Kiss Kill Vanish (11 page)

“Of course not. But he sent me here,” Emilio says softly. “To an art show he knew you'd be at—if I'm right and he was paying Lucien to watch you.”

“But he can't have known I was in Montreal this whole time,” I repeat pointlessly, no argument, no reason. It's just unimaginable.

Emilio doesn't answer, twirls a piece of my hair around and around his finger, distracting me with the gentle tugging and his touch on my neck. I can't follow his hole-ridden logic when he's doing that.

“This is a test,” he says evenly. “That's what it is.”

“For who?”

“Me.”

“What kind of a test? Why would he be testing you?”

“It's what he does. Loyalty has to be proven.”

“But he knows you're loyal.” I look up at him. “Right? That's why he made you shoot . . .” I don't want to say his name. Now that I know it, I don't ever want to hear it again.

Emilio is staring into the radiator, lost in his thoughts and a handful of my hair. “Do you think he knew about us?”

“No,” I say, without thinking. But then I do think. I'd always assumed Papi would go ballistic if he knew about Emilio—he never liked the boys I hung out with, and they were at least my own age. And Emilio is twenty-four. If Papi had suspicions, I can't imagine him keeping quiet about them.

But there are all sorts of things about Papi that I could never have imagined. That night on the yacht changed everything. What do I know about who he really is and what he'd really do? Nothing, anymore. I know nothing.

“He must've known about us,” Emilio says. “Let's say he did, but instead of confronting me, he saw it as an opportunity, something to hold on to for later. And when you disappeared, he tracked you down here and saw to it you'd be safe and decided it was a chance to test me. Let's say he sent me here, knowing I'd see you at Les Fontaines because he had Lucien take you.”

“But why?”

“Because I'd have to decide whether to tell him I found you.”

My heart punches against my ribs. “You aren't going to, though, right?”

Emilio doesn't answer.

I turn my face into the pleats of his shirt. “Don't,” I say into his breastbone. “Please. I can't go back.”

No answer. His smell—I know what the difference is now. No sea or salt, just spray starch and cigar.

“Come back with me,” he says gently, his hand moving to my back. “You said it yourself—you're living in squalor. If you come with me, you could be in your own bed by tomorrow night.”

“I can't
.
”

His lips are next to my ear. “You don't want to be with me?”

I slide my fingers up his arms, feeling the muscle beneath. Being with him is all I want. If I could just get that picture out of my head—the blood flower, the crumpled gray heap, Emilio's perfectly straight arm, the same one I'm holding on to right now—I could have that. I could go with him. “You know I do. But I can't go back now that I know what he does, and what he makes you do, and what pays for . . . everything.”

His arms loosen, dropping to his sides, and my back is cold without his hands holding the warmth in. I uncurl myself awkwardly and sit up straight, so I won't fall off his lap. “What happens if you don't tell him?”

He stares gloomily across the café toward the door.

“Maybe he'd think you just didn't see me. You didn't actually see Lucien, did you?”

“But Marcel knows. He'll tell Lucien.”

Right. I rest a hand on his chest where my cheek was before. “What if you don't go back? What if we go somewhere else? Together?”

For a few seconds, I know he's going to say yes. His heart quickens beneath my palm. His hands find my waist. He's looking at my lips, and I see him remembering. He wants to tell me all the places he'll take me.

But he shakes his head.

“Why not?” I ask.

“My family. I've seen what how he makes people pay. And where would we go?”

“Somewhere he couldn't find us. Your family too.”

“Be realistic, Valentina. Even if they had that kind of money, there's nowhere that Victor couldn't find them. Or us.”

“Of course there is.”

“It doesn't exist,” he insists. “He found you here.”

He did. I don't know how, but he did. “Somewhere deeper or wilder. Siberia. The Congo. New Guinea.”

“You don't want to live in the Congo or New Guinea,” he says drily, “and I'm pretty sure neither of us wants to live in Siberia. It's not a fluke that he found you here, you know. He'd have found you if you'd gone somewhere else. He has people all over the world, people who can track us anywhere.”

“Not
anywhere
.”

He frowns at me. “You have to stop being so childish.”

“Don't say that,” I say, feeling the hurt rolling into anger, picking up speed. “If you don't want to be with me, own it and just say—”

I can't finish. Emilio is kissing me. His hands are holding my head like he thinks he can trap me in place and shut me up. I'm too startled to respond. But then his anger becomes something else and I feel it pouring into me, filling me. He's not shutting me up. He's telling me something. He's melding us together.

When he pulls away, I'm lost. For a few seconds I was Valentina, and now I'm nothing. He brings me close to him again, puts his cheek on mine, his lips beside my ear. “I want to be with you. Every time I imagine what my life would be like if it was really mine, you're in it. You are it.”

I'm breathless. He wants me, but I'm not his. He's not mine. He's not even his own.

“Do you believe me?” he asks, still holding my cheek to his.

I nod. I'm not going to speak until my heart slows and my breath comes back. I hate this vulnerability, this feeling like I've been spun around and sliced open. He knows what he just did to me, and yet he can just pull away, leaving me shaken and winded with my heart still thundering. Maybe I shouldn't believe him.

“If I disappear,” he says, “my family will pay. With blood.”

I shudder, revolted. Emilio's right. I have been childish. I can't believe I actually wondered if I could love and hate Papi at same time, a man who would kill innocent people for revenge.

I can't go back and pretend I don't hate him.

“So I can't disappear,” Emilio says. “You understand?”

“Yes. But I'm not going with you.”

He frowns. I've surprised him. “You realize I can't lie to him, though. He'll know.”

“So tell him. He already knows where I am, right?”

“Yes, but . . .” Emilio shakes his head. “He'll be suspicious if I don't bring you home.”

“I don't see why. He can't expect you to drag me to Miami.”

“But he can expect me to convince you, and
nothing
is more important than having your father think I'm his most loyal employee. He already doubts me. That's why he's doing this.”

“Then don't tell him. He'll just assume we didn't run into each other. Remember Lucien didn't see us together.”

“How sure are you of that?” he asks.

“Pretty sure.”

“Would you bet my life on it?”

I swallow. Would I?

“And Marcel saw us together,” Emilio continues. “Don't you think he'll tell Lucien?”

I sigh and cup Emilio's face in my hands.
I can't go back because I saw your dead eyes.

“I've been miserable since you left,” he says.

I let go of his face and look down at my lap, at the fluted edge of Nanette's wrinkled dress. Above my right knee, a tiny hole in my stockings is just beginning to open up. Reflexively, before it even occurs to me that they're reparable, I stick my pinkie in it and pull, watching the web trickle up and down my thigh. It's something Valentina would do because she can, because pantyhose are expendable. The guilt takes seconds to hit—these cost real money, money I had to earn myself.

“Come back with me,” he presses, pulling my hand from the growing web of lace.

“Not now that I know what he is.”

“Don't do it for him. Do it for me.”

“I am doing it for you! I can't go back because of what he's done to you. He's made you a killer.”

I glance up in time to see him wince. It's what he is, though, what he did. It's what he'll keep doing.

“I was born into this just like you were,” he says evenly. “Neither of us chose it. If I can forgive you for being a Cruz, you should be able to do the same.” He stops for long enough to put my hand back on his chest and hold it there as if it belongs there. “It's the only way we can be together.”

My fingers look spindly and weak between his, like they could be easily crushed. I don't know what to say. I don't trust myself. If he kisses me again, I might give in. “No,” I say.

“Is it Lucien?” He doesn't hide the twinge of bitterness in his voice.

“What are you talking about?”

“He's getting paid to watch you, remember? He's getting paid to give you money, and kiss you good night and whatever else—”

“Stop it!” I yank my hand away. “I take enough of it from Marcel. I can't stand Lucien. I put up with him because it's better than begging on the street.”

“I didn't mean—”

“You
did
mean it.”

“Something about him irks me. And Marcel is dangerous—you should stay away from him.”

“Trust me, I try. Marcel is just . . .” I stop, distracted by the tiniest fragment of a possibility. It's like something tickling the back of my neck, a thought but barely a thought. “I wonder if I could convince him not to tell.”

“Lucien?”

“No. Marcel. I wonder if I could convince Marcel not to tell Lucien.”

Emilio shakes his head. “Too risky.”

“But what if it worked? You could go back and pretend you never saw me.”

“We'd still be apart,” Emilio says, and pulls me closer.

I have to look away to keep my thoughts straight. I have to not think about his grip on my waist. “But Papi wouldn't suspect anything, and we'd have time to figure out what to do.”

“I'm not so sure Lucien didn't see us going into that room. Or coming out. He must've been watching if he was supposed to report back to Victor.”

“But he was cold when he found me. I remember. I asked him why, and he said he'd been out on the balcony looking at the fountains. I need to talk to Marcel before he says anything to Lucien. Wait, do you think Marcel works for my father too?”

Emilio snorts. “No.”

“Why is that funny?”

“Victor doesn't trust users.” He takes both of my upper arms in his hands, turning me to face him, his fingers like cuffs. “We have to think through this rationally. What if Marcel's already told him?”

“He hasn't. They were fighting tonight. Lucien was going home, and Marcel is probably still out partying.”

“So he'll tell him tomorrow then.”

“That's what I'm saying—I'll convince him not to.” My stomach twists at the thought of begging Marcel for anything. I picture his leer, his skinny hands. I push it out of my mind. “He'll listen to me.”

“And why is that?”

“He just will. He owes me a favor,” I lie.

Emilio leans back and sighs. I can see the defeat in his face. He's caving. “It's too risky,” he mutters.

“But it's worth it. It'll buy you time.”

“To do what?”

“To figure out a plan,” I say. “What do you need to get your family somewhere safe?”

“That doesn't exist.”

“If it exists.”

He rubs the side of his neck, and I see again how tired he looks, how much older. “Money.”

I can't help but smile. “Lucky for you I know some rich people in Miami you can rob blind.”

He doesn't think it's funny. “Stealing from your father is suicide.”

“Then steal from Lola. She's got so much stuff, she won't even notice.”

Finally, it's there—the hint of a smile, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. “This is insane.”

“No, it's genius.”

“So I'll fly back in the morning like I'm supposed to,” he says, “and you'll persuade Marcel not to tell Lucien that the two of you bumped into me. Lucien will tell your father the truth—that he took you to the gallery but he didn't see me, and then”—he stops, takes a deep breath—“and then I'll get some money together, and get my family out of Bogotá.”

Hope balloons inside me. I'm afraid to breathe, afraid it'll puncture and collapse. “And once they're safe?”

“I'll come back for you.”

I want to kiss him again, but he looks too lost in worry. Guilt thickens in the back of my throat, refusing to be swallowed. “Promise?”

His lips turn upward in the shape of a smile. If only it were real. “We'll go somewhere he can't find us.”

“Siberia?”

He snorts. “Never. And not the Congo. I'll think of somewhere better while I'm trying not to think about all the ways this could blow up in my face.”

“Don't worry about Marcel. I can handle him.”

“You don't know Marcel as well as you think you know him.”

“What does that mean?”

“Just be careful,” Emilio says, glancing at the clock.

“I will.”

“I have to leave soon.”

“But it's only one thirty. Your flight isn't until morning, right?”

“I have to pack up, and take care of a few things.”

I stand, instantly colder without the heat from his body. “What do I do if you don't come back?”

“I'll come back.”

“When?”

“One week. I'll need a week.” He stands too. He picks up the tuxedo jacket from the chair it's draped over and slides back into it.