Chapter Seven

                                    

                                          

                            

                                
                            
                              
                                  
                              
                              
                                
                                  
                                  
                                
                              
                             
                            
                            
                          
                          
SOMETIMES LIFE offers moments of brilliant clarity. Usually these moments are inconsequential because they come after the fact. A still, small voice that whispers you've just done something really, really dumb. 
I'm currently having one of those moments. 
I shift uncomfortably, realizing that Mr. Russo is NOT alone. 
Seated around him are people of different races: some wear old fashionable cloaks and some wear formal business suits. There must be thirty people in the room and only now do my eyes adjust to their shadowed forms. 
Excited whispers fill the air. With every pair of eyes staring back at me, I can hardly focus on the ones that matter—Russo's. 
A few rise from their seats, chins poised in the air as if I should suddenly grovel at their feet. In my peripheral, Isabella slowly creeps out of the room to leave me hanging. 
When I look back at Falcon Russo, I find that he's not even watching me as the others are. Instead, his gaze is locked on a Black woman in a crimson cloak right across from him. 
The two nod in silence at one another and then she removes her hood. Jet black ringlets spill like a waterfall from the ponytail on her head. She is middle-aged with elegant bone structure. Her gaze falls on me before she starts to walk up the dimly lit carpet. 
On instinct, I move back. I have no idea why this woman is coming at me but her level of speed and determination can't be good. 
Caleb silently appears at the door. He eyes Russo before heading toward me, too. 
Once again, I squeeze Juniper at my chest. With two people heading in my direction, I pathetically realize my mistake. I don't know Falcon Russo at all. Or the people on his payroll. Jiya was right to be afraid. 
I inch backward, sending one last frantic look to the man I believe is my father.
"This must be a bad time," I announce in the hopes of saving face. "I'll come back later." 
I've never been more desperate to leave a space. But when I turn, Caleb blocks my path. He shakes his head—the flecks of sun in his eyes glimmering even in the weak lighting. 
That's when I know. There is something off about this meeting. I've seen too much. 
The woman reaches me. She stretches out her hand and utters a phrase I don't quite catch. The result brings a sound like wind and the clink of hail. 
A salty aroma fills the air. Juniper scratches to get out of my death grip. Confused, I let him go and watch in total shock as he approaches the woman in the cloak. He stops to rub his head against her ankles. As if they're old pals. 
Traitor. 
I put my hands up. "I didn't mean to intrude." 
"But you did." The voice is deep and sharp and severely agitated. It belongs to Mr. Russo. He looks down at his phone, as if I'm the greatest inconvenience of his day. "Get this delusional girl out of my sight," he mutters.