Page 5 of Pageant

“Signore?” I try, certain that there’s masculine energy radiating out of the darkness. Perhaps a curious local has followed me. Or a dangerous one. Yesterday, I overheard two British models talking about their friend going missing, and that they knew of a German woman who never returned to her hotel. Women come and go during fashion week. Some meet husbands or sugar daddies, and others get fed up and go home. Some, like me and Ayna, are fired and slink away in shame. Probably no one’s been abducted, but I still stare as hard as I can into the shadows, just in case.

Nothing moves. It must have been a cat slinking through the darkness. There’s only a hundred feet between where I’m standing and a well-lit street. I turn and walk confidently with long strides, my ears pricked for any sound behind me. As I reach the main street and step into the light, I turn and take one last look down the alley.

No assassins. No Russian mafia. No lecherous locals. I guess I’m being paranoid. Is it paranoia, though, when there’s a good chance that your dead husband’s friends are waiting for the chance to slit your throat and silence you forever?

No one forgives. Especially not the Russian mafia.

But I’m in Milan, and both Russia and the Russian mafia in the United States are at a comfortable distance. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly.

“Lilia?” says a voice behind me.

I whirl around, panic spiking through me. I was so focused on the dark alley that I didn’t check the main street. I turn and see, not a stalker or assassin, but a well-dressed, middle-aged couple. It’s the woman who spoke, a chic dresser in her mid-forties with a dyed blonde bob, a short black dress, and heavy gold earrings. Her arm loops through her husband’s, a graying man in a tuxedo.

The woman’s eyes widen. “Itisyou. Lilia Kalashnik. What are you doing in Milan? Where have you been all this time?”

I recognize them. Alina and Leopold Lugovskaya, friends of my father’s. They were at my wedding to Ivan Kalashnik, but so were five hundred other people. Blood thunders in my ears. I haven’t come face to face with anyone from my old life since I fled my husband’s home eighteen months ago.

My mind screamsdanger.

Run, and don’t look back.

Pretend I don’t know them.

Kill them.

I take a deep breath and smile brightly. “Mr. and Mrs. Lugovskaya. How are you? What a coincidence, running into you here. I’m working at Milan Fashion Week.”

Mrs. Lugovskaya returns my smile, but it’s hesitant. Mr. Lugovskaya is watching me with a heavy frown. These are my father’s friends, so they have no reason to want me dead. All the same, they’re Russian, so my nerves are screaming at me to run.

“Your father doesn’t know where you are, Lilia,” he tells me.

That’s the idea. If he can’t find me, he can’t force me to marry anyone else.

“It was too hard to be in the States after what happened.” I blink several times and let my eyes slide away from them, as if I’m overcome with sadness. The poor, grieving widow.

“It’s wonderful to see you both.” It’s not. “I would love to stay and chat.” I have nothing to say to either of you. “But I have a busy day tomorrow. Could I please ask you a favor before I say goodnight? Don’t tell Dad you saw me. I need just a little more time to myself after what happened.”

I don’t have to spell it out to them. They will know about Ivan being gunned down in the street. I’m sure Dad gave them all the gory details.

The Lugovskayas exchange glances. Even though they feel for me, telling lies, even lies of omission, is lowly and dishonorable.

Mrs. Lugovskaya speaks first. “All right, Lilia, but first come have coffee with us. I feel responsible for you. If I left you here on the street and something happened to you, I’d never forgive myself.”

I clench my fists. I’m a grown woman, not a child. “I don’t—”

But Mr. Lugovskaya is already putting his hand on my back and propelling me forward. “Our apartment is just across the street.”

I give in. If I don’t go with them, within the hour they’ll have called my father and told him where I am.

As we walk, a figure across the street catches my eye. A man is standing in an alcove, his hands deep in the pockets of his jacket with a hood over his head. Such a heavy jacket for a warm night like this. His attention flickers from me to the Lugovskayas and back again. Then he turns and walks away.

I feel cold all over. Someonewasfollowing me. Italian or Russian? Curious, or malevolent? I can’t tell, but I’ll book a cab to take me back to my hotel as soon as I’ve finished having coffee with the Lugovskayas.

We take the elevator upstairs. They’ve rented the entire fourth floor of a majestic old building with soaring ceilings, cavernous rooms, and chic gold décor.

“How have you been, Lilia?” Mrs. Lugovskaya asks, setting down a tray on the low wooden table and pouring steaming coffee into tiny cups.

I perch on the leather sofa and drink my cup as fast as I can. “Fine, thank you. Work is keeping me busy.”

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