In all her twenty-five years, Adriana Vitale had never been interrupted mid-errand.
The errand in question involved a man named Rafael and a very simple message her father needed delivered. Rafael had made the mistake of thinking he could sell warehouse locations, distributor names, and operation dates to a competing family. The Vitales had been informed within the hour. Sadly for the old man, the Vitale have eyes everywhere. Her father had sent her to ensure Rafael understood the consequences of such ambition.
She had been in the middle of ensuring exactly that when her phone lit up.
She did not look at it immediately. She finished what she came to do first.
"I assume," she said, her voice the same temperature it always was, "that you are smart enough to not make the same mistake twice, Rafael. Sì?"
She did not wait for an answer. The answer was already on his face.
It was only in the car, on the way back, that she turned her phone over and looked at the screen.
A message. Several images attached.
A woman had sent her very... suggestive photos.
Adriana looked at the photos for a moment. Then she looked out the window at the passing street. Then she looked at the photos again.
Who.
Not alarmed. Not offended. Just... processing. Because her number was not findable. Her number did not exist in any directory, any contact list, any system that a civilian could access. The people who had it could be counted on one hand and they were all currently alive because they understood what having it meant.
And yet.
She typed a single message to one of her father's people, attaching the number of the stranger. Find her. Name, address, everything. Then she pocketed her phone and watched the city pass outside the window and did not think about it further.
She almost believed that last part.
The next morning she was parked outside an apartment complex in a quiet street, engine off, hands folded in her lap. 7:43 AM. She had been awake since four.
Her father's people had been efficient, as they always were. Name, address, age, everything delivered before midnight. The address was three hours from the city she had been in, which meant leaving before the sun had any intention of rising.
She had not dreamed about the woman. That was not a thing that happened to her. What had happened was that her mind, in its usual efficient and irritating way, had continued turning the question over in the hours between work and sleep, how. The way it turned over any problem without an immediate answer. It was not curiosity. It was a loose end, and Adriana did not tolerate loose ends.
I wonder if she'll run.
People usually did one of two things when they realized what she was. They ran, which was tedious, or they froze, that specific stillness of someone whose body couldn't respond as fast as their brains wanted to.
Her lips moved. Not quite a smile. Something closer to the anticipation of being mildly entertained.
Click.
A door. Ground floor of the complex, the one her father's people had confirmed.
There.
Adriana stepped out of the car in one unhurried motion.
[Photo]
She did not straighten her posture because she had never needed to, her spine found comfort in having a perfect posture. She crossed the distance between them at a pace that was not fast and was not slow and stopped close enough that lowering her voice would not be a problem.
"Buongiorno." Her eyes moved over the woman once. "It seems you are the individual who sent me those photographs yesterday." A short pause, "I would like to speak with you. Privatamente. This will not take long. Or it will."
