“Why did you leave Albania?” Anatoli asks when they’re back on the autobahn. His voice is soft, and Alessia wonders if he’s trying to lull her into a false sense of security. She’s not that stupid.

“You know why. I’ve told you.” Though as the words leave her mouth, she realizes she doesn’t know what story he’s been told. Perhaps she can embellish the truth. It might make it easier on her and on her mother. But it depends on what Magda said. “What did my mother’s friend say?”

“Your father intercepted the e-mail. He saw your name and asked me to read it for him.”

“What did it say?”

“That you were alive and well and were going away to work for a man.”

“Is that all?”

“More or less.”

So Magda had not mentioned Dante and Ylli. “What did my father say?”

“He asked me to come get you.”

“And my mother?”

“I didn’t speak to your mother. This does not concern her.”

“Of course it concerns her! Stop being prehistoric!”

He gives her a sideways look, taken aback by her outburst. “Prehistoric?”

“Yes. You are a dinosaur. She deserves to be consulted.”

Anatoli’s puzzled frown speaks volumes; he has no idea what she’s talking about. Alessia continues, warming to her subject, “You are a man from another century. From another time. You and all the men like you. In other countries your Neanderthal attitude to women would be unacceptable.”

He shakes his head. “You have been in the West too long, carissima.”

“I like the West. My grandmother was from England.”

“Is that why you went to London?”

“No.”

“Why, then?”

“Anatoli, you know why. I want to make it clear to you. I don’t want to marry you.”

“You will come around, Alessia.” He waves his hand as if to brush off her rejection as trivial.

Alessia huffs, feeling aggrieved but feeling brave, too. After all, what can he do while he’s driving? “I want to choose who I marry. It’s a simple enough request.”

“You would dishonor your father?”

Alessia flushes. Of course her attitude—her defiance, her willfulness—brings great shame to her family.

She turns back to the window, but in her mind this conversation is not over. Perhaps she can appeal to her father once more.

She allows herself a moment to think about Maxim, and her grief rises, raw and real. Her bravado evaporates, and her mood plummets once more into despair. Her heart is beating but empty.

Will she ever see him again?

* * *

Somewhere in Austria, Anatoli stops at the services again, but this time only for gas. He insists Alessia accompany him into the store. Reluctantly she trails after him, oblivious to her surroundings.

Back on the autobahn, he announces, “We’ll be in Slovenia soon. When we get to Croatia, you’ll need to go into the trunk.”

“Why?”

“Because Croatia is not part of the Schengen Agreement, and there’s a border.”

Alessia blanches. She hates being in the trunk. She loathes the dark.

“When we stopped for gas, I bought more batteries for the flashlight.”

She glances at Anatoli, and he catches her eye. “I know you don’t like it. But it can’t be helped.” He turns his attention back to the road. “And it shouldn’t be for so long this time. When we stopped in Dunkirk, I thought you were unconscious from carbon monoxide poisoning or something.” He frowns, and if Alessia is not mistaken, she would swear he’s concerned. This afternoon at the restaurant, he had regarded her with warmth.

“What is it?” he asks, snapping her out of her reverie.

“I’m not used to concern from you,” she states. “Only violence.”

Anatoli’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. “Alessia, if you don’t do as you’re told, there are consequences. I expect you to be a traditional Gheg wife. That’s all you need to know. I think you have become too opinionated while you’ve been in London.”

She doesn’t answer him but turns away and stares out at the passing countryside, nursing her misery as they drive on into the afternoon.

* * *

Our flight lands in Tirana at 20:45 local time in pouring, icy rain. Tom and I are traveling with hand baggage only, so we go straight through customs and emerge into a modern, well-lit airport terminal. I don’t know what I’d been expecting, but the place looks like any small airport in Europe, with all the facilities one might need.

Our rental car, on the other hand, is a revelation. My travel agent had warned me that there were no prestige cars for hire, so I find myself at the wheel of a car whose make I have never heard of: a Dacia. It’s the most basic and analog car I’ve ever driven, though it does have a USB port in the radio so we can plug in my iPhone and use Google Maps. I’m surprised to find myself liking the car; it’s practical and sturdy. Tom christens it “Dacy,” and after some negotiation at the exit to the car park and a small bribe to the parking attendant, we are off.

Driving at night—in torrential rain, on the wrong side of the road, in a country where private car ownership was unheard of until the mid-1990s—is a challenge. But forty minutes later, Dacy and Google Maps get us in one piece to the Plaza hotel in the center of Tirana.

“Fuck, that was hairy,” Tom announces as we pull up in front of the hotel.

“Damn right.”

“Though I’ve driven in worse conditions,” he mutters. I turn off the ignition, knowing that he’s making an oblique reference to his time in Afghanistan. “How far did you say this girl’s hometown is?”

“Her name’s Alessia,” I growl, for what feels like the tenth time, and wonder about the wisdom of agreeing to let Tom accompany me. “I think it’s about a three-hour drive.” He’s a good man in a pinch, but diplomacy has never been his strong point.

“Sorry, old man. Alessia.” He taps his forehead. “I’ve got it. I hope the rain holds off tomorrow. Let’s check in and find somewhere to have a drink.”

* * *

In the trunk of the Mercedes, Alessia clutches the flashlight as the car lurches to a stop. They must have reached the border with Croatia. She closes her eyes, pulls Anatoli’s coat over her head, and switches off the flashlight. She doesn’t want to get caught. She just wants to get home. She hears voices—they’re quiet and in control. And the car starts to move. She breathes a sigh of relief and flicks on the bright beam once more. She’s reminded of the makeshift hideaway beneath the sheets that she shared with Maxim and the little dragon. They were sitting and talking on his vast, baronial bed, their knees touching and…Her pain is swift and sudden. She aches to the bottom of her soul.

Before long the Mercedes slows and stops. The engine idles, and moments later Anatoli opens the trunk. Alessia switches off the flashlight and sits up, blinking in the darkness.

They are on a deserted rural road; a small bungalow squats darkly opposite them. Anatoli is lit by the car’s tail-lights, his face cast in demonic red, his breath an ominous cloud around him. He offers his hand to help her out, and because she’s tired and stiff, she accepts. She stumbles as she steps out of the trunk, and he yanks her forward, into his arms.

“Why are you so hostile?” he breathes against her temple. Tightening his hold around her waist, he grasps the back of her head with his hand and grips her hair. In spite of the cold, his breath is hot and heavy between them. As Alessia registers what’s happening, his lips swoop down hard on hers. He tries to force his tongue into her mouth, and she struggles, fear and loathing careening through her body in a potent mix. She pushes ineffectually at his arms and frantically twists, trying to struggle out of his hold. He leans back to look down at her, and before she can stop herself, she slaps him across his face, her palm ringing from the blow, and he retreats. Shocked. She’s breathing gulps of air, adrenaline coursing through her veins, chasing away her fear and leaving anger in its stead. Anatoli glares at her, rubbing his cheek, and before she can blink, he slaps her hard across her face. Once. Twice. Her head jerks from the right to the left, and she staggers at the force of each blow. With little care he picks her up and drops her back into the trunk so that she hits her shoulder, her backside, and her head. And before she can protest, he slams the lid shut.

“Until you learn to behave and be civil, you can stay in there!” he shouts. Alessia clutches her throbbing head as anger burns in her throat and behind her eyes.

This is her life now.

* * *

I take a sip of Negroni. Tom and I are in a bar next door to the hotel. It’s contemporary, sleek, and comfortable, and the staff are friendly and attentive, but not overly so. What’s more, they serve a bloody good Negroni.

“I think we fell on our feet with this place,” Tom says as he takes another slug of his drink. “I don’t know what I was expecting. Goats and wattle-and-daub shacks, I think.”