What was once a chill down my back has now become a fire that consumes my body. Nervously, I glance around to see if my clothes might have erupted into flames. But it’s the stone—Martiya—emanating so much angry heat that it’s making me sweat in places I didn’t know I had.
“What, um, became of her?” a meek woman in a touristy sweatshirt inquires, wringing her hands as if the answer might determine the fate of true love for us all.
The tour guide shakes her head. “Ah, that poor devil Martiya. She was furious at her father for trading her to a merchant. Out of revenge, she stole her father’s priceless ruby—the very Heart of the Gypsies—that legend claims brings riches wherever it goes. It was supposed to have originated with a Sultan in India, but along with prosperity it brings a terrible curse. Whoever steals it renders its former owner impoverished—so Martiya’s gypsy father and his band were forced to roam in rags throughout Europe from then on. But the bearer of the Heart of the Gypsies can never find true love until the stone is returned. Martiya was willful and thought she could beat this fate, and she kept sneaking out at night for clandestine meetings with her old flame Bohemas. But years later, Nicolo de Bargona found them in a forest outside of Venice during Mardi Gras and killed them both. Could that have been the curse at work? No one knows for sure. But history claims Martiya laughed in Nicolo’s face and tasted her lover’s blood right before she died, catapulting her magical powers to that of Thagarni, or the Gypsy Queen. She became a soul thief—one who could absorb the pain of all those who are broken hearted—as long as they join her spirit inside the ruby heart.”
A collective gasp surfaces from the crowd.
“Where’s the stone now?” asks a portly tourist who looks at the painting as if he’s fallen for Martiya and her charms.
The docent glances aside, then sets the hat pin on the cross and clasps her hands. “Sadly,” she replies, “it was lost—or perhaps stolen—about eighteen years ago, when the family went to America on business. Since that time, the de Bargona pasta sauce company stock has fallen dramatically. They once used to brag that their marinara ran in a river of blood from Venice to the rest of the world. But now, like many companies in the recession, business has become quite challenging.”
And that’s when I lose my breath—
Because it’s all starting to make sense to me. Ever since Alessia slipped my dad the stone, his fortunes began to soar. And now the de Bargona’s appear so broke that they’re forced to give tours of their former grandeur.
Before I finish the thought, Creek gives me a nudge and eyes me with understanding.
“What about the famous Angel of Venice?” asks a dreamy-looking woman with long blonde hair with ribbons in it. “How does the crazy nun’s story coincide with—”
“There is no Angel of Venice,” a deep-throated Italian voice cuts her off.
The English tour guide startles as a distinguished gentleman descends a staircase to the lobby where we stand. He has grey, finely-groomed hair and is wearing an elegant silk suit the color of steel. His dark eyes appear severe.
“C-Conté de Bargona!” the tour guide stammers. “I-I didn’t know you were in residence today—”
The man holds up a hand to halt her chatter like the pope.
And I notice he refuses to glance up. In fact, everything about his being seems to mentally shut her out along with the portrait of Martiya above us, as though he believes them to be beneath him. He stares with a cold, level gaze across the lobby at the crowd.
“Sì, it may be true that my daughter looked a little like her ancestor Martiya,” he concedes in a rich Italian lilt. “But I’m afraid she died in a tragico—how do you call it?—accident, years ago. She was a good nun, blessed with visions of angelos. So there’s no scandalo here.”
His bottomless dark eyes scan the cluster of tourists and lock on mine, freezing my heart in place, as though he’d expected to find me here. His stare is so arresting that I half–believe I’ll see a line of frost between us, and I actually seek to palm the stone in my pocket for warmth. I huddle closer to Creek for protection.
“Now, won’t you sample some our world famous marinara?” he commands more than requests. “Step left to the cucina where you can try our latest varieties.”
Like a herd of obedient circus elephants, the crowd heads one by one to the kitchen. He gives them a smile, but oddly, I’ve never felt colder in my life. De Bargona’s presence feels like a dark shadow across my soul that mysteriously manages to steal heat.
Even the stone in my pocket seems to cool against my jeans.
And despite the shuffling noise of the tourists heading to the kitchen, I hear a voice whisper in my ear.
Kill him! Don’t miss your chance—kill him NOW . . .
To my surprise, Creek steps toward a wall and grabs the edge of a sword hanging beside a tapestry. My hands rise to stifle my scream. He couldn’t possibly have heard the same voice, could he—
But rather than a hasty murder, Creek slices his palm along the edge of the sword out of fake curiosity, ripping open his flesh. He fans his fingers to allow the blood to drip to the alabaster floor.
“Fuck!” He cries like it was a mistake, spreading his boots wide. A crimson puddle collects between his feet.
The Italian tour guide flutters around him, all jerking hand gestures and staccato words that sound like curses. “Bagno! Bagno!” She orders, pointing up the staircase and handing him tissues to stop the bleeding. Before Creek dashes up the steps, he winks at me, and I thank my lucky stars that the Conté de Bargona doesn’t appear to notice our connection. He’s too busy in the kitchen, opening up jars of sauce and proudly ladeling his product over pasta that’s been prepared for the tourists. Yet the chill of his presence still hovers over me like an unwanted cloak. As I give Creek a swift nod and head toward the kitchen, I feel a tap on my shoulder.
Swiveling around, I half-expect to see the Italian docent with a few swear words for me, too—and ready to hand me a mop. But I find myself gazing at a man so desperately handsome he steals all breath from my chest.
His dark unruly hair frames his cheekbones in random curls, and his face is all hard angles—smooth and sharp as Venetian cut glass. Eyes twinkling, he gives me a broad smile filled with enough charm to send a dozen girls’ hearts into spirals. The second that thought strikes me, a strange flutter arises in my gut and works its way out to my limbs in waves. I feel the stone throb against my pocket, harassing me with whispers that are drowned out by the pulsing sound of blood rushing to my brain.
Because something about this man’s eyes mystify me and holds me into place. Although he appears in his early 20s at best, somehow there’s a shadow in his gaze that bears the weight of a very old man. Like the other tour guides, he’s dressed in period clothing from the Renaissance, an ivory peasant shirt and pants with brocade detail and black boots. I have to presume he’s here to help with the tour.
“You want to see the rest of the palazzo, sì mia amica?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer, holding out his arm in an oddly cavalier way, as though he were about to ask me to dance at a ball. “Here, let me show you the map room. The group will-a join us soon.”
I hesitate, grinding my heels into the alabaster floor.
Truth be told, I’d love some of that pasta in the kitchen because I’m still starving, even after the bread and cheese we wolfed down from the nun’s handout earlier. But as I hear the Conté de Bargona bragging about his blood-red sauce, I can’t help thinking anything’s better than being near him right now. He did seem to recognize me—at least as someone who looks spooky-close to his ancestor. Does that mean he pegs me as his daughter’s bastard child?
Before I can entertain the possibilities, the tour guide forcefully whisks me up several stairs by the time I manage to jerk my elbow away from him. Glancing over my shoulder, I spot the other docents cleaning up the blood spill, and I wonder how Creek is doing with rifling through desks and files. At least this tr
ip to the map room could buy us some more time. I give the young man a hint of smile.
He responds by breaking free of my arm and bolting up the steps to the landing, where I can see a room at the top covered in yellowed, archaic maps. Flashing that broad smile again, he disappears, and all of a sudden the landing is filled with a warm, inviting glow. Curious, I head to the map room and find him standing beside two French doors that are opened wide to a balcony.
“The only way to truly know Venezia is by its light,” he says with a certain triumph in his voice.
He’s merely a silhouette now, his amazing physique backlit by the subtle morning sunshine, almost like a phantom.
As my eyes readjust to the outline of his dark contours, I notice there are Mardi Gras masks hanging on the walls next to the double doors. Their hollow, black eyes and faces empty of the warmth of human flesh spook me a little.
“A-Aren’t we here to see the maps?” I remind him, cautious about stepping any further into this room. I turn slightly to glance into the hallway, my eyes hunting past several doors that have been left ajar.
“Creek,” I whisper sharply. “Where are you . . .”
No answer.
Dammit—
Returning my gaze to my host, I find he’s grabbed two of the masks and he’s motioning for me to step out onto the balcony.
“Maps only record the past,” he insists. “Come, let’s see the future.”
I draw in a breath, rationalizing it won’t hurt to stall for more time. “OKAY,” I voice too loudly, hoping it might help Creek detect where I am, “I CAN CHECK OUT THE VIEW WITH YOU FOR A MINUTE.”
Not a sound stirs from the hallway.
Only my echo as it slowly fades away.
With a sigh, and several excuses in mind to bolt free from this guy as soon as I hear evidence of Creek, I shrug my shoulders and stroll out to the balcony to take in the sights.
Before us is the Grand Canal, its waters a deep murky green with hints of shimmer from the early sun that’s begun to peek above the elegant domes and spires. A layer of mist still shrouds the city like a blanket, making it appear hazy and sepia toned, and every bit as ancient as its architecture belies.
“Tell me,” the young man asks, “what do you see, Rubina?”
My heart skips a beat.
I haven’t told him my name yet. Much less the Italian version the de Bargonas gave me at birth—
And I feel the ruby wobble to match my quickening pulse.
“Um, I see green water,” I pipe up, extremely antsy now to get back to Creek. The time for politeness is way over, and as I spin on my heels to go inside, his hand stops my shoulder with the abruptness of stone. He holds up a glittering gold mask.
“Un momento. Just put it on—then tell me what you see.”
He adjusts a shiny black mask over his face that instantly makes him look foreboding.
“This will only take a second,” his accent rolls in an almost musical tone, “I promise. I simply want you to understand. Everything in Venezia changes. The light, the masks, the people—nothing is ever as it seems.”
Annoyed, I slip the gold mask over my head, only because I calculate Creek will emerge from the hallway any second now. Interestingly, when I glance back over the canal, the water has transformed from emerald to an ethereal amethyst with hints of rose that sparkle over the currents as the sun ascends more boldly over the city. It’s beautiful—there’s no doubt about it. But it’s way past time for me to join Creek.
Just as I open my mouth to say a swift goodbye, the man grabs my face in his hands and swallows me in a kiss.
Not just any kiss—
He wraps himself around me as though he could pour his spirit like a searing liquid into my throbbing veins.
And the fluttering I felt earlier now runs up and down my spine like wildfire, stinging me with a heat that focuses like a laser on the stone inside my pocket.
It takes every ounce of strength I have to break free from him. And the second I do, I haul off and slap him so hard it knocks that black mask off his face.
“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING!” I cry, reeling, my fists clenched tight.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spy a wash of red. The bold sun now glows like an angry ball that pierces the mist of the city, coating the entire canal the color of blood.
The young man gazes at me without apology.
“I only wanted to kiss something beautiful before it dies,” he says. “Because make no mistake—Vittorio de Bargona will kill you.”
He steals another kiss before I can gather the wherewithal to shove his ass back.
“Go to the gypsies, Rubina,” he whispers, “out in the countryside. That is, if you want to live.”
In that moment, he becomes hazy, like the mist that still threads between the buildings of the city. Then he disappears.
And all that’s left at my feet is his shiny black mask.
Chapter 7
“Go—go!” Creek cries as a bullet whistles over our heads. It’s been shot with a silencer, but that doesn’t get rid of its eerie, high-pitched wail. Creek’s running toward me in a flash with a tattered envelope in his hand. Before I can ask questions, he’s engulfed my body in his arms and leaped over the wrought-iron bars of the balcony.
This isn’t exactly how I imagined being carried over a threshold by the love of my life . . .
Straight into a baptism of sea water.
We are falling, falling toward the deep canal that shines crimson on the surface, until we splash and are swallowed by its murky liquid.
All churning arms and legs, our breaths rise in bubbles around us. I can see bullets piercing straight lines through water, each one making a sharp blooping sound, until Creek grabs me by the arm and drags me to where the canal is darkened by shadows. My lungs are about to burst, yet I know we can’t surface for air until we’re out of gunshot range.
And there’s hardly a question who wants me dead now.
But I’ve got no time for deciphering intrigue—my chest feels like it’s burning as I follow Creek beneath a pier that juts out over the canal. Just as we pass the dark, water-soaked pillars, a hand grabs my shirt.
And lifts me up!
I’m gasping and pedaling my feet, cursing and taking swings in air, unable to see who’s got me by the collar.
When my body is unceremoniously dumped into the bed of a gondola and covered by a royal blue blanket.
Before I can blink, Creek joins me, wet as a fish.
He’s heaving for breath and spitting out salt water. I half expect him to rise up swinging, like I did, but instead he clasps his hand over my mouth and pulls the blanket over both of us to blot out the sun.
It’s totally dark now. I know my eyes must be as large as saucers as I feel the gondola sway in a slow, leisurely glide across the canal, as though we’re merely tourists starting our day. And I hear a dreamy alto voice soar over our heads.
“Che bella cosa è na jurnata ’e sole,
n’aria serena dopo na tempesta.
Pe’ ll’aria fresca para già na festa . . .”
I have no idea who’s singing or what the words mean. And I couldn’t be more confused as Creek wrestles me into a hug like we’re two vacationers getting way too frisky with each other. I’m about to ask questions when I feel Creek’s hand stroke a dripping wet lock from my forehead.
“Shhh . . . he’s helping us,” Creek whispers. “Work with me.”
“Who?” I reply, unable to imagine why anyone would stow away a couple of damp foreigners—who’re getting shot at, no less.
“The gondolier who first brought us here,” Creek says, pressing his finger to my lips. We can hear angry shouts in Italian from where the de Bargona’s home must be, but fortunately they grow quieter in the distance and disappear.
I snuggle up to Creek, who brushes his lips sweetly against mine as if he were simply swiping a kiss between dances at my old boarding school. But the truth—that makes me want to hyperventi
late right now—is that we’ve once again barely escaped with our lives.
“Creek,” I whisper in a shaky voice, feeling goose bumps spread across my body, made only worse by my wet clothes, “why on earth would this guy help us?”
I feel Creek’s chest hesitate, then rise and fall again slowly, with that same caution he always shows before he decides whether to mention something he thinks is too dark for me to know.
But I want to know.
I elbow him until he relents.
“He’s . . . helping us . . . ,” Creek pauses, “because you’re not the only one the de Bargonas have tried to kill, baby. You heard the tour guide—she likened them to a ‘river of blood’. And something tells me pasta sauce ain’t the only thing she’s talking about.”
He rubs my arms to ward away the shivers.
“Your grandfather, the Count, has the coldest eyes I’ve ever seen in my life, Robin—even among members of the mob. A guy like that won’t think twice about making people . . . disappear.”
My trembling comes in waves now, despite my efforts to will it to stop so I can seem tough to Creek. I pull the blanket tighter around myself, hoping our gondolier is still steering us in shadows. “C-Creek,” I press, not wanting to have any delusions about this trip, “somehow, he must’ve gotten tipped off that I came to Italy and that I’ve got the stone. D-do you think we’re really going to die?”
He is quiet for a long time. And part of me can’t help wondering if this gondola will become our coffin, no matter who helps us or how hard we try. Surely de Bargona’s henchmen will track us down as our boat glides through the mists of this old city.
But then Creek rolls gently on top of me, sliding his hands up and down my shoulders, hips and thighs, attempting to warm me with his whole being. I feel his breath alight on my cheeks and then my neck, like a sweet and defiant reminder that we’re alive and still breathing. He sweeps back the sopping hair from my eyes that I hope hide my welling tears, but that I don’t think fool him for a minute.
Stone of Thieves (Robbin' Hearts Series Book 2) Page 5
