Kidnapped By The Italian Mafia

"Ouch," he put a hand on his c.h.e.s.t and frowned. "Are you trying to say my humor isn't the best you've ever heard?"

"That's precisely what she's trying to say, Jean-Louis," a hand placed a cup and a plate in front of him. I followed the hand up to the face. A slender woman not older than twenty-three smiled back at me. Her cheekbones were insane, my jealousy was eating me up. "Hi, I'm Claudette. Sorry for my boyfriend, he's a bit much sometimes."

"Isabella. I noticed," Jean-Louis grinned at me briefly.

"You're not from the area, are you?" Claudette eyed me carefully. "Are you from Paris?"

"No, I'm from Orleans but I have been living abroad for most of my life."

"Ah, that explains it. Your accent is very.. how you say.. foreign. Where did you live last?"

"Las Vegas," my eyes threatened to tear up at memories from home. Nobody would dare to think that Nevada was the headquarters for the Spanish mob, which is exactly why my father based there. Most of the hotels and casinos had been funded by him, but he wasn't a direct owner, so it was a way to launder money without doing the dirty work.

"Ah, the city of fun, no? Were you studying there?" Claudette sure asked a lot of questions, which made me very suspicious. Who was this woman and why was she poking around so much?

"Yes and no. I lived in Las Vegas but studied online. It was only recently that I moved back here to the homeland and took residence here in Saint-Étienne."

"Do you live here in the city?" Jean-Louis looked up from where he was concentrated on his food, and it reminded me of my discarded danishes. Mentally chastising myself for such an ignorant fault, I bit into a delicious pastry, thanking the gods that it was still warm. My coffee was also still piping hot. "You should come to one of my art shows!"

"Oh, that would be wonderful!" Apparently, Isabella VanBurren was a woman who used phrases like 'that would be wonderful'. "But I don't live here in the city, I live a ways out in the country. When is your next show?"

"Next week, Saturday night at the gallery," Claudette answered softly. She had one of those soft voices that was perpetually in a falsetto mode. It was quickly becoming grating to my ears, but I guessed that was because I didn't like her very much.

"I'll be there," we smiled at each other, but there was an underlying tension that made me wildly uncomfortable. I quickly finished my coffee and danishes as we made simple conversation, and as the time neared twelve in the afternoon, I started packing up. "Well, it was lovely to meet you both but I must pay the museum a visit."

"Oh it was very nice meeting you. We will see you Saturday, then?" Jean-Louis blinked up at me. He was like a child in a man's body and it was weird.

"Definitely. Take care, you two!" I waved and quickly exited the cafe before either of them got the idea of exchanging any contact methods. That was the last thing I wanted.

The contemporary art museum was right across the street from the cafe, and I knew the basic etiquette of keeping quiet inside the building, so I began to turn my phone on silent, but stopped short when a call came through from an unknown number. Strange.

"VanBurren speaking."

"Say that a few more times and I wouldna ken it was ye, lass," and there it was. The thick highlander drawl of the man my father was hopeful I'd marry. It brought me a strange comfort to hear a voice I was familiar with. "But I would know my Kat's voice anywhere."

"'Your Kat?' We're not even married and you're already proclaiming such bold titles."

"Not yet but we will be soon. I'm in Lyon."

"Yes, and?"

"And I havena seen ye since the night ye disappeared, and suddenly ye pop up dead on the news, and then ye're in France with a new identity. It's left me a wee bit confused and I'd like to see ye to talk about it."

"How do I know this isn't one of my father's tricks?"

"Ye're just gonna have to trust me."

"Well, fine solution that is, I hadn't thought of that," I rolled my eyes. "I'll have my butler make arrangements with you. Don't call my personal phone again, McBride. Not until I 'ken' what your intentions are."

"Right. You have my word."

"Good. Oh, and bring Moira," a secretive smile threatened to pull at my lips. Moira was a close friend and Connor's 'counselor'. She gave him advice and he took it because she was always right. I had something of a crush on her, but that was just because she managed to make me fall in love with certain aspects of her talents, if you will.

"Aye, she's dyin to see ye," Connor chuckled in the way he did whenever he recalled our adventures. "I'll get goin now. Don't get into any more trouble."

"You say that as if I look for trouble."

"You do."

"Trouble finds me, dear lad. See you later." I hung up the phone with a small smile on my face. Heaven forbid I say it out loud, but I missed him. We knew each other since we were children because our parents had been hopeful since then. He had always been the boy I was supposed to marry, so I made him my closest confidante. Connor was usually my number two, my number one being my father.

My dad was my emergency contact for every trouble I didn't mind exposing to the public, Connor was my emergency contact for darker things. He knew me so well, no wonder he was able to find me.

"Bonjour, mademoiselle," the guard at the door of the museum greeted me and pulled the door open. I grinned at him.

"Bonjour!"

Stepping inside the museum was an experience I would never tire of. Sculptures, paintings, architectural masterpieces… they were all here, under one roof, in the contemporary art museum. I had to stop myself from being distracted by the grandeur and remember that I was here on a mission. To find the only painting in the entire building that wasn't modern contemporary.

Way back, in the hall of wax arts, there was a singular painting that stood out like a sore thumb. It was a dark painting… lifeless, in a way, with harsh streaks that could only symbolise the pain of silent depression. It was a painting that had been rescued from my very own house years before it went on the market. Lord knows why it was placed in the museum of contemporary arts, but it was here.

I looked at the painting… scrutinised it… there was something I was missing… the canvas was supposed to have a hidden code within the painting, but it didn't seem to be there. Knowing it could be an eternity before my brain got closer to seeing the mysterious code, I took a picture of the painting with my Polaroid and my phone for good measure, then exited the wax hall. It had been a long time since I had been in a museum, so taking my time was the default option to take.

The sculpture hall was particularly gut wrenching. I never thought to feel emotion from inanimate objects being bent and twisted, but apparently Isabella VanBurren was a woman who understood art. Katarina Montenegro didn't like art other than paintings, those were the only ones she understood.

I guess the circ.u.mstances made me understand art on a more primal level. There was a metal sculpture that saw two metal bars bend away from each other to follow the nature of their magnetic attraction. There was another visual arts form that saw two magnetic balls hanging from threads and dancing around each other, pushing and pulling like yin and yang, dancing around each other eternally. I understood this.

Being Katarina Montenegro and Isabella VanBurren at the same time was like being split in two. I had to switch mindsets, and doing that was like pulling myself out of one body and into another. There was no way I could be Katarina disguised as Isabella because if I did that, I would fail and blow my cover. Around Connor and my household, I was Katrina Montenegro, around everyone else, I was Isabella VanBurren. It didn't matter what I looked like.

My phone vibrated in my hand, detailing an incoming call. It was from Henri, which could mean one of two things. First, he was finished with his friends, but I doubted it since we had only been separated for a few hours. Second, he had already been contacted by Connor.

"I'm in the museum, if you were wondering," he had a habit of asking where I was. I understood that he was protective, but it was a bit much sometimes.

"I was not, but good to know. Mister McBride contacted me and we have set the date for your meeting."

I could hear the sounds of a typical gentleman's lounge in the background. Male laughter, the sound of whiskey bottles, and slight coughing as one sampled a new cigar. "And? When is it?"

"Tomorrow," Henri paused to chastise one of his friends. It made me smile that he was still so strict in a relaxed environment. The man truly was unchangeable. "I shall drive mister McBride to the estate myself."

"He's coming to our home?" Weird that Henri would agree to that. "Why must you go to fetch him?"

"I consider myself a good judge of character. Philipe can accompany me."

"Do you insist?"

"I do, madame."

"Very well, then. Now go have fun, I still have shopping to do so I won't be calling you for another few hours."

"Please be safe, madame."

"Henri if I didn't know any better, I'd say you were worried about me," he gave something of a chuckle on the other end of the line. Henri didn't have much of a sense of humour, that was for certain. For all his talents, jokes were not one of them. "I will be careful, don't fret. Bye-bye!"

Apparently, Isabella VanBurren was the type of woman who said the word fret.