Page 101 of Mafia Obsession

“Let her go.”

Chapter 39

Lourdes

By the time the plane touches down in Chicago, I’m exhausted from anticipating being intercepted, bracing for a hand on my shoulder, for hearing my name spoken in that low, controlled voice or shouted at some ear-piercing decibel level.

None of that happens.

And somehow, that’s worse.

Ares Zervas isn’t a man who loses or gets outsmarted.

Outside the terminal windows, the Chicago sky hangs low and gray. I thought I knew every cloud pattern here. It’s been so long. Too long.

My phone lights up again with the same unknown number. Ares wouldn’t call from an unknown number, thinking he could trick me into answering.

I stop at an ATM after I got off the plane and then wait my turn in the cab line, bracing against the cold. With the airport crowd in the terminal, I felt insulated. Now I’m out in the open. Am I in danger here? It’s a chance I’m going to have to take.

Finally, I’m at the head of the line and slip into a taxi. When I give the driver Sandrine’s institution address, he gives me a strange look over his shoulder.

Like I’m a patient.

He stares for a moment, then says, “That’s going to cost more than fifty dollars.”

“That’s fine,” I say, keeping to myself that I’d pay more if it gets me to Sandrine.

Shrugging, he throws the cab into gear and drives off.

As the airport disappears in the backdrop, I press my forehead lightly against the cool door glass and tell myself Ares will get over it. He’ll get over me.

Will I get over him? Damn, I feel guilty for deceiving him. I even miss him already.

I take out my phone and pop open the back to remove the SIM card. I carefully wrap it in the sheet of tin foil that I snagged from the penthouse before I left. Hopingwhat I read on the internet that tin foil is an effective block against cyber tracing, I drop the card into my purse.

The institution rises on the corner of a commercial park and a residential street lined with bare trees.

“Right here is fine,” I say to the cab driver when we approach the large burgundy sign that reads Lakeshore Neurological Rehabilitation Center.

I pay the driver and then step onto the sidewalk. For a moment, I just stand there and let the wind tug at my coat. Built in the 1960’s, this institution has a typical sterile brick façade. After my father’s small trust ran out, I chose this place precisely because no one would look twice at it. No one would suspect that a girl named Sandrine De la Vega was registered here as Jessica Parker.

I hike up a set of stone steps and pull open a heavy glass door. Memories attack me of the day I showed up knowing I had to tell my sister I was moving to New York with David.

I feel sick all over again. But today, I fix all of that.

A receptionist greets me warmly, and having taken my calls, she recognizes my name. I’m the only person who calls Jessica Parker.

When a nurse leads me down the hallway toward the common room, my knees start to wobble. I haven’t seen my sister in three years.

Sandrine is seated by the window, sunlight catching in her hair that’s pulled into a low, ugly ponytail. She looks younger than she is. A sketchpad rests on her lap, charcoal smudged faintly along her fingertips. She’s still drawing, and that makes me happy. The money I spent to send her supplies didn’t go to waste.

She glances up at the sound of my footsteps, and her expression shifts from artist bliss to shock. “Lourdes,” she says, and the sound of my name in her voice nearly undoes me.

“Jessica.” I cross the room, remembering to be mindful that she startles at sudden moves and strange smells.

When she’s within reach, I gather her gently into my arms.

“You didn’t tell me you were coming,” she murmurs against my shoulder.