Inferno's Kiss
Page 4
“Is there any word about Phae?”
“Ares sent word that she’s stable, but the doctors don’t know when she’ll come to.” Ignacio leaned forward, his forearms resting on his thighs, and stared at her for a long moment. “I didn’t order you in here to talk about Phaedra. Now, talk to me.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“Don’t give me that crap. Do you really think after all this time you can fool me? I’ve known you since you were born,” Ignacio scolded. “I know something’s bugging you, and I’ve got a pretty good idea what it is.”
“How the fuck would you know what’s wrong?”
“Shall we rehash what happened last night in the Pantheon?” Ignacio eyed her with a stern look.
“What? My shock at finding out I have a Praetorian brother? No. Had a Praetorian brother. Something my mother never told me. Not exactly the kind of news you can swallow in just an hour or two.”
“Your brother’s situation is a terrible tragedy.”
“Yeah, I know.” She bobbed her head as she remembered her mother’s frantic cry last night in the Pantheon as they fought to keep the Praetorians from taking the Tyet of Isis. No matter how angry Cleo might be with her mother, she still hated to see her suffering.
“But that’s not what’s really wrong, is it?” Ignacio’s voice was firm and unflappable.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“I know you met with Atia and Marcus this morning.”
“So?” she bit out fiercely.
“She told you the truth, didn’t she?” His softly spoken question stunned her. He grimaced. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“My mother told you about Marcus? Before she told me?” The woman hadn’t just lied to her. She’d told Ignacio who Cleo’s real father was. She wasn’t sure what was worse, being lied to or that the man she thought of as a father had known the truth before she did.
“She didn’t tell me willingly.”
“So, what, you twisted her arm? Give me a fucking break. You can do better than that.”
“No one has ever twisted your mother’s arm, bambina,” Ignacio said with a light snort of amusement before his expression grew somber. “The truth is she was backed into a corner.”
“By him?”
A sudden wave of anger swept over her at the thought of the Sicari Lord intimidating her mother. Cleo might be angry at being deceived, but she didn’t like the idea of someone pushing her mother around. Her mentor shook his head slightly.
“I always thought he’d walked out on you and Atia. When I insulted him—” Ignacio rubbed his hand against his throat. “He wasn’t happy about it. Your mother convinced him that she’d not betrayed their blood bond with me, and she told me . . . the truth.”
“Right, she told you the truth, but not me, her daughter,” she bit out in a sharp voice.
“You judge her too harshly, Cleopatra.” He always used her full name when expressing his disapproval of something she’d done. That he continued to defend her mother irritated her and made her want to lash out at him.
“And you judge her too gently because you’re in love with her.” Her fierce words made Ignacio jerk upright in his chair as she released a harsh noise of disgust at her tactless observation.
“I see,” he murmured. “So I’m an object of amusement in the Order for loving a woman who has never given much thought to me, other than as her Celeris. Her bodyguard.”
“No.” She shook her head. “I’ve never heard anyone say anything about the two of you. Not even that worm Cato has suggested it, and if anyone were going to say something, he’d be the one.”
The man she thought of as a father frowned as he nodded and leaned back in his chair to contemplate her words. Her heart ached for him. Not once had she ever seen her mother give Ignacio any indication that there might be hope for him. In fact, she wasn’t even sure her mother realized her Celeris was in love with her.
For as long as she could remember, Ignacio had been there for her and her mother. Ignacio was the one who’d taught her how to fight, how to stitch up a wound. He’d been there when she’d lost in the final round of the Invitavi, and he’d been there when the doctors had told her the baby was gone and she’d never have children. And it had been Ignacio who’d been there for her when Michael had walked away less than a month after her injury.
Ignacio had always been there when she needed him, and she loved him like a father. But he wasn’t her father. Marcus Vorenus, Sicari Lord, was. No, reigning Sicari Lord, according to her mother. Fuck. He couldn’t just be a Sicari Lord? He had to be the goddamn commander in chief.
“Fuck.” She exploded out of her chair in a swift leap then collapsed back into her seat with a sharp cry of pain. Ignacio leaned forward with the obvious intent to examine her leg, but she dismissed him with a vicious wave of her hand.
“Goddamnit to hell. She should have told me the truth.”
“It couldn’t have been easy for her, Cleo. Telling you the truth three years ago or today had to be a terrifying thought for her.”
“So she said, but I’m having a hard time buying it,” she responded bitterly.
“When I brought her back here the morning your . . . your father found out about you, she was badly shaken up.” An odd expression crossed her mentor’s face. “Your father had demanded to meet you, and the thought of telling you the truth terrified her.”
“My mother isn’t afraid of anything.”
“She’s definitely afraid of losing you.” Ignacio shook his head in sharp disagreement.
“Why do you keep defending her? Besides the obvious.” She glared at him. Ignacio sent her a patient look.
“Because I’ve known your mother for a very long time, and after last night, I understand her even better than I ever have before.” He leaned forward again, his hands spread in a cajoling gesture. “Atia isn’t invincible. None of us are, bambina. Your mother has lost a great deal in the last twenty-four hours. She’s pretty fragile right now, whether you want to believe it or not.”
Cleo leaned back in the chair to rest her head on the soft cushions. Eyes closed, she released a harsh breath. “But she lied to me.”
“Yes, but you should be asking why she lied to you. The Praetorians took her son when he was barely old enough to know his own name. Then you came along. Can you imagine how terrified she must have been every time you were out of her sight? I can easily understand why she’d keep the identity of your father a secret. From everyone, including you.”
“Stop making it sound so goddamn logical.” She opened her eyes to meet his sympathetic gaze. “Okay, so she lied to protect me, but sweet Jupiter, she could have said something three years ago when those Praetorian bastardi . . . she could have told me then, Nacio. She didn’t have to wait until today to tell me my father is alive. And oh yeah, by the way, Cleo, he’s a fucking Sicari Lord.”
She saw him flinch slightly as she used her childhood nickname for him. Christus, was he thinking Vorenus would take his place? That she’d just forget about him and everything he’d been to her?
“Sicari Lord or not, he is your father, Cleopatra.” Again with the disapproval.
Leaning forward, she grabbed his hand and squeezed it hard. The sharp edges of the ring he wore bit into her palm. She’d given him the jewelry for his birthday when she was just twelve. She’d earned money cleaning swords and other weapons over a period of several months so she could save enough to buy the ring.
When he’d read the inscription, From your daughter, Cleo, it had made his eyes water. That moment was as vivid now as if it had just happened. Ignacio had always been there for her. She would never desert him.
“He’s not you, Nacio. He never could be,” she said fiercely. He patted her hand, and there was a glitter of emotion in his eyes that sent the hair on the back of her neck dancing before she dismissed the sensation. Whatever it was she thought she’d seen, it was gone as he sent her a tender smile.
Cleo didn’t answer him. She simply pulled her hand from his and got to her feet. The ache in her leg deepened to a sharp pain. “Sweet mother of Juno.”
“That does it,” Ignacio said in an authoritative tone as he came to his feet. “You’re going to let Violetta perform the Curavi on that leg if I have to hold you down myself.”
“I don’t need it. All I need is some heat to loosen up the muscles, a little liniment, and I’ll be good as new in a couple of days. A good soak in the tub will do wonders.” She hobbled toward the door. “Besides, a healing will put me out like a light, and I have a date with Mario and a bottle of wine in a few hours.”
“Va bene, but it will take at least two weeks for that leg to heal, so I’ll send Emilio after Angotti next week instead of you.” His words made her stop where she was to turn her head toward him.
“Jupiter’s Stone, you mean they actually made a decision about that son of a bitch?” She stared at her mentor in surprise. Every territory in the Order had a tribunal that reviewed the cases of targets designated for execution. The three judges in Rome’s tribunal were notorious for their slow review process.
“All the evidence checks out, and the tribunal issued its verdict this morning. Of course, since you’ll not be up to the task for at least . . .” Ignacio cocked his head to study her leg. “What? Two or three weeks? I’ll—”
“You’re not giving this assignment to anyone but me.”
“You realize your mother and . . . Vorenus will probably object. Rome has never been a safe place for a Sicari, but when people find out who your father is, and it will get out, it could be deadly for you.”
“There isn’t any safe place for me,” she said with quiet exasperation. “As for my mother and Vorenus, you don’t have to tell them anything. I’ll deal with them. But Angotti’s mine. I’m the one who brought him to the attention of the tribunal a year ago when I was here on assignment.”
“I’m beginning to wonder if allowing you to carry out Angotti’s assassination is a good idea,” Ignacio said as he studied her with quiet assessment. “You sound a little too involved for my liking.”
“I know not to make this personal,” she said in a level voice, but deep inside a tiny nugget of satisfaction warmed her. It had taken several months to find out where Marta was, but she was finally going to get a shot at freeing her friend.
“Do you? I’m not so sure. In the past three years, almost every one of your assignments has involved targets connected with children who’ve been harmed. It’s starting to look like you have a vendetta.” Ignacio gave her a forbidding look. “You know the tribunal doesn’t take kindly to fighters breaking the Code. If anyone even thinks your targets suffered a slow or painful death, they’ll bring you up on charges. The gauntlet isn’t an easy punishment to survive.”
“I haven’t broken the Code, Nacio, and I won’t. But if I can’t have kids, then the least I can do is protect other children from all the bastardi out there.”
“Then let’s get you to Violetta. It’ll take at least a week to plan the assassination, but I don’t want anyone questioning your fitness for duty.” Ignacio gestured to the door, and she limped her way out into the hall in the direction of her rooms.
Cleo was seated on her living room couch tugging her hair out of its braid when Violetta arrived. The woman didn’t comment on Cleo’s change of heart but quickly performed the Curavi. When she finished, Violetta ordered her to rest and left. A healing was always a draining process for both the healer and the injured party, and Cleo’s eyes drooped as the door closed behind Violetta.
Despite her exhaustion, she struggled with the tangled mass of images shifting randomly in her head. The memory of her mother’s confession made her toss restlessly on the couch. Atia’s remorseful expression fluttered through Cleo’s head. She winced. Maybe Ignacio was right. Maybe she was being too hard on her mother.
A sigh parted her lips as she realized her mother had only been doing what any good mother would do. Atia had been protecting her. Would she have done any less if she were a mother? Her heart clenched painfully in her breast. She certainly hadn’t been thinking about her unborn child the night she’d gone out on assignment. She could have easily asked for reserve duty until after the baby was born. She hadn’t, and she’d paid the price. It was the last thought she remembered as she slipped into the darkness of sleep.
Shafts of moonlight streamed down through the girders of the abandoned bridge overhead as she quietly moved forward. A few feet away to her left, she could barely see Lysander’s tall form. That was a good thing. The longer they went undetected, the easier it would be to execute their target. Assassinations weren’t easy. Most of their targets had a tendency to shoot first and ask questions later.
“Just like we planned, okay?” Lysander’s command echoed quietly in her earpiece.
“I’m ready if you are.”
Her whisper seemed to echo all the way up to the train bridge above her head. It made her uneasy. The whole situation didn’t feel right. And that was saying a lot, since she wasn’t like most Sicari females who could sense danger.
She put the sensation down to an overactive imagination and moved toward the black sedan that was parked at the opposite end of the bridge. She’d gotten halfway to the car when it roared to life and gravel sprayed everywhere as the car spun out from underneath the bridge and onto the nearby pavement.
“What the—? Cleo, we’ve got company.”
Lysander’s clipped words were followed by the sound of a sword hitting metal three times in rapid succession. Instinct made her pull her sword out of the sheath on her back and whirl around all in one fluid motion. Even as fast as she moved, she still failed to block the sword coming at her. The Praetorian’s finely honed blade sliced into her raised forearm as neatly as if he were slicing a piece of steak.
“Goddamnit. Son of a bitch.” A soft chuckle followed her cry, and her gaze met the menacing amusement in the man facing her.
“You’re quite right, Unmentionable,” the Praetorian murmured in a silky tone that was all the more unsettling because of its pleasant sound. “My mother was a bitch. A Sicari bitch who had the decency to die giving birth to me.”
The callousness of the statement made Cleo’s blood run cold. This guy was more malicious in his hatred than most Praetorians she’d encountered. His sword headed toward her again, and she quickly shifted her weapon into her opposite hand to block and parry. The instant her blade cut into the man’s chest, she saw the surprise on his face. She managed a tight smile of satisfaction.
“Didn’t expect to meet a switch-hitter with a sword, did you, you sorry ass bastardo?”
With a vicious oath, her opponent swung his sword in a furious round of strikes that had her stumbling backward. His skill was on the same level as hers, but it was the strength of his blows she couldn’t match. And the option of darting out of his reach wasn’t really a viable one when the guy was almost two times her size. The Praetorian’s sword sparked against hers as the two weapons slid downward against each other to lock at the hilt. The gleam of triumph in the man’s eye vanished as she kneed him in the groin. With a loud cry of pain, the Praetorian’s sword hit the ground’s mix of dirt and gravel as he dropped to his knees, clutching his jewels. The tip of her sword immediately pressed into his chest, ready to drive through the man’s heart.
“You fought well, Praetorian. I now ask for your forgiveness,” she said quietly. “Do you give it?”
“May your soul rot in hell, Unmentionable,” the man snarled, and with a flash of speed that surprised her, his forearm came up to viciously slam into the edge of her blade.
The move knocked the sword away from his chest, but the price the Praetorian paid was her blade slicing deep into his arm until she struck the bone. With a fierce noise of anger, she grimaced as blo
od spurted its way onto her hand. In the next instant, an icy chill streaked across her skin as the Praetorian retrieved his sword and dragged it deep through the layer of skin beneath her belly button.
“Oh fuck,” she whispered as her brain reacted frantically to the injury and began to shut down everything but the most important organs necessary for survival. “Lysander . . . I’m sor . . .”
The Praetorian’s vicious laugh rang in her ears as her hand pressed against her wound. She heard the man’s laughter cut short just as she sank to her knees and tumbled to the ground.
Gasping for air, Cleo shot upright on the couch. Christus, she hadn’t dreamed about that terrible night in more than a year. She pushed her dark hair back off her face. Where the hell had that come from? Right. Feeling empathy for her mother. Cleo raked her fingers through her hair then shook her head and closed her eyes. She understood why her mother had kept her in the dark about her father. She just needed to process it. What she hated the most were the cruel things she’d said to her mother. Cleo and her mother were all each other had. Not exactly true when she thought about it.
An image of Marcus Vorenus flitted through her head. He’d said he wanted to get to know her. And, one thing was for sure, the Sicari Lord didn’t act like he was going anywhere anytime soon. In a way, she wasn’t really surprised by it. Atia and Marcus were blood bonded. That wasn’t the sort of thing you walked away from.
Fuck, was he really trying to get back together with her mother? She winced. She wasn’t going there. The first thing she needed to do was deal with her mother. She could figure out how to deal with Marcus Vorenus’s return to their lives after that.
Deus, she wished Lysander was here. He was the closest thing to a brother she had, and if anyone could make her see the logic in the situation, it was him. Thinking of her friend reminded her of Angotti. The bastardo had been inside the convent, and he was going to tell her what she needed to know. She’d use his knowledge of the building to get Marta out of that hell hole and help Lysander at the same time.