ISABELLA POV — LATER THAT DAY
The café is quiet in the mid-afternoon lull. I am wiping down the tables when the door opened, bringing with it a gust of Mediterranean air and four men in expensive suits.
My heart stops coldly.
Russian men. I could tell by their bearing, their clothes, and the way they moved with casual authority. They are too well-dressed for tourists and too alert to be harmless.
Oh God. Sokolov's men had found me again.
I keep my head down, and tighten my hand on the rag. Maybe if I don't look at them, if I just kept working...
"Izvinite," one of them said in Russian. Excuse me.
I looked up slowly, my pulse pounding in my ears.
But they weren't looking at me. They were looking at Mrs. Kovač, who'd emerged from the kitchen.
"We're looking for someone," the man con
