“Then he’s going to die,” Ajello barks. “Nino will come to get you at ten. He’ll be taking you to Naos.”
“Peachy. I’ll take Luna with me. And what—”
The line goes dead. I glance at the phone screen. It took me some time to adjust to the way Salvatore Ajello handles phone calls.
I shake my head and focus on the email again, going through the rest of the images, but they seem to be more of the same. Most are out of focus, probably taken with a phone camera in low light or while in motion. There’s only one clear photo. It shows Popov standing in a hotel lobby, maybe, his arm wrapped around the waist of a red-haired woman. He’s turned away from the camera, so his face is still not visible. At his side, the woman is focused on him. She looks like a movie star, dressed in a tight white dre
