Chapter 3

Alexia POV

The monastery was a tomb of cold air. It smelled faintly of beeswax and ancient, damp stone.

I scrubbed the limestone floors until my knees bruised. I peeled mountains of potatoes. With my left hand, I played simple hymns on the chapel organ.

The nuns didn't ask questions. They knew who my husband was. In this part of Italy, everyone knew the Cummings family.

My right hand ached constantly, a dull, throbbing reminder of what I had lost. I had no pain medication. Jacob controlled the accounts, and I had left with nothing but the clothes on my back and a few euros.

I was hungry. Not the kind of hungry you feel when you skip lunch. It was the kind of hungry that hollows you out from the inside.

I remembered my mother. She used to skip meals so I could have piano lessons. She believed art would save me.

She was wrong. Power saves you. Money saves you. Art just makes you feel the pain more acutely.

It was raining the night he came.

I saw the headlights first, slicing through the gloom. A convoy of black SUVs cutting through the darkness like sharks in deep water. They stopped at the iron gates.

Jacob got out. He held a large black umbrella, shielding himself from the downpour while I stood exposed. He strode toward the main building with the air of a man who believed he owned God himself.

I met him in the courtyard. I didn't want him inside. I didn't want him tainting this place.

"You look thin," he observed, his voice devoid of warmth.

He handed me a box wrapped in crushed velvet.

"It's cold," he said. "Put this on."

I opened it. It was a shawl. Cashmere. Embroidered with a single red rose.

A memory flashed behind my eyes. Years ago, before the bitterness rotted us, he had brought me a rose from the garden. He had smiled then. A real smile.

"Thank you," I said, my voice stiff. I didn't put it on.

"Are you ready to come home?" he asked. "Anton misses you."

"Does he?" I asked. "Or does he miss having someone to do his laundry?"

Jacob sighed, the sound impatient. "Don't be difficult, Alexia. I have news. I pulled some strings. There is a position at the Vienna Royal Academy. A guest professorship. You can go. You can teach."

My breath hitched. Vienna.

"You remember," he said, stepping closer, invading my space. "You told me once. You wanted to play in the Golden Hall."

He was rewriting history.

"I told you I wanted to find my sister in Vienna," I said, the old wound tearing open. "I wanted to play so she might hear me. She was taken when I was six."

Jacob blinked. The romantic mask slipped for a fraction of a second.

"Right," he said, recovering quickly. "Well. The position is yours. If you come back. If you sign the papers."

Papers. There was always a contract.

Suddenly, his phone rang.

The sound shattered the rhythm of the rain. He pulled it out. His face changed instantly. The boredom vanished. Panic replaced it.

"Cassandra?" he barked into the phone. "Slow down. Where are you?"

He listened, and his knuckles turned white around the device.

"I'm coming," he said. "I'm coming now."

He hung up. He looked at me, but he didn't truly see me.

"She's been taken," he said. "The rival family. They have her."

He turned and ran. He sprinted back to the car. He didn't say goodbye. He didn't mention Vienna. He left the cashmere shawl falling into the mud, a discarded peace offering.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. A burner phone I had bought with my potato-peeling money.

"Hello?" I answered.

"Did you enjoy the show?" a distorted voice asked.

"Who is this?"

"Jacob is chasing a ghost," the voice said, cold and metallic. "Cassandra isn't kidnapped. But you are about to be."

"What?"

"Look behind you."

I turned. Two men in masks were standing by the chapel door.

"You are the bait, Mrs. Cummings," the voice said. "Let's see who he chooses when the timer starts. You are in a warehouse. There is a bomb. Cassandra is 'missing'. It's the ultimate loyalty test."

I didn't fight as rough hands grabbed me.

I knew the answer to the test.

I knew who he would choose.