Silent Truth

by Sherrilyn Kenyon

  “No problem.” His face relaxed, eyes returning to his document.

  She’d prayed for death every day until that old bastard had a heart attack. For the first time since this nightmare began, she saw a tiny light of hope flickering at the end of a tunnel lined with years of despair.

  Now she prayed to survive long enough to escape. It might take years. She had the patience to plan and wait for her chance.

  She’d only get one.

  Vestavia had unknowingly offered her a small step toward that goal with this promotion, which permitted her occasional freedom of movement. Even better? He’d shown no sexual interest in her, a true blessing after a decade of rape at the hands of a disgusting old pervert.

  She had to use this opportunity to prove to Vestavia he could trust her, to convince him she was one hundred percent Fratelli. She’d been pretending for so long she sometimes feared how much of her was the real Linette anymore and how much she’d lost to survive.

  But she would survive and watch every step she took. Vestavia allowed no room for error.

  Compared to him, the old Fra had been a fairy godfather.

  After a failed mission last year, Vestavia was rumored to have given the order for the sniper shot that killed Josephine Silversteen, Vestavia’s assistant and paramour for many years.

  Linette tensed her body against the shiver along her spine.

  That mission had failed because of details she’d leaked secretly to her friend Gabrielle.

  Since then, Linette had met someone online from the group Gabrielle had trusted who called himself the Bear. Linette now passed intelligence on Fratelli actions to him through coded bulletin-board posts.

  Missions like the one she was waiting to participate in.

  If Vestavia ever found out…

  She couldn’t think in terms of what he’d do or the worry would paralyze her. One day at a time, and today she’d find out about her first mission.

  Where were the two lieutenants?

  Would Vestavia blame her if they were late? She cleared her throat. “Excuse me, Fra.”

  He put the papers down. “Yes?”

  “I did send out a text reminder an hour ago, but I’ll be happy to contact both men if you would like.”

  “Basil and Frederick are taking care of something for me this morning, but they’ll be on time.”

  She relaxed her mask to unconcerned. Never show an inordinate amount of interest in anyone or anything.

  A knock rapped against the door with the sharp report of a gun firing.

  “Come in.” Vestavia stood.

  When the door opened, Basil swaggered in, a scarecrow-thin Mediterranean man with an oversized nose that matched his ego.

  He needed something oversized to make up for lacking in height at several inches short of six feet. “Morning, Fra.”

  His eggshell-white sports coat, open-collared black shirt, and khaki pants were a bad imitation of South Beach chic. He strutted his bony body as if women fell down to worship greased black hair three fingers past the collar, thin malicious lips, and a weak chin. When he finished his cock walk he stopped too close to Linette for her comfort. The stench of cigarettes and beer rolled off him.

  Basil’s empty eyes slithered over her. “Linette.”

  She gave him the barest acknowledgment, deftly hiding the disgust souring her throat. Allowing her gaze to linger on any man’s face would risk encouraging him.

  “Job completed, Fra Vestavia.” Frederick entered quickly, speaking on a rush of breath that reminded her of a terrier hurrying to return a bone for the obligatory pat. A forehead taller than Basil and thicker in the chest, he dressed the part of a midlevel business manager in a simple brown suit and boring tie. He swung around, took one look at Linette and nodded hello, then stationed himself in the middle of the room, hands hooked behind his back.

  “Good.” Vestavia turned to his desk and lifted three manila files. He walked to each of them, handing out the file folders. “You’re each going to be independently responsible for a specific part of an upcoming mission.”

  “May I speak, Fra?” Frederick asked as he took his file.

  “Yes.”

  “Are we a team?”

  “You’re all responsible for the success of this mission,” Vestavia answered in a noncommittal way that raised an alert with Linette.

  Frederick’s eyes bounced to Linette and Basil. She gave no indication of noticing. He asked, “Does that mean we’re sharing information with each other?”

  “No. You’re each responsible for your packet of information.”

  Linette held her file with both hands, waiting to be told to open it even though Basil and Frederick were already reviewing their documents. She took nothing for granted, risked no chance of alerting Vestavia to be suspicious of her on his missions. She asked, “With your permission, Fra?”

  The other two missed the nod he gave her. She saw that she’d impressed him by waiting. When she opened the file, she started scanning the text quickly, but it didn’t take her genius IQ to figure out that she held operational plans for something that would affect a group of metropolitan cities pinpointed on a map across the continental U.S. Nothing really jumped out about the pinpoints that indicated a purpose, but this had to be some attack being planned based on the meeting at the Wentworth party.

  Vestavia stood in front of his desk, eyes calm, patient, and deadly. “This plan originates with our UK brethren but will be implemented in three locations of this country. We don’t have the final locations yet. You each have areas of the country you’ll be responsible for, which are indicated on your maps. You will oversee the task on our behalf and coordinate any resources needed at your final target location once that is determined. Study your plans and I’ll discuss them with each of you this afternoon.”

  His desk phone hummed and a blue light flashed. No one spoke while he picked up the receiver, listened, then said, “Send him up.”

  “May I speak, Fra?” Basil’s attempt at humility sounded as though he chewed lemons.

  Vestavia put the receiver down and swung around. “Go ahead.”

  “Linette’s pretty new to this…”

  She cringed at the intent driving Basil’s voice, sure of where he was heading.

  “I could give her a little instruction on fieldwork.”

  She didn’t look at Basil or Vestavia, careful not to show any reaction. She’d suffered old Fra Bacchus for eleven years of hell. No more. If Vestavia gave this greasy lizard a green light to squeeze her into a corner, the stranglehold she kept on her control might snap.

  “No.” Vestavia turned his back on them and walked toward his desk. They were dismissed.

  Swallowing her relief, she waited for Basil to make a move to leave. He did, but not before his eyes warned her not to celebrate so quickly.

  Frederick had crossed the room and opened the door, then backed up to let a man enter.

  Vestavia’s guest had flint-gray eyes that took in her and the other two minions leaving. He passed a brief assessing gaze over Basil and Frederick, then paused on Linette.

  She got a better look at him now than she had during the Wentworth fund-raiser last night. He wore another custom-cut dark suit that spanned his wide shoulders. The unbuttoned collar of his pearl-white shirt revealed the kind of thick neck that came from punishing weights. Tanned skin pulled taut over brutally attractive features… marred only by the scar running along his right cheek to his jaw.

  He hadn’t spoken to her at the fund-raiser when Gwen introduced him to Linette and the three Fras in attendance. The ensuing conversation between this man and the Fras had been beyond Linette’s hearing.

  “Come in, Cayle.” Vestavia waved him forward.

  Cayle Seabrooke shifted his attention to Vestavia, an easy smile springing to his lips that Linette didn’t believe. With her next step she passed him on the way out, noticing how he’d already forgotten she existed.

  She closed the door softly on Vestavia’s
greeting to Cayle. “You come highly recommended.”

  Basil and Frederick were nowhere in sight as she hurried down three doors to her office, a simple but pleasant space she’d made her own with little things like a silk plant, since the office had no windows. Vestavia had allowed her to choose the walnut desk, credenza, and matching bookcase. Volumes of business manuals and several literary tomes filled a couple shelves, but one section held children’s books she’d had when she was with Fra Bacchus. The pages were worn from her turning them when she read for children of the staff.

  This was her sanctuary. Somewhere she called her own.

  The voice mail light on her desk phone was surprisingly dark. Thank heavens. She spread her file notes over the glossy desktop. One sheet listed each city, then the names of three individuals with specific abilities—“explosives specialist,” “communications” and “defense coordinator.”

  This supported the last missive she’d sent to her online contact, the Bear. She was pretty sure he was a man. His word choices sounded male.

  Linette stood up quickly and looked around, on alert. She’d developed a strange sixth sense for knowing when a threat approached after years of tuning her hearing to the old Fra’s soft shuffle.

  But he was dead. She’d been at his graveside, pleaded to attend the funeral. The other Fras had been touched by her grief. She’d only wanted to be sure he was not coming back.

  Why was the hair on her arms lifting?

  She pushed away from the desk and walked around to the front, studying everything. Air vents. Floor. Door.

  A tiny click reached her ears.

  The shiny chrome doorknob rotated slowly clockwise, then the door opened.

  Basil swaggered in and shut the door.

  She couldn’t raise an alarm without drawing unwanted attention to herself. That would likely end with her being blamed, which would result in her being demoted, or worse.

  “You didn’t think a little lock would keep an experienced field operative out, did you?” He chuckled.

  “No, I thought it would deter unwanted visitors from invading my privacy.”

  “You think that haughty attitude is going to play with me?” He stepped away from the door. Toward her.

  The room started shrinking.

  “What do you want, Basil?” She backed up until the desk prevented further retreat.

  “To work together. That’s what we’re expected to do in the Fratelli organization.” He smiled the smooth grin of a poisonous snake. “You want the Fras to think we aren’t capable of working together?”

  She sat back against the desk and let the heels of her palms rest casually. Her insides could flail around and scream all they wanted but these men only understood strength.

  They respected nothing born with breasts.

  “Fra Vestavia would not have selected me to be his personal assistant—” Let Basil assume whatever he wanted by that comment. “—if he doubted my ability to perform my duties and interact with everyone. Even you.”

  Basil stepped all over her personal space, face-to-face, daring her to break eye contact first and show her fear.

  She’d suffered far worse with more stoicism at sixteen.

  He’d eaten a caramel candy, the old Fra’s favorite. She’d never be able to taste one without risk of vomiting. Just the smell of his breath turned her stomach.

  He put his hands on her desk, past where hers rested, and leaned close, his cheek next to hers. “This organization rewards excellence and commitment. More so than the other Fras, Vestavia understands the power of motivation. I intend to make my mark with this mission and move up. I will prove to Vestavia that nothing is beyond his grasp with me.”

  Her body had turned into a rigid clutch of nerves. “Good for you.” Now leave.

  “And when I do?” he whispered. “I’ll get my reward. He’ll give you to me and choose another woman. With Josie gone, the rest of you women are all the same. I noticed how he’s not hot for you. He’ll just pick a new assistant. That’s how the Fratelli works.”

  She’d mistakenly judged Basil a nuisance.

  She should have recognized his malignant ego wouldn’t suffer rejection.

  “Here’s a tip. I suggest you keep this meeting private since I hold an important part of this project in my file. You’ll only put yourself in a bind if you go tattling.” He stepped away from her and licked his lips, grinning as he turned for the door. “Study hard. I can’t afford for you or Frederick to drop the ball.”

  When the door swooshed shut behind him she tried one leg at a time to see if she could stand. Shaky but mobile, she took steadying breaths and moved around the desk, where… two of her papers with locations and names had been moved.

  That despicable pig had read her notes. The ones Vestavia had told them not to share with each other.

  Her fists clenched into tight wads of anger and frustration. Male humans had to be the worst mistake God ever made, right down to her father, who had given his only child to the Fratelli.

  Vestavia at least treated her professionally and without any hint of improper intentions. So far. Hopefully, he wouldn’t feel the need to rut one night just for a release.

  But Basil had been right about one thing.

  Vestavia did not tolerate failure.

  Those who let him down did not die peacefully.

  If she risked passing along information this time to thwart his plans, she laid her life at Vestavia’s feet.

  If she didn’t pass the information along, she had a multitude of problems, Basil’s threat to claim her only being one.

  She pushed a couple papers aside to locate the last one, which stated, “successful completion of this phase of the mission will ensure casualties numbering no less than six figures.”

  The clock had to be male as well. It worked against her, refusing her time to think. She had to send an electronic message to the Bear now or miss her window.

  How much should she tell him?

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Abbie limped into Hunter’s cabin, ready to use the first thing she could find as a weapon to beat some sense into him.

  Hunter closed the front door, cutting off the drafty air.

  “Go to my office. On your left.”

  If he gave her one more order she might show him what it means to push a woman to her limit. But he had asked if she could make it under her own power. Her pride said, “Of course.”

  Hunter shouted, “Borys! Bring an ice pack.”

  She grimaced with each step into his office, where one wall of glass windows framed the spectacular sky and mountain-range view. Sit on the gooey-soft-looking leather couch or in one of the two side chairs? She dropped her tired buns into a chair that felt like being held by a cloud.

  Her head was splitting and her knee hurt.

  No more escaping for today.

  She had weighed Hunter’s words out on the mountain and decided to believe him. The worry she’d heard in his voice hadn’t been for himself. He would face his own destiny without question, but he didn’t like leaving her unprotected.

  That knocked down the last of her resistance to sharing what she knew.

  “Borys is bringing hot chocolate unless you want something else.” Hunter entered his office, crossed the space to the chair facing her, and sat down. “We’ll get you cleaned up as soon as we finish talking.”

  They hadn’t been able to discuss much on the way, because she hadn’t been able to hike uphill at this altitude and talk at the same time. “You think I want hot chocolate?”

  “Course you do, ’cause I make da best in da west, babee. I’m Borys with a ‘Y.’ Nice to meet you.” Borys was a compact man with a spring in his step. He sat a tray on the coffee table made from a thick slice of a giant tree. “I make thees with Ghirardelli chocolate and hazelnut liqueur. Figured you’d need a little shot of sometheeng after your walk, ma petite.”

  She took the ice pack he handed her and placed it on her knee.

 
“That’s good, Borys.” Hunter didn’t sound appreciative. More like he was trying to hurry his man out of the room.

  Her stomach growled at the rich smell of food cooking. “I hope whatever is cooking tastes half as good as it smells.”

  Borys poured her a large mug full and scooped two spoons of marshmallows on top. His outdated business suit seemed a bit formal with Hunter in jeans.

  “What say we have jambalaya for lunch, eh?” Borys sniffed the air. “Ees ready.”

  “Borys.” The warning in Hunter’s tone should have been enough to draw immediate compliance, but Borys ignored him.

  “Sounds wonderful. I’d love that,” she cooed, smiling her appreciation.

  “Gude.” Borys had an infectious grin and thick lashes most women would kill for. “Tell you what—”

  “Tell you what,” Hunter said, standing up. “Get the hell out now if you hope to live long enough to cook the rice.”

  Borys tossed the napkin on the coffee table and headed for the exit. “Good thing you don’t like women—”

  “I like women,” Hunter shot back with the power of a rifle blast.

  “Didn’t let me finish.” Borys walked out, but sound traveled easily in a house with wood floors and ceilings. His parting shot came through loud and clear. “You don’t like ’em to stick around for longer than a night.”

  “You’re consistent if nothing else,” she quipped, drawing the edge of Hunter’s terminal patience her way. “Is he Cajun?”

  He rolled his eyes. “About as much as I am.”

  “Is he Texan?”

  Hunter sat down again. “Hell no.”

  “Well, what is he?”

  “A pain in the ass on a good day.”

  She lifted her mug of oh-my-God-tasting hot chocolate. “Thought you were in a hurry to talk.”

  “I am.” He settled his arms along the chair arms, more tolerant than she’d expected. “Start with the conversation you had with Gwen.”

  She reran the conversation quickly, but she was not letting him think he’d won the argument they’d had on the mountain about how to gain access to Kore’s records. “I have to go back for my mother, then try to save my job. I have seven years invested at that television station.”