Chapter 6

The sun felt harsher in Spain than it had in Chicago.

When I landed, someone was already waiting to pick me up.

Everything went more smoothly than I'd expected. My friend had quietly arranged my new identity, visa, work permit, and hiring paperwork months earlier, so everything was already in place when I arrived.

The director, a gray-haired woman named Carmen Ruiz, took my hand and spoke in accented English.

"We've waited a long time for a real ballerina to teach these children."

I nodded and didn't mention that I hadn't been on a stage in a very long time.

The medical exam was the last step.

When the doctor lifted the back of my shirt, the exam room went quiet for a long time.

He frowned and said something in Spanish. The nurse beside him translated.

"These scars... what happened?"

I stared at the anatomy chart on the opposite wall.

The fire.

The fire that burned all night.

And everything I'd taken for Vincenzo since. Broken glass, falling beams, knives thrown by his enemies.

"Don't worry, it's fine," I said. "I won't be performing. Teaching the kids is enough for me.

"These scars... think of them as proof that I've lived."

The doctor started to say something, then stopped.

I pulled my shirt back down and turned around.

Carmen had been waiting outside. When she heard what I'd said, she fell quiet for a moment, then sighed and pulled me into a hug.

"Thank you for never giving up. Welcome to our academy," she said. "Welcome."

She'd barely finished speaking when a bunch of kids swarmed around us, chattering away.

There were seven or eight of them. The youngest was only five. She stood on tiptoe and hugged me around the waist.

Her hair was twisted into a lopsided bun with a pink hair tie.

It looked just like the one my mom had done for me before my first performance.

I looked down at her, and slowly, I smiled.

The empty place in my chest seemed to fill, little by little.

That was when I realized something.

Letting go wasn't as hard as I'd thought.

...

A few hours earlier, in Chicago.

A black car sped through the streets before dawn.

The city was still asleep, but every route out of Chicago, including the highways, marinas, and airports, had been blocked.

Traffic backed up at the checkpoints. People rolled down their windows to curse, leaned on their horns, and complained to anyone who'd listen.

Marco spoke quietly from the passenger seat.

"Don, still nothing. None of the checkpoints have found Donna Moretti."

Vincenzo stared at the empty highway ahead, his fists clenched on his knees, his knuckles white.

"Keep looking."

"But every checkpoint has already..."

"I said keep looking."

Marco said nothing more.

Vincenzo closed his eyes. All he could see was the report from that black box, every word stark on the page.

"Pregnancy: 12 weeks. Procedure: dilation and curettage."

Vivian had been carrying his child.

Then she'd gone through the procedure alone, and their baby was gone.

Now Vivian was gone too.

Vincenzo's eyes snapped open. In the car window, he caught his own reflection, eyes bloodshot.

"There's no record of her anywhere?"

His voice had gone hoarse.

"It looks like Donna Moretti used a different identity. There's no record of her leaving the country. It's like... she planned it all."

She had it all planned.

Vincenzo sank back into his seat. It felt as though a fist had closed around his chest.

How had she hidden it from him so well?

How had he missed it? He hadn't even known she was planning to leave.

Then a scent reached him.

Crisp and wild, with a sweetness that stung his nose.

Daisies.