People dressed in white and pastels occupied the chairs. It must have been a spring wedding.
The guests were laughing. On the right, a man turned around and leaned on the back of his chair, caught in a conversation with two women one row behind him. On the left, a handsome man with a white smile bounced a baby on his knee. The baby giggled, and people around them snapped pictures. A gaggle of young kids ran past the camera, the girls in white frilly dresses, the boys ridiculous in miniature versions of adult clothes. A priest waited at the arch, the only person dressed in black. He looked onto the gathering with a small smile. It was a happy scene. I almost wished I was there.
I fast-forwarded the video, switching to normal speed when something significant happened. One of the kids fell and cried and the adults got up to comfort him. A woman waved her hands at another woman and dramatically went to sit elsewhere. A flurry of Italian floated about the crowd, fast and muffled, but clear enough for me to pick some of it up. Jokes about the groom, jokes about married life and getting fat from being happy, teasing about who might get married next.
Eventually, the gathering quieted down, and the groom made his way to the altar, a lean man in his early thirties, with a bright smile, handsome face, and tousled wavy brown hair. Several groomsmen followed him, the first tall and broad-shouldered, walking with a particular light gait. From the back, he looked just like Alessandro.
He turned to the side and took his spot next to the groom, and I saw his face. No, not Alessandro. The chin was too narrow, the nose too fragile, but most importantly, he seemed to lack the intense focus I’d seen in Alessandro’s eyes. Alessandro had stared at death too many times. It had given him a sharp edge, and although he hid it well, I recognized it even when he pretended to be carefree. He was ready to resort to violence at any instant.
This man looked confident and sure that he could handle anything life threw at him, and brute force wasn’t his first answer to it, which meant he didn’t have to fight for his life that often. He was Instagram Alessandro, with a charmed life and few worries, and I couldn’t tell from the recording if it was genuine or a front. If it was a pose, Marcello Sagredo had been an even better actor than his son.
The groomsmen milled about, waiting. I fast-forwarded again until the bride walked down the aisle to the familiar music, accompanied by an older man. The train of her lacy gown brushed the grass. Wind stirred her white veil. The videographer moved around the chairs, capturing her walk. She glided to the altar, a vision in white with long dark hair. The groom stared at her, starry-eyed. A fairy-tale wedding.
The ceremony started.
The groom said his vows. “Io, Antonio, prendo te, Sofia, come mia sposa . . . and promise to be faithful to you always, in joy and in pain, in health and in sickness, and to love you and every day honor you, for the rest of my life . . .”
A man strode down the aisle, smiling, walking as if he belonged there. He was tall and powerfully built. Not slabbed with muscle like a bodybuilder, more like an athlete or a soldier in prime condition. The videographer swung his camera and it caught his face. Perfectly average. He could have been an American or a European. Blond hair cut short but not military short. Tan, clean shaven, nondescript features, average nose, average mouth, no distinctive scars, no strangely colored eyes. A teacher, a bank manager, a furniture salesman. There was nothing odd about him.
Hello, Arkan.
The groom frowned. The bride turned and looked at the man, stunned at the interruption.
Arkan shot forward. There was no warning. One of his steps became a powerful lunge, so fast, I barely saw the long knife in his hand. And then Alessandro’s father was there, in front of him.
The stranger stabbed. Marcello moved out of the way, fluid and fast, and redirected the attacker’s thrust with a lightning-fast block. He moved so quick, no hesitation, no delay. Real life fights happened instantly. There was no bowing, no touching of gloves. Nobody blew a whistle or rang a bell, and most people with martial arts training froze, if only for a moment, expecting someone to give the go-ahead. Marcello hadn’t. This wasn’t just training, this was experience. He had fought an attacker with a knife before, and he had won.
The assassin stabbed again. Again, Marcello used his own movement against him, guiding the knife to the side.
Thrust—block.
Another thrust—block.
Arkan was shockingly good, but Marcello was better and knew he was better. He was looking for an opening, but he was in no hurry. And everyone else just watched it. They were fighting for a full five seconds, and nobody jumped up and hit the bad guy with a chair.
Arkan tossed the knife into his left hand with ridiculous precision and slashed, sure and fast. Somehow Marcello had anticipated it and leaned out of the way. The camera caught his face. His eyes glinted. His lips stretched, baring his teeth. It almost looked like anger, but I had seen that exact expression on Alessandro’s face. Marcello was having fun.
Finish him. Stop playing with him and finish it.
The assassin kicked at Marcello’s leading leg, aiming for the kneecap. Alessandro’s father stepped out of the way and hammered a quick jab into the attacker’s face.
Ouch. Straight shot to the nose. That had to hurt like hell.
The video froze. Nothing moved. Marcello paused, one arm extended, fingers ready to grab. To the left, an older man half rose from his chair, caught in midmove. To the right, a woman stopped in midscream, her hands halfway to her mouth.
I tapped the pause button a couple of times. The timer was still going, counting off the seconds. The video didn’t freeze. Somehow, Arkan had petrified the entire wedding party.
The assassin uncoiled from an aborted kick, his movements smooth, almost lazy. He raised his hand and slit Marcello’s throat with a dramatically wide swipe. It was almost a flourish. He made a little show of it.
Marcello stared straight at the camera. His neck had to be cut, but there was no blood.
I had never heard of this in my life. I had never seen it, I’d never read about it. How?
The killer moved past Marcello, sliding between the bride and the groom. Someone had pressed the invisible play button, and suddenly people moved. The man on the left collapsed into his chair. A piercing scream cut through the silence. Marcello gulped. Blood drenched the front of his neck, a hot, vivid scarlet.
The assassin looked at the bride and stabbed the groom in the chest. A textbook thrust to the heart, easy to understand, almost impossible to execute.
“Francis says hello,” the killer said.
The groom collapsed. The bride spun and ran from the altar, clutching her gown in her hands. The wedding guests fled in all directions, knocking over chairs in a human stampede. The camera shuddered and became still. The photographer must’ve fled, abandoning it on its tripod.
At the altar Marcello fell to his knees, his hand clamped on his throat. Blood spurted between his fingers. He sagged to the ground and folded on his side, his eyes terrified.
A lone boy stood in the middle of the aisle, staring at Marcello with Alessandro’s eyes. I had no idea when he had gotten there.
Arkan put his foot on the groom’s chest, pulled the knife out, wiped it on the groom’s jacket and strode past Marcello down the aisle. The boy watched him come. He didn’t move. He didn’t even blink, like a baby rabbit seeing a wolf approach. His fear locked him in place, shivering in his eyes.
My heart was beating too fast. I wanted to reach through the video and grab him and run away.
Arkan paused by him and put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Sorry, kid. It’s business.”
The boy gazed at him, glassy-eyed.
The killer nodded and walked away.
The video stopped.
My mouth tasted bitter. The muscles of my face contracted, too tight, squeezing and making me dizzy. I closed my eyes, waiting it out.
It was like watching Runa’s mom die again, only it was worse, because it was Alessandro’s father
and Alessandro was there, helpless and terrified. The look on his face . . .
My hands rolled into fists.
How long had Alessandro stood there watching his father die?
He must have felt like his whole life ended right there, on that lawn. He must have been like me. I divided my life into before Dad died and after, except I had my mother and my sisters and my cousins, who all loved me. He had his grandfather, who called his dead father an idiot. He also had his mother and his siblings, but he barely mentioned them. Whenever he talked about his family, it was in terms of obligation. It was never in terms of love.
It should have shattered Alessandro. It probably had. At some point he must have thought about revenge and grasped it, like a lifeline. The need to avenge his father became his new core and he pulled himself together around it. I understood now. He must have dedicated himself completely to his vengeance. He probably only took the jobs that aligned with his goal of tracking down his father’s killer.
Alessandro was a great liar, but when he said he wanted to protect me, he was sincere. And sometimes, when he didn’t think I was paying attention, he watched me with a raw, desperate want in his eyes. It couldn’t be a lie. He looked at me like I was everything that anchored him to life.
But he’d wanted his revenge for so long, and if he told himself that the killer of his father didn’t matter, he was lying to himself. Alessandro would not stop until Arkan was dead. If it was a choice between my life and Arkan’s death, who would he put first?
I had no idea.
I knew one thing. If I ever had a chance to kill Arkan, I would take it. I would hunt him down and make him suffer. He didn’t just kill Alessandro’s father. He murdered his childhood, he destroyed his family, and until he was punished for it, Alessandro would never be free.
By the time Alessandro appeared in the doorway of my room, I had wiped off the circle, taken a shower, blow-dried my hair, twisted it into a bun with a hairpin, and gotten dressed.
He’d switched to a blue-grey suit with a crisp white shirt with the two top buttons undone. The suit hugged his waist and broadened his shoulders. Instead of minimizing his physique, he accentuated it. His hair was brushed back from his face, and his five o’clock shadow drew the eye to his perfect jaw and sensual mouth. He left the jewelry back at his hotel. Combined with the casually unbuttoned shirt and tousled hair, the effect was unsettling. He looked like a man who’d spent the entire day working and now was ready to relax, but more than that, he looked ready for intimacy. I could imagine stepping close, running my hands over his hard chest, and nudging the coat out of the way to kiss his muscular neck and feel the scrape of that sexy stubble on my lips.
I knew it was a pose, I knew it wasn’t for me, but I saw him and just stared for a long moment, unable to help myself.
“You dressed up for Cheryl.” I managed to keep the annoyance out of my voice.
“Yes. Your makeup is done. Were you going to leave without me?”
“No. I waited for you.”
Alessandro’s eyes narrowed. “Did something happen while I was gone?”
Somehow, he could tell. Something must have been off in my tone or expression. I needed to do a better job of hiding.
“Yes. I got my third shot of antivenom and no additional painkillers to deal with it. Let’s go before my willpower gives out and I start crying like a five-year-old.”
We were walking down the hallway to the front door when he said, “Catalina, I won’t let anyone hurt you. I won’t abandon you.”
A few days ago, I wouldn’t have believed him. He had abandoned me, and he’d done it during one of the worst times of my life, when I’d needed him most. But I knew better now. I still didn’t understand why, but Alessandro was determined to put himself between Arkan and me. And I would do the same for him.
“I know,” I told him and made myself smile.
Chapter 11
Alessandro insisted on driving again.
“Do you have a problem with the way I drive?”
“No.”
“Then why do you keep stealing the keys?”
He glanced at me. “It keeps me occupied. My eyes are on the road and my hands are on the wheel.”
I decided it would be a great idea to shut up and keep my own eyes on the road.
Cheryl Castellano owned an office suite in Felicity Tower off West Loop. The office in the brand-new thirty-five-floor tower came with perks, like private elevators, chartered helicopter service, complimentary access to a world-class steakhouse, and a private courier firm. Clearly House Castellano’s show of humility didn’t extend to their business accommodations.
I didn’t want to see Cheryl right now. I needed to be sharp and alert for this conversation, and instead I was still tired and slightly loopy from the medication. Too much had happened today, and this wouldn’t be an easy interview.
Bern’s background on Cheryl had been rather brief by his standards, only about twelve pages. She was the Head of House Castellano, forty-one, widowed, two sons and one daughter, ages twenty, eighteen, and sixteen. Both parents deceased. Her only living relative was her uncle, also a Prime animator. She married Paul Renfield, a Significant animator, at twenty, and he took her name. He had no House; he was a statistical anomaly born to Average parents and he died in his thirties from a preexisting heart condition.
House Castellano made their wealth in the construction industry, and among the five board members, Cheryl’s resources were second only to Felix’s. She seemed obsessed with charitable giving. The list of the organizations she contributed to was a mile long, everything from Red Cross to the local Bright Minds of Houston scholarship fund. She sat on the boards of a dozen charities and floated through the top ranks of Houston’s elite thanks to her wealth and stellar reputation.
If her House had ever been involved in a feud, Bern couldn’t find any trace of it. Knowing my cousin, it annoyed him to no end. He’d gone through the trouble of making a graph of her charitable donations, which showed a rather steep climb.
I checked the list of the charitable contributions again. Something was off about it. Most people chose a few worthy causes. Cheryl didn’t. She gave money to everyone, always a significant but not a huge amount, and she never did it anonymously. Connor and Nevada gave more than her, and nobody knew because they gave to charity for the sake of the people who needed it rather than their own.
My phone chimed. Albert Ravenscroft wanting to FaceTime. He always wanted to FaceTime.
I accepted the call. He appeared on the screen, tall, smiling, and handsome in that particular “traditional good looks” way. Perfectly symmetrical features, solid jaw, straight nose, clear blue eyes, dark hair that would be wavy if he let it grow out. All the things indicative of good breeding, money, a healthy diet, and lots of leisure time to play sports. He was smart and decisive, he wanted to marry me, and he refused to take no for an answer.
He was also the only person outside the family who knew about Leon and Audrey.
“I didn’t think you would answer. Today is my lucky day.” Albert smiled. “Are you free for dinner?”
I would need more information to answer that question. If he had shared what he knew with someone, I could be free for dinner, but he wouldn’t like what would follow. “I don’t know yet.”
“So, it’s a maybe? I’ll take a maybe.”
Next to me, Alessandro muttered something under his breath.
“What’s the occasion?” I asked.
“Nothing special. I haven’t seen you in two weeks and I miss you.”
Say something normal. “That’s sweet.”
Alessandro turned and looked at me. I ignored him.
“When will you know if you’re free?”
“I’m not sure. I’m working. What’s the latest I can text you?”
“Catalina, you can text me anytime. If tonight at 1:00 a.m. you decide you want ramen, or bulgogi, or caviar, text me and I’ll pick you up.”
If I wan
ted any of those things, I would get them myself. “Leon says hi.”
No reaction. “How is he?”
“You know, the usual. I’ll text you later.” I waved and hung up.
Alessandro switched lanes with razor-cut precision. “Who was that?”
“That was Albert Ravenscroft.”
“Is he the reason you need a pregnancy test?”
“What?” His voice was so neutral, it took the words a second to penetrate.
“When you were injured, you said you would get whatever tests needed, including a pregnancy test. Is he the reason for it?”
Oh you idiot. “I said I would take a pregnancy test because any time something is wrong with a woman, they do a pregnancy test. I could walk into a hospital with my arm cut off and they would want me to pee in a cup before they did anything about it. I’m not sleeping with Albert, and if I was, it would be none of your business.” I waved my arms. “I could be sleeping with half of Houston and it would be none of your business.”
“True, but if you were sleeping with half of Houston, how would you ever get anything done?”
“I’m great at multitasking.”
He steered the car around the curve of the U-turn, guiding Rhino under 610 to West Loop South. “You’re wrong.”
“How so?”
“Your relationships are my business. I’m trying to protect you.”
“I’ve been protecting myself from Albert and his marriage proposals for months without your help.”
He made a right into a short street that ended in a parking lot. The glittering building towered before us, all pale grey stone and floors and floors of windows reflecting the blue sky.
“Of course he wants to marry you.” Alessandro’s voice iced over.
“Whatever you’re thinking, stop thinking it.”
“He’s in love with you. You said proposals. That means he’s asked you more than once and you’ve said no.”
Argh. Just because he proposed doesn’t mean he wants to marry me . . . No, that’s stupid . . . “And?” There. Nice and noncommittal.
Emerald Blaze Page 18
