Ronin's Return (Hearts & Heroes Book 3)

by Elle James

  Getting through the crowd proved to be more difficult than she remembered. With the wide spread of her gown, she couldn’t get close enough to people to jostle them out of the way.

  Her father, in his much narrower costume had no difficulties at all elbowing his way through the crowd. He had Lorenzo at his side, guarding him from unanticipated attacks.

  “Go on,” she urged. “You have to get to the dais to make your speech. I’ll only slow you down.” She released her father’s elbow and nodded toward the stage. “Go and dazzle them with your brilliance. I’ll catch up.”

  “I won’t leave you,” her father said.

  “I have Ronin.” She held out her hand.

  Ronin took it and slipped his other hand around her waist, beneath the cape. “I’ll keep her close,” he promised.

  Her father frowned, glanced toward the dais and nodded. “I will only be a moment.” With Lorenzo’s help, he nudged and edged his way through the crowd, finally making it to the platform with the podium.

  With Lorenzo close at his side, he climbed up the stairs to the dais and waited to be announced.

  Isabella panned the crowd, searching for anyone with a gun, praying her father would get through his speech quickly and get down off that stage. When he stepped out in front of the crowd, he would be at his most vulnerable.

  The master of ceremonies waved him forward. Isabella held her breath and listened for any sound even vaguely similar to the pop of gunfire. The crowd cheered, and then quieted while her father spoke.

  He made his statement clear, short and to the point. When he finished, the crowd cheered, the music played and her father left the stage on his own two feet. He hadn’t been shot. He hadn’t even been heckled.

  A smile slipped across Isabella’s face. So far, so good. They just had the trip back to her father’s mansion to navigate, and they could get out of the costumes and breathe.

  As her father and Lorenzo slowly made their way back toward Isabella and Ronin, the music grew louder and the people twisted and turned, dancing and laughing.

  For a moment, Isabella lost sight of her father. “Do you see him?”

  “No,” Ronin responded. He rose on his toes. “I can’t see anything past the headdresses and hats.”

  For a brief moment, she caught sight of Lorenzo in his white, Elizabethan gentleman’s tunic and tights, and then nothing again.

  Her pulse sped, and her hands grew damp as she twisted them in front of her. Isabella was near the point she was ready to strip out of the dress and dive into the crowd to find her father when he emerged and she caught sight of him.

  He was smiling and laughing at something Lorenzo said.

  A jester in a bright green and purple costume danced by her father swinging his arms like a propeller. His costume and the colors were so engaging, Isabella found herself watching him as he passed her father, instead of keeping an eye on the older Pisano.

  When she looked back at her father, he was leaning heavily on Lorenzo, one of his hands clutching at his belly where a bright red stain spread across the crisp white shirt beneath his purple coat.

  Isabella cried out and ran toward him, tripping over her massive skirts.

  Ronin slipped a hand around her waist and steadied her, running at her side.

  When they reached Lorenzo and her father, her father had pulled the mask from his face and slumped against his bodyguard, his own face as white as the mask he’d removed.

  “Lay him on the ground,” Isabella commanded. She shot a glance at Ronin. “Find that jester.”

  Ronin shook his head. “I won’t leave you.”

  “Find him,” she bit out.

  Andre appeared beside Ronin. “Go. I think he headed toward the north entrance to the square.”

  Ronin hesitated a moment longer.

  “Please,” Isabella begged. “He cannot be allowed to do this again.”

  Ronin left Isabella and ran into the crowd.

  “Apply pressure to the wound,” she ordered Lorenzo.

  He hesitated.

  “Do it, or he’ll bleed to death!”

  Lorenzo pressed the palm of his hand into the bloody gash.

  Her father winced and passed out.

  Good. At least while he was out, he wouldn’t be in as much pain.

  Isabella lifted her skirt and ripped fabric from her white petticoat, making long strips. She folded one of the strips into a neat square and nudged Lorenzo aside.

  The man lifted his bloody hand away from the wound and more blood spilled out onto the ground.

  Isabella ripped open her father’s shirt, quickly assessed the injury and pressed the pad of fabric over the slice in his belly. Holding the pressure steady, she glanced around at the onlookers.

  A policeman pushed his way through the crowd and dropped to his knees beside her. “An ambulance is on the way.”

  “Thank God,” she whispered. She fought back the ready tears pooling in her eyes. This man was her only relative. If he died, she’d have no one else in the world.

  Her thoughts went to Ronin. He wanted her but, given the situation, she couldn’t wish her life on him. She prayed she hadn’t sent him into the jaws of danger.

  As the minutes dragged on waiting for the paramedics and the water ambulance to arrive at the landing, all Isabella had were her thoughts to keep her company. Her father remained unconscious, and Lorenzo seemed to be in shock over the amount of blood.

  Isabella’s time in Syria had hardened her to the sight of blood, but when it was someone you loved, it was still pretty horrific.

  Please let Ronin return alive. Please.

  Ronin ripped the mask from his face and ran, pushing and shoving his way through the crowd. Twice he thought he’d found the jester, and twice he’d been wrong. The colors in the costume weren’t right. They needed to be purple and green, not orange and red or yellow and blue.

  He was about to give up and return to Isabella and her father when he spotted a man wearing the green and purple pantaloons he’d seen on the jester who’d attacked Marcus Pisano. The man had shed the jacket and wore a white shirt. He’d ditched the headdress he’d been wearing somewhere along the way, leaving his head bare but for a dark swath of hair.

  He glanced over his shoulder again and again, while running toward the north entrance.

  With the majority of the revelers occupied at the center of the square, the crowd thinned on the northern edge.

  Ronin raced after the attacker, dodging women in voluminous dresses and men in big hats.

  The jester ducked down an alley, disappearing into the shadows.

  Determined to capture the man who’d stabbed Isabella’s father, Ronin burst free of the throng and ran full out, charging into the alley, wishing he held his M4A1 rifle. The only weapons he had were his hands, but he’d do whatever it took to stop the man from harming Isabella and her family. With drums pounding, cymbals clanging and music blasting through loudspeakers behind him, Ronin blocked out the noise and focused on his target.

  Coming from the bright Italian sunshine to the darkness of the alley didn’t give Ronin’s vision time to adjust. He couldn’t see anything but the archway at the end.

  He didn’t want to lose his target in the twists and turns of the maze-like alleyways and canals. Ronin shot ahead, racing through a tunnel of darkness to the opening at the end and nearly plunged over the edge of a drop-off into a canal. He stopped short, teetering on the lip of a landing his hands going up to catch the arched bricks overhead. When he had his balance, he dropped his arms and took stock of where he was.

  The tunnel ended at the canal. The only way out was by boat or swimming.

  He caught a glimpse of the tail of a motor boat rounding the next corner in the canal. The man he’d been chasing hadn’t had time to start a boat, much less get to the next corner in the short moments before Ronin arrived. But he could have had someone there waiting for him.

  If only Ronin had a boat to follow.

  Leaning
out, he peered over the edge in case there was a ledge beneath where he was standing. No boat, but at that exact moment, a body floated to the surface of the murky canal water.

  Ronin jumped back, his heart leaping into his throat. Holy hell, the man he’d been chasing lay face down in the water, his green and purple pants barely visible beneath the surface.

  “What the hell?” Ronin shrugged out of the frilly costume jacket, dropped into the water and dragged the man to the lower landing where boats could tie off. All he saw on the fellow’s back was a small hole in his shirt.

  Ronin flipped him over to find a gaping bullet hole in his chest. He’d been shot, and the bullet had made a mess of his insides. More than likely he’d died before he hit the water.

  The only good thing about the scenario was that he wouldn’t be stabbing another member of the Pisano family.

  The bad thing was someone had shot him, and it appeared they’d done it to shut him up.

  10

  Isabella rode with her father to the emergency room at the nearest trauma center and waited while he was examined and the doctor sutured the wound closed. By the time they were finished, it was past noon and Ronin still had not surfaced.

  Isabella worried. Had he found the attacker? Had the attacker struck him with the same knife with which he’d cut her father?

  She focused on calming her rampant thoughts with less bloody scenarios. Ronin probably didn’t know where they were or how to speak enough Italian to get directions. Although he’d been practicing his Italian over the past two years, it didn’t mean he could understand all its nuances.

  Isabella held her father’s hand in hers, studying the dried blood on his fingers, thankful the knife hadn’t hit any vital organs.

  The man had lost blood, but not enough to keep him from giving his report to the detective who came to question him about the man who’d stabbed him. Once the detective left, her father could not be held down.

  He blustered at the doctor and nurses, complaining that they were taking too much time, and didn’t they know what night it was? “I have to get back to my home. There are preparations to finalize for the masquerade ball at the Pisano mansion. My guests expect me to be there to welcome them.”

  “You’re not welcoming anyone tonight,” the doctor said. “You need to cancel the event.”

  “Agreed,’ Isabella said. “Even the doctor knows you’re not up to a party.”

  “I can’t break tradition or disappoint the guests. Besides, the party doesn’t need me to be there for the guests to enjoy the festivities. I can stay in my rooms, as long as someone acts as host to all those people.” He puffed out his chest. “It’s a Pisano tradition your mother started all those years ago. She would never have cancelled.” He looked up at Isabella. “I’ve never missed one since Viviana insisted on the first, over twenty-five years ago.” He squeezed Isabella’s hand. “If she hadn’t died, she would have been there.”

  To keep her father from becoming agitated and morose, Isabella nodded. “Fine, Papa. I’ll be there to carry on the Pisano tradition. But you are going home to bed.”

  “Pisanos do not wallow in bed,” he groused.

  “They do if they want to give their bodies time to heal and get well.” When he opened his mouth to protest, she held up her hand. “I’ll greet the guests, if you promise to stay in your rooms.”

  His lips pressed together in a tight line, and he frowned mightily. Then he sighed and nodded. “All right. But only if you promise to stay with your fiancé or one of the bodyguards throughout the night. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost my only daughter.”

  “I’m not going anywhere, Papa.” She patted his hand and stood. Her gaze drifted to the door. Still no sign of Ronin.

  “He’s a US Navy SEAL,” her father said, as if reading her mind. “He’ll be fine.”

  “I know, Papa, but I can’t help worrying.”

  “You really love him, don’t you?” he asked.

  She turned to face her father and nodded. “I do. But there are so many reasons why we shouldn’t be together.”

  “And only one reason why you should.” Her father’s eyes misted. “The same reason your mother and I married…love.”

  Isabella closed her eyes as tears stung the backs of her lids. “But is it enough? ISIS wants me dead. Your enemies will continue to target you and me as long as—”

  “As long as I have money for ransom.” He nodded. “I could give away all my money and solve that problem.”

  She shook her head. “You worked too hard to build your empire. Besides, Pisanos don’t give up.”

  “Family is more important,” her father said. “Your mother taught me that.”

  “And she also taught you that money can’t buy everything.” Her breath caught in her throat. No matter how many doctors her father had taken her mother to, none of them could take away the cancer. None of them could keep her alive. She’d died despite all the specialists her father brought in on her case, despite all the drugs they’d employed.

  “Money isn’t everything,” her father whispered, looking down at his hands, the lines in his face deeper, the shadows in his eyes darker than Isabella had ever remembered seeing.

  Isabella laid her hand on his. “You still miss her, don’t you?”

  “Every day of my life.”

  Every day she’d been in Syria, she’d thought of Ronin, wondering where he was in the world. He could have been in the same country, and she’d never have known. All the while she’d told herself, she’d done the right thing by letting him go, but her heart had told her a different story. He was the one for her. They felt right together.

  “Oh, thank God,” a deep voice said behind her. “Isabella, I finally found you.”

  She turned and fell into Ronin’s arms. “I thought you’d never get here.”

  “I had to talk to police and detectives. I couldn’t get away sooner.” He pulled her into his arms and held her close. “How’s your father?”

  “I’ll live,” her father said. “If someone will get me out of here.”

  Isabella laughed. “He’s irritable and wants to go home. We’re waiting on his release instructions.”

  Ronin led Isabella over to the bed and stared down at her father. “Vital organs?”

  “Safe,” her father said.

  “Good.” Ronin nodded. “Bleeding stopped?”

  Her father gingerly touched the bandage on his belly. “Yes.”

  “Good,” Ronin repeated.

  “The attacker?” Isabella asked.

  “Dead.”

  “I turned the body over to the police and had to go to the station to answer questions. Otherwise, I would have been here sooner.” Ronin had been fit to be tied by the time he’d left the station. “Thankfully, the police located the hospital they brought your father to. I got here quickly but had a hard time communicating with the people at the front desk.” He grimaced. “My Italian’s a little more rusty than I thought.”

  “But you found us, you’re all right and that’s what matters.” Isabella hugged him around the middle. She still wore the flamboyant costume, sans the elaborate headdress. Her own hair hung around her shoulders in long dark waves. God, she was beautiful.

  “What matters is your father is going to live.” He kissed the top of her head and nodded to Mr. Pisano. “It could have been a lot worse.”

  “Did they identify the assailant?” Pisano asked.

  Ronin nodded. “He was a Syrian refugee they’d been watching. They suspect he had ties to ISIS.”

  Isabella froze in the curve of his arm.

  Her father shook his head. “You can’t blame yourself, Isabella.”

  “How can I not?” She took a step away from Ronin. “Don’t you see? Stabbing you could have been a warning to me.”

  “Or he could have been paid by someone else to do the deed,” Ronin offered. “I didn’t kill the man. He was already dead when I found him face down in the canal. Someone put a bullet throug
h him. A boat was getting away when I caught up with the guy.”

  Both the older Pisano and Isabella frowned heavily.

  “Someone shot him,” Isabella said, more as a statement than a question.

  “At pointblank range, based on the hole in his chest,” Ronin supplied.

  Mr. Pisano’s gaze met Ronin’s. “Whoever hired him obviously didn’t want the man to talk.”

  The door to the room burst open and Niccolo rushed in, speaking in Italian.

  From what Ronin could make out, he was thankful to locate the man and that he was alive.

  “Speak in English, please,” Pisano said.

  Niccolo shot an irritated glance at Ronin and continued in English. “I was at the office when I heard and came immediately.” He stared at his boss, his gaze running the man’s length. “What did the doctors say?”

  Pisano nodded. “I will live.”

  Niccolo released a huge sigh. “Thankfully. What happened?”

  “It appears someone might have been paid to stab my father and run.” Isabella reached for her father’s hand. “The question is why?”

  “No, the more important question is why I have not been released from this hospital.” Her father sat up in the bed and winced. “Hand me my clothes.”

  Isabella complied.

  The man didn’t wait for anyone to clear the room. Instead, he swung his bare legs over the side of the hospital bed and jammed them into the fancy pants he’d worn at the parade. “I’d give half my fortune for a proper pair of trousers,” he grumbled.

  “You’ll have to make do until we get home.” Isabella helped him into the shirt, leaving the front open. Then she bent to assist him into his shoes.

  By that time, the nurse returned with his release instructions advising him to rest and take antibiotics to keep infection from setting in.

  The trip back to his Venetian mansion was slow and arduous as they worked their way through the canals crowded with revelers.

  When they reached the Pisano estate, Ronin and Andre half-carried, half-walked Mr. Pisano up the stairs to his second-floor suite. Isabella and Andre took over from there, getting her father dressed in comfortable clothes, tending his wound and settling him into his bed.