Diary of a Teenage Jewel Thief(49)

There are worse things than meeting new people dressed like a hooker. Like Petrov getting impatient and possibly hurting my mom because I took too long waffling about the way I look. I nod my understanding, and Vasili produces a switchblade from his pocket. He makes short work of cutting through our bonds, then closes his knife and steps out of the car. “Come, let’s get this over with,” he says before shutting his door.

I wait for Vasili to open my door, not that I have much choice with the child safety locks engaged. As soon as I exit the vehicle, Will slides across the seat and climbs out behind me, but I don’t move to give him much room. I’ve never been a fan of the unknown, and the idea of walking into the home of someone who could be either friend or foe and demanding items my father entrusted to him when I don’t even know what I’m asking for sets me on edge. I like to scope things out, do my homework, before going into a new situation. But I don’t have that luxury here. I settle for looking around for any information I can glean from my surroundings.

The building looks old but well cared for, I notice as we approach the house. Two large shade trees hang over a small stone courtyard area rimmed by lush green shrubbery. A wrought-iron table with three chairs sits to one side, leaving a wide path to the wooden front door. When we reach it, Vasili holds out the key Petrov had pulled from my journal. “It would look suspicious if anyone but you had this,” he tells me. “And remember, we’re here for the items your father left with them.” He reaches for the thick metal door knocker and gives the door three heavy thuds with it.

Several minutes pass, and I begin to think maybe no one is home. Then the door opens to reveal a spritely, dark-haired, and olive-skinned girl at least a year or two younger than me. This can’t possibly be the person my father left something with. She couldn’t have been much older than five when he died.

“Buonasera,” she greets us in Italian, which means I was right about where Petrov has brought us. Her tone is friendly, but she looks warily from Will to me to Vasili.

“Buonasera,” I reply, and her attention returns to me. “Inglese?” My Italian is a little rusty and I’d like to avoid the potential for miscommunication. And to the best of my knowledge, Will doesn’t speak Italian. I want him to bear witness to whatever’s about to happen.

“English, yes,” the girl answers with a barely detectable accent.

I’m not really sure how to explain the situation, so I dive right in. “My father left me this”—I hold up the key —“and a note to come here. I believe he left something with someone who lived here.”

Her chocolate-brown eyes widen, and she turns to look into the dimly lit foyer behind her. “Vinny,” she calls, and almost immediately a boy about my age slips into view behind her. He’s taller with more masculine features, but the family resemblance is clear. She steps back from the door, and he fills the space in her absence.

“Who are you?” he demands, but he’s not looking at me. His gaze is focused on Vasili.

“I’m a friend. Here to…keep her safe.” Vasili perfects a precise American accent, effectively hiding any traces of his European origins from his voice, and he looks to me when he speaks as if daring me to contradict him.

Vinny watches me for confirmation, but as tempted as I am to rat Vasili out, I keep my mouth shut and nod. Vinny returns my nod and steps out of the way. “Please, come in.”

I enter first with Will close on my heels, and Vasili brings up the rear. The girl who answered the door leads us into a small receiving room off the main entryway. The furnishings are old, a heavy wood-framed sofa with worn brown plaid fabric and two matching brown club chairs, but cozy and angled around a wide stone fireplace. She motions for us to sit on the sofa and then claims one of the chairs across from us.

Vinny takes the other one. He looks me over, spending extra time in the area near my skirt hem and again at my exposed cleavage, but he’s not leering at me. Instead, I almost feel a little judged. “You are Marisol?”

I swallow first embarrassment, then indignation at his judgy perusal of my attire. I nod.

“And who are you?” he questions Will.

“Will Campbell.” Will offers no further information, but there’s a spark of recognition in Vinny’s eyes, like the name is familiar to him.

Vinny turns to Vasili. “And you?”

“Robert Smith,” he answers, again with no trace of his usual accent. Vinny’s eyes narrow in suspicion, but he doesn’t press Vasili for more.

“You knew my father?” I ask to move things along.

“Not me—us—no. Our grandfather.” Vinny is still watching Vasili carefully.

At the rate this is moving, we’re going to be here forever. “Who is your grandfather? Who are you?” I know my annoyance is starting to show in my voice, but I don’t care. Petrov has my mother, and the only thing standing between her and freedom is these two tight-lipped teenagers.

The girl leans forward in her chair to answer. “I’m Giada, and this is my brother Vincenzo. Our grandfather, Paolo, was a friend of your father’s.”

Now we’re getting somewhere. “Is he here? May I speak with him?”

Vincenzo and Giada exchange a serious look, then Giada says, “Sí, I will take you to him.”

Vasili moves to stand, but Giada stays him with a raised hand. “Only her. You must wait here with my brother.”