker. Like Petrov getting impatient and possibly hurting my mom because I took too long waffling about the way I look. I nod my understanding, and Vasili produces a switchblade from his pocket. He makes short work of cutting through our bonds, then closes his knife and steps out of the car. “Come, let’s get this over with,” he says before shutting his door.

  I wait for Vasili to open my door, not that I have much choice with the child safety locks engaged. As soon as I exit the vehicle, Will slides across the seat and climbs out behind me, but I don’t move to give him much room. I’ve never been a fan of the unknown, and the idea of walking into the home of someone who could be either friend or foe and demanding items my father entrusted to him when I don’t even know what I’m asking for sets me on edge. I like to scope things out, do my homework, before going into a new situation. But I don’t have that luxury here. I settle for looking around for any information I can glean from my surroundings.

  The building looks old but well cared for, I notice as we approach the house. Two large shade trees hang over a small stone courtyard area rimmed by lush green shrubbery. A wrought-iron table with three chairs sits to one side, leaving a wide path to the wooden front door. When we reach it, Vasili holds out the key Petrov had pulled from my journal. “It would look suspicious if anyone but you had this,” he tells me. “And remember, we’re here for the items your father left with them.” He reaches for the thick metal door knocker and gives the door three heavy thuds with it.

  Several minutes pass, and I begin to think maybe no one is home. Then the door opens to reveal a spritely, dark-haired, and olive-skinned girl at least a year or two younger than me. This can’t possibly be the person my father left something with. She couldn’t have been much older than five when he died.

  “Buonasera,” she greets us in Italian, which means I was right about where Petrov has brought us. Her tone is friendly, but she looks warily from Will to me to Vasili.

  “Buonasera,” I reply, and her attention returns to me. “Inglese?” My Italian is a little rusty and I’d like to avoid the potential for miscommunication. And to the best of my knowledge, Will doesn’t speak Italian. I want him to bear witness to whatever’s about to happen.

  “English, yes,” the girl answers with a barely detectable accent.

  I’m not really sure how to explain the situation, so I dive right in. “My father left me this”—I hold up the key —“and a note to come here. I believe he left something with someone who lived here.”

  Her chocolate-brown eyes widen, and she turns to look into the dimly lit foyer behind her. “Vinny,” she calls, and almost immediately a boy about my age slips into view behind her. He’s taller with more masculine features, but the family resemblance is clear. She steps back from the door, and he fills the space in her absence.

  “Who are you?” he demands, but he’s not looking at me. His gaze is focused on Vasili.

  “I’m a friend. Here to…keep her safe.” Vasili perfects a precise American accent, effectively hiding any traces of his European origins from his voice, and he looks to me when he speaks as if daring me to contradict him.

  Vinny watches me for confirmation, but as tempted as I am to rat Vasili out, I keep my mouth shut and nod. Vinny returns my nod and steps out of the way. “Please, come in.”

  I enter first with Will close on my heels, and Vasili brings up the rear. The girl who answered the door leads us into a small receiving room off the main entryway. The furnishings are old, a heavy wood-framed sofa with worn brown plaid fabric and two matching brown club chairs, but cozy and angled around a wide stone fireplace. She motions for us to sit on the sofa and then claims one of the chairs across from us.

  Vinny takes the other one. He looks me over, spending extra time in the area near my skirt hem and again at my exposed cleavage, but he’s not leering at me. Instead, I almost feel a little judged. “You are Marisol?”

  I swallow first embarrassment, then indignation at his judgy perusal of my attire. I nod.

  “And who are you?” he questions Will.

  “Will Campbell.” Will offers no further information, but there’s a spark of recognition in Vinny’s eyes, like the name is familiar to him.

  Vinny turns to Vasili. “And you?”

  “Robert Smith,” he answers, again with no trace of his usual accent. Vinny’s eyes narrow in suspicion, but he doesn’t press Vasili for more.

  “You knew my father?” I ask to move things along.

  “Not me—us—no. Our grandfather.” Vinny is still watching Vasili carefully.

  At the rate this is moving, we’re going to be here forever. “Who is your grandfather? Who are you?” I know my annoyance is starting to show in my voice, but I don’t care. Petrov has my mother, and the only thing standing between her and freedom is these two tight-lipped teenagers.

  The girl leans forward in her chair to answer. “I’m Giada, and this is my brother Vincenzo. Our grandfather, Paolo, was a friend of your father’s.”

  Now we’re getting somewhere. “Is he here? May I speak with him?”

  Vincenzo and Giada exchange a serious look, then Giada says, “Sí, I will take you to him.”

  Vasili moves to stand, but Giada stays him with a raised hand. “Only her. You must wait here with my brother.”

  I am on my feet, ready to follow Giada to wherever her grandfather
is, in record time. More than just a meeting with her grandfather and the answer to this mystery, this might be my chance to change our circumstances. This might be the only opportunity I have to get help for us. And for my mother.

  She leads me back into the main foyer and up a flight of stairs to a narrow landing. At the end of the landing, we enter a large bedroom. Dim light filters in through shuttered windows on two walls and streaks across the floorboards toward an ornately carved four-poster bed. An older man lies deathly still on one side of the bed. His frail frame looks all the more so in comparison to the large bed and the oversize wood furniture situated around the spacious room.

  “Nonno, someone is here to see you.” Giada approaches the bed slowly and speaks to her grandfather tenderly.

  “A visitor?” He opens his eyes and tries to sit up but ultimately needs Giada’s help to get into a full sitting position. Once he’s propped up on a pile of pillows against the headboard, Giada motions for me to come forward. She moves a high-backed chair from the corner and places it next to the bed for me to sit in. Once I’m in the chair, she perches on the edge of the bed close to his feet.

  “Sí, Nonno, this is Marisol. Gabriel’s daughter. She is here with the key.” Then to me, she says, “This is my grandfather, Paolo Fabrizio.”

  “Hello, sir.” And now I have his full attention.

  He looks me over carefully, as if he’s scrutinizing every detail of my appearance to determine the truth of my identity. “Sí, you look like your father,” he finally says. “I’m glad you are here now. I had begun to worry I wouldn’t be around to see the day.” He closes his statement with a harsh, wet cough.

  “How did you know my father?” I do my best to mimic Giada’s soft tone. Anything louder would feel out of place here.

  “We were friends once, a long time ago. I was with the carabinieri—they are like military police. Until Petrov Rosinsky killed my daughter and her husband. He left my grandchildren without parents all because he was angry with me. Your father, he tried to save them, but he ended up saving me. And he was like a son to me. I know it is unusual for someone like me to be friends with a thief, but your father, he was a rare breed among thieves, honorable and courageous. For many years, I tried to get him to give up his criminal ways, to go straight. But he wanted to gather as much information on Petrov Rosinsky as he could before he got out. He wanted to help me right all of Rosinsky’s wrongs, to help the people he had hurt. But Rosinsky got him before he could finish his work.”