I start to clock other alarming patterns as I delve deeper into the alert, which has hyperlinked articles attached.
As I do, I’m reminded of the despicable stories I’ve heard at domestic violence shelters. Women being coerced intounspeakable situations, including so-called “summits,” where they’d be showcased for private collectors.
My stomach knots and twists when I think of Lucy on an auction block, scared and alone. Hands coiling back into fists, fire blazing hot behind my sternum, I try to gulp down my rage.
What are we going to do? What am I going to do?
Now that this seems bigger than a simple case of abduction, maybe even bigger than the mafia, how do I—one woman on a mission—make a difference?
How am I going to get our darling girl back? And the other missing women too.
How am I going to find them?
My laptop chimes, mocking me with another failed decryption attempt.
I give that a rest, choosing instead to dig deeper into the modeling agency connections. One name I keep seeing over and over again flags my attention.
It’s a Russian name. Just like mine.
Someone called Sophia Kovaleva.
Whipping open a fresh browser, I type her name in.
Almost immediately, a chill runs over me as I find Kovaleva’s perfectly curated social media presence.
Photoshopped selfies of her standing next to important people.
Expensive charity galas.
Exclusive political events.
Modeling success stories.
#Girlboss posts.
This woman’s been reeling others in for the traffickers. She’s supposedly the director of the agency mentioned by Lucy and other missing models.
The picture’s getting clearer. And uglier.
Not only was Lucy’s abduction organized and not an isolated incident…it was also well-funded.
This woman, Sophia Kovaleva, or whoever she really is…is almost certainly being rewarded handsomely for her services. I need to find out who’s paying her.
The Kings definitely have the kind of money to bankroll an operation like this, but I won’t know if they’re responsible until I crack Darren’s phone.
A few other families came up in my research of who might be involved. Maybe I should take another glance at the Petrov Bratva, the De Luca Mafia, maybe even the Agnellis…
My phone buzzes. Maya.
I pick up on the first ring.
“I just got a text.” Her voice shakes.
I leap off the bed.
“It says to forget about Lucy, or…” She chokes on a sob.
“Or what?” Anger and despair close around my heart like an iron fist.