Camila
We'd been in the air for more than an hour, flying east toward the red hue radiating from the horizon. While my father and Dante Luciano had made quick work of getting Mama and I on the plane and away from the scene of the attack, my nerves remained in tatters. Every shift or bounce from turbulence had my knuckles blanching and my grip of the armrest tightening. Each time I closed my eyes, I remembered the opening of the sauna door and the dreadful seconds wondering if the Russians had found me. The horrible sights and smells lingered in my mind, from the shattered glass doors to the bloodstained tile. My childhood home had been violated in a way that would stay with me long after the debris was cleaned away.
I turned to my side, taking in my mother as she sat staring out the sma
