Dizzy with pain, Inez tried to twist sideways from his grasp.
Nico shoved her into the door again, hard. The panel rattled, the rough surface tore at her cheek like sharp fingernails. “I am sorry, Signora. This is not what I wanted, what I hoped, for you and me. But you brought it on yourself. On us.”
He then wrenched her away and spun her around so she faced the window overlooking the alley. The hard muzzle of the gun jammed into the base of her neck.
Time stood still.
Her vision blackened at the edges, until all she saw was Jamie’s gaping trunk and the dark-paned window above. She felt hot, then very, very cold. Not this way. It cannot end this way.
“Nico, stop. Don’t do this,” she whispered.
“Hands behind your back, Signora.”
She complied, and he locked her wrists together with his long fingers. “If you do not want to end up dead, you must do as I say.” He twisted her wrists and she bit back a scream, sure her arm was broken.
The pressure of the muzzle lifted, and she went limp with relief. Before she could move or say anything more, a silky rope snaked around her wrists and tightened. One of her stockings? She guessed so, but since it was behind her back, she couldn’t tell for certain.
“I do not want to kill you,” he said under his breath. “I just need time. Later, when Antonia returns from dinner, she will wonder where you are and will find you. Eventually. By then, I’ll be gone.”
“What are you doing?” She meant this in a wider sense—what have you done to your life?—but he answered in the specific.
“I will take a page from Signore Monroe’s book, disappear, and re-invent myself, far away from here.”
What about Carmella? Was she going with him? Was he abandoning her? Inez opened her mouth to ask and a wad of silky material—another of her good stockings?—stopped her words.
He continued, “If only Signore Monroe had told me who he really was. Yes, I saw the photograph. Signore Gallagher showed me, asked me if I knew him. Son of a rich man, well-placed. If he hadn’t pretended to be someone he was not, this would not have happened. I would happily have allowed him to court Carmella, and he wouldn’t have gone digging up the past. It would all have been so different.” He sounded sad, and angry, as if the turn of events was due to Jamie, due to Inez, due to everyone but himself.
Regaining her wits, Inez tried to spit out the gag.
“No, no. You must stay quiet for now, Signora.” A length of material—a sash?—looped across her mouth and nose. He tied a knot at the back of her head. Pulled it tight. She held still. If he pulled much more she would not be able to breathe at all, and that would be the end of her, although not immediately, and certainly most unpleasantly.
He pushed her toward Monroe’s open trunk. “Forgive the mess. I had to look for anything else you or he might have had that might tie his death or the past to me. Nothing. Signore Welles told me about the list of names. I knew you were getting close to the truth. I’ll not bother you for those papers now. What you do with them, I do not care. I will not be here. You can prove nothing. All you can do is tell stories, and who will believe you? Besides, I will be gone.”
His tone intensified. “You would not want to hurt Carmella further, would you? She will be bewildered, frantic, and wonder what happened to me. She will need you. I have arranged to leave the store to you and to her—yes, you will finally have your half-ownership—and everything else is left to her. She is the only one I regret leaving now.” The sorrow in his voice was genuine, but brief.
Then he was all business again. “Get in.”
Inez stared at the trunk. Surely he wasn’t going to lock her inside Jamie’s trunk.
When she didn’t move, Nico shoved her over the side. She tumbled in, hitting her shoulder hard on the wood-ribbed bottom. She lashed out at him with a foot. He grabbed her ankle and held it.
For one brief moment, she saw his face. His jaw was set, determined, eyes hollowed in the lamplight, his usually well-groomed hair a wild, curly mop. He looked nothing like the talented musician Inez thought she knew, the one who captivated San Francisco’s high society and seduced all with his charm and his music.
He looked a monster.
“The only reason I do not kill you as I killed Signore Monroe is because Carmella will need you. Do not fail her.” He shoved her foot inside and slammed the lid, shutting Inez into complete darkness.
Inez heard the latch click, the key turn and lock. She heard him say, “Good-bye, Signora.”
Footsteps retreated across the floor. A door opened, then shut.
She lay on her side in the trunk, head forced down between her shoulders, knees bent, walking skirt and petticoat twisted around her legs. Her injured arm was pinned beneath her, screaming to be released. Inez attempted to shift onto her back and breathe shallowly through the satin encasing her nose. She kicked the wall of the trunk behind her to test its strength.
She had never been in such complete, saturated dark.
The walls at front, back, above, below, seemed to constrict, shrink around her. It was like being buried alive.
She tried to calm her breathing. What if the air in the trunk was all she had? How long would it be before Antonia found her? Please don’t let her come back while he is still here.
Time seemed to stretch eternal as Inez strained to hear. Would she hear the door open downstairs? Would Antonia call out for her?
Sounds, outside the trunk. Inez kicked harder. There was a footfall, followed by a scraping at the keyhole and Antonia’s
