Page 55 of The Crimson Lily
“What’s the plan for me?” I have to pose my favorite question.
He responds first with a little chuckle. Perhaps he also remembers how many times I asked aboutthe planback in Paris. His expression hardens a little, and he becomes serious again.
“You’ll be meeting with a contact who claims she can lead us to your boss,” he replies.
She? I need a little more information than that.
“Hmm,” I hesitate. “How do I know where and whom to meet?”
“You’ll receive instructions upon arrival.”
Wow, so…business-y. Maksim’s tone changed to something administrative. I clear my throat, straighten in my seat, and look out of the window. I feel his big hand reach out for mine. He covers it, protects it, clenches it a little to remind me he’s here. I draw a gentle smile on my face, looking back at him, admiring his perfect jawline. Parts of him are still an unsolvable riddle to me, and I love that about him. He fiddles with his pocket for a moment and takes out a little blue and white box. Tiny butterflies flutter erratically in my stomach; I’m getting a present. Here it is, myrewardfor being a good girl and obeying my…master. Hold on, Liliana, don’t get too excited!
He opens the box. In it is a small, triangle-shaped object, some kind of electronic device. He pulls my hand toward him and places the object in my palm. I flip it around using both hands, trying to figure out what it is.
“Make sure it’s always on,” he requests and hands me the box that contains a charging cable.
“What is it?” I ask, fascinated by this tiny device.
He takes the object out of my hands, then makes his way to the zipper of my coat, pulls it down just slightly, and clips the little triangle on the collar of my University of Columbia sweatshirt. He taps my nose with one finger and offers me a beautiful smile.
“Make sure you always have it on you too,” he says, giving me a small kiss on my lips.
I figured it out. This tiny triangular device is most probably a GPS tracker. I like that idea; it makes me feel a little safer. Maksim can see exactly where I’ll be. It’s not creepy, especially not on a mission like this. It’s necessary. I thank him and return his smile. I want to tell him, here and now, what I feel for him, but the words won’t come out, so I look back out of the window at the tall buildings of New York City that vanish behind us.
I remember the last time I took a taxi to JFK Airport. Six months ago. I was clueless, triggered by the ache for adventure. Now, that same feeling, the sensation-seeking spark in me, radiates again. I am anxious, terrified, but eager to solve the riddle that started the night of June 15, 2022, when I lost my memory at the hands of William de Loit. It’s about time that bastard pays for what he took from me. And it’s about time we get the Kinzhal Strastey back on Bratva grounds.
15
Ijust flew business class. At the airport, Maksim arranged everything for me. He accompanied me up until the last point he could take me at the security tollgate. After I gave him a soft kiss goodbye, which he returned with the utmost tenderness, I disappeared into the crowd of passengers. I don’t think Maksim has ever kissed me like that before. It was…emotional.
He wiped a little tear off my cheek before reassuring me with his husky voice, “Three days, and I’ll be there,zaya.”
I’m ambling the large halls of Fiumicino, dragging my suitcase behind me, looking for the exit. In February, Rome is much warmer than New York; I can see that from the thinner coats my co-tourists wear, even if locals are probably wrapped in five-layer wool. I might actually overheat in my fluffy mantle. I analyze my surroundings to see if I recognize anyone or where I need to go, then unlock my phone to check if I received any of Maksim’s instructions on what to do next. Nothing.
However, as I follow a mass of passengers streaming out of the luggage area, I spot a short man in a gray suit and a bowler hat. His nose is the size of his face, which is encased in chubby cheeks. He has a slight tan, the typical Mediterranean hue of a life in the sun. One thing is for sure: He doesn’t look Russian.
The man holds a small plastic board withLilianawritten in big, bold letters. I walk up to him and halt at an arm’s length. I don’t know what else to say to him other thanHey, it’s me!so I just remain still. He looks up at me with his small, squinty brown eyes.
“Liliana?” he asks with an Italian emphasis on the first syllable.
I nod, absolutely clueless as to what’s going to happen next. He leans over to take my suitcase and motions for me to follow him.
“Come, come!” he urges.
I mechanically trot behind him, numb, just like in Paris when I had no idea what was going on around me. I still don’t have much of a clue, but at least I know what the story is about. The part that should scare me is that I’m mixed up in this criminal mess, but for some reason, I am more than fine with it. There’s something about me I still haven’t uncovered fully, the glue that connects me to all of this. My vain attempt to search for it with Doctor Gully and hypnotherapy hasn’t really gotten me anywhere. Yet I feel it now, as if that part of me is just within reach, as I hover behind the short man who wears a bowler hat. I guess this is who I am now, following danger like a moth to a flame. My instincts drive me.
The man walks me to his car, a large black taxi that makes me chuckle. Typical. About ten minutes later, I can see the city of Rome take shape around me. The sun already peaks above the city, and its rose-colored light shines upon the road like a dim beacon guiding the way. The man doesn’t speak. I figure I’ll distract myself, my face stuck to the car’s window as if I want to lick it. I need to see all of it. The pinkish, yellowish, orange buildings adorning the streets. An obelisk I vaguely remember from a distant past. A church, another church, a chapel, Roman statues, Roman numbers. At some point, we’re going uphill, pastan immense building with a big, wide American flag. That’s most probably the US Embassy.
The taxi pulls over at the end of the street, right before a tall wall of arches I’ll definitely take the time to visit. The short man opens the door for me.
I give him a nod. “Grazie!” I exclaim, that word suddenly popping into my head. It’sthank youin Italian.
He responds with three nods and a simper.
There I am, somewhere in Rome, facing the Grand Hotel Flora. The taxi man hands my suitcase to a young fellow in a bluish-gray suit who smiles at me. His partner, who wears the same attire but has a patrol cap on his head, greets me and leads me inside the hotel.
I go to the dashing lady behind the counter, who beams with her full red lips. Her black curly hair is so shiny, she can probably light up brighter than the lamppost beside her.
