The air in Geneva was thin and cold, smelling of old money and lake water.
Dante didn’t speak to her in the car. He sat scrolling through messages on his phone, the earlier violence in the jet packed away behind a wall of icy professionalism. Evelina sat as far away from him as the leather interior allowed, her skin still crawling with the memory of his hands.
The car stopped in front of a fortress-like building made of grey stone. Aubert & Fils.
“We are here,” Dante said. He didn’t look at her. “Check your face. You look pale.”
Evelina opened her compact. She applied a fresh coat of lipstick, her hand shaking only slightly. She looked like a porcelain doll that had been dropped and glued back together.
“I’m ready,” she said, her voice dead.
“Good. Remember the script. You are the ex
