I’ve never thrown up as much as I threw up on the flight to St. Eustatius. Not even the time the school lunch was bad tuna fish sandwiches and the entire cohort tried to get into the bathroom at the same time. Mandy took off her left shoe and threw up into it. Two students took turns at the garbage pail while Miss Tambieri threw up into her desk drawer.

I’m the first daughter, so I got to puke into a toilet. I didn’t appreciate the privilege at the time.

On the private jet, I was no one, but I was on my first plane flight, with Santino DiLustro, a few of his guys, and his pregnant wife, who held back my hair. Santino, at the last minute, decided he couldn’t leave her behind. He needed her. She’s too useful—and so am I. Once I finished throwing up.

Six hours later, I’m in the back seat of a black car, coursing across the island behind another car with Santino and the men, and in front of another car with his security guys. Santino got three local drivers at the airport, then rented their cars from them for a stack of cash. There’s a lot to knowing how the cogs of the world work, and money is the lubricant.

I’m not motion sick anymore, but not anticipating what we’re driving up to is making me a little queasy.

Did we beat Dario here? Did he beat my brother and all his men?

Are the Colonia holding the women? Are they already on the way to New York?

Did Dario follow them?

I just want him to be alive. That’s all. I can pray for success later.

The setting sun glints off a brass gate. A plaque is bolted to the stone pillar.

SAPPHIRE BEACH RESORT AT SAINT EUSTATIUS

“Looks pretty classy,” Violetta says, watching Santino get out and try the gate. It opens. He looks at our car, through the tinted windows, at his wife. “That’s not right.”

“That it’s open?”

“Yeah.”

Santino swaggers to the side window. Violetta rolls it down. I blink hard. The tinting had hidden the brightness of the world.

“You’re staying here while we go in,” he says.

“Fine.” She answers with more than a hint of reluctance.

“If anything happens, you duck. Stay out of the way. Let Carlo take care of it.”

The car behind us passes and gets ready to cross the gate.

“I got it, boss,” the driver, Carlo, says.

“Yes, Santi.” Violetta plays at sweet obedience.

“I mean it, Forzetta.” Santino looks at me. “You got it?”

“I got it.”

Unlike his wife, I mean it. I’m not lying. I can make a promise in ignorance, but I can’t be expected to keep it if ever I know better.

When they go through the gate, Carlo pulls the car off the road.