Chapter 5

After my condition improved slightly, I couldn't wait to leave that luxurious cage. I thought Ricardo wouldn't think of me again, but fate had other plans.

On the third day after returning to my Manhattan midtown apartment, the encrypted phone Ricardo had required me to configure for contact with him rang. The screen displayed that number without a stored name, but one I knew by heart.

I stared at it for five seconds, then answered.

"The custom workshop on the north side of the city," Ricardo's voice came through, no greeting, directly issuing orders. "One hour from now. Sofia needs a new piece. You'll handle the design."

"I refuse," I said.

Two seconds of silence on the other end. "Ella, don't make me repeat myself. This isn't a discussion."

"I said no."

"Then you'd better check your apartment door's surveillance." His voice went cold. "Marco and three men are downstairs. Are you coming down yourself, or should I have them come up to help you?"

The line disconnected.

I walked to the window and lifted a slat of the blinds. Downstairs across the street, a black SUV was parked quietly, its windows tinted dark. I could feel the gaze from inside.

"One hour," he said, then hung up.

An hour later, I walked into the workshop located in the basement of an old building in lower Manhattan. Ricardo had brought me here twice before—once to customize his Glock, another time to modify the Beretta he'd given me.

Now, he wanted me to design pieces for Sofia.

Sofia was wearing a cream-colored cashmere dress today, her blonde hair loosely pinned up, looking pure and harmless. She was holding Ricardo's arm, curiously examining the metal parts gleaming coldly on the workbench.

Ricardo walked toward me, his voice low enough that only I could hear.

"I want you to design a set of jewelry for her. A necklace, or a bracelet. Embed defensive mechanisms, just like the first set you designed for me. Emergency tracking, micro-electric shock, location transmitter. All the functions need to be there."

I felt my breathing become difficult. That set of designs was my work at nineteen, our first real secret between us.

Only he and I knew the functional blueprints. That was the first time I'd perfectly integrated defensive mechanisms into jewelry. He'd said it was one of my cleverest works.

"Also," he continued, no expression on his face, "pair it with a small handgun. Use the specifications of your modified PPK that you carry. You know which version I mean—you adjusted the grip shape to better fit a woman's hand, shortened the trigger delay, and replaced it with a front sight you ground yourself. I want an exact copy. For her."

I looked at him. He wanted me to take what I'd created for myself, for saving my own life, copy it, and give it to Sofia.

He was asking me to dismantle, package, and hand over those designs I'd worked on alone through countless deep nights, soaked with my habits and instincts, along with the trust and understanding we'd developed between life and death—turn them into pretty useless trinkets in another woman's hands.

This was more cruel than removing my tattoo.

"Ella?" Sofia walked over, her voice sweet as melted sugar. "Ricardo says you can design the most unique things. I want something that constantly reminds me Ricardo loves me. Can you engrave a phrase on the bracelet—our secret words? The kind only we two understand."

She blinked those innocent blue eyes at me. Ricardo stood behind her, his gaze falling on me, brooking no refusal.

I forced a smile. "Of course."

I picked up the drawing pen and detailed every hidden mechanism's specifications and trigger mechanism at the edge of the blueprint. Then the gun's exploded diagram—every component, every dimension, all things I could draw with my eyes closed.

My hand moved, but my soul seemed to float to the ceiling, coldly watching this absurd scene below.

"How long will it take?" Ricardo asked.

"Three weeks."

Three weeks, for me to watch another woman wear the necklace engraved with my and his past secrets, hold that gun carrying our shared memories.

"No."

This word jumped from my mouth, carrying burning anger.

Everyone looked at me.

I put down the pen, stood up, and picked up the just-completed design drawing.

I held it up before me, then, under Ricardo's suddenly cold gaze, under Sofia's surprised gasp, under Victor's dumbfounded expression, tore it down the middle.

The tearing sound was crisp and harsh.

"I won't," I said, feeling my throat burning, "make these damn love tokens for your new bride."

I threw the torn-in-half blueprints on the ground, then picked them up and tore them into smaller pieces.

"Ella." Ricardo's voice was like an ice-tempered blade.

I turned and walked toward the door.

"If you walk out that door," he said behind me, each word carrying naked threat, "you're openly defying the family leader's direct order. You know the consequences."

I stopped at the doorway, not looking back.

"Then follow the rules," I said.

I pulled open the door and walked out. Behind me came Sofia's affected exclamation and Ricardo's low rebuke suppressing anger, but I didn't stop.

When I returned to my safe house in the West Village, the sky was already dark. At the apartment door was an exquisite ivory-white envelope.

I picked it up. Thick card stock with gold embossed lettering:

We cordially invite you to attend The engagement dinner of Mr. Ricardo Conti and Miss Sofia Rostov

Below were the time, location, and a line of small print: Please wear formal attire.

I held that invitation, standing in the dim corridor. I could imagine them picking out invitation styles together, Sofia laughing and nestling in his arms, choosing this one from many designs.

Just then, my phone vibrated. It was a picture from Marco.

In the photo, Ricardo was at the private shooting range I used to frequent. He stood behind Sofia, arms around her, teaching her to hold a gun hand over hand. What Sofia held was exactly my most commonly used custom SIG Sauer P226. She was smiling happily, Ricardo looking down at her, his profile unusually soft.

I stared at that photo for ten seconds.

Then I walked inside, took a lighter from a drawer. I lit one corner of the invitation.

Flames quickly consumed the expensive card stock. The gold lettering twisted and blackened in the fire, finally becoming curled ash. I threw it into the kitchen sink and watched it burn completely.

The ashes fell into the stainless steel sink like a small pile of dirty snow.