Or maybe the money was marked and Ruggiero would have been waiting for it to show up somewhere that would identify Natale’s whereabouts. In that case, why didn’t he just give the money back?
Natale’s reasons may never be known, he wasn’t talking.
Falcon figured the old man had lost his mind in the end. Leaving the money to Angelina was a double-edged inheritance, and a ticking time bomb as il Dragone sought their revenge.
Standing in front of the Banca Nazionale del Lavoro in Naples this blazing first day of October, he thought, if Natale weren’t already dead, the man would be now, for involving Angel in this.
Falcon walked through the revolving doors, taking off his sunglasses. He was summoned to the private banker’s desk.
He checked the nameplate. “Buongiorno, Signor Tavali. I am Francesco Natale. I have come about my late grandfather’s account, Giovanni Natale.”
“Buongiorno, Signor Natale. Please sit down. Do you have the account number?”
Falcon rattled off the account number and took out the photo ID he had made for himself the night before using Natale’s address in Forlì.
Signor Tavali checked the identification and punched in the account number on his computer. “Ah. There is a notation that Giovanni Natale died ten years ago. I see why there has not been any activity on this account.” Signor Tavali’s assessing eyes moved up his dark tailored suit. “Why has no one in the family come forward to claim the money?”
“I am my grandfather’s only surviving relative and I was in the service when he died. I recently returned home and was only just able to get his things in order.”
Signor Tavali’s smile was sympathetic. “I am sorry for your loss, Signor Natale. I see also that you are named the beneficiary.”
“Grazie.” Granger had cracked the bank’s code last night.
“And how can I help you today, Signor Natale?”
“I have come to withdraw the funds.”
“All of it?” Signor Tavali’s sympathetic smile slipped.
“All of it.”
“Un momento, Signor Natale.” The banker went through a door behind him. He came out with a clipboard of papers and handed him a pen.
Falcon signed all the necessary releases as the banker explained different investment programs the Banca Nazionale del Lavoro had to offer.
Falcon let the man talk. After all, he was only doing his job trying to keep the money in the bank. When he was finished signing, he smiled at Signor Tavali and handed him back the clipboard.
Signor Tavali pursed his lips in disapproval. “This way, please.”
Falcon placed the money in the black briefcase. It was all there. He handed the safe deposit box key to the guard and left the vault.
When he passed through the revolving doors, Granger was waiting for him in the Audi. “Got it.”
“Step Two?” Granger pulled out from the curb.
The safe house in Naples.
Falcon knew the convent’s Prioress well. He’d saved her sister’s life from the drug lord he’d captured in Asnieres-Sur-Seine, and she was happy to return a favor.
The Prioress would secure the briefcase and the Stradivarius until they could transport it to headquarters. Though the Strad was not in his possession, Ruggiero’s intent to buy a stolen work of art was incriminating, in addition to the kidnapping charges he now faced.
“Step Two.”
Chapter Three
One of the phones was ringing.
Falcon crossed over to the bed where three cell phones lay. He picked up his private cell and exhaled in harassment when he saw the name displayed.
Perfect timing, as always. “Dad, how are you?”
“Armand, is that you?” His father’s jovial Italian came across the connection.
“It’s me, Dad.”
“I almost can’t believe it’s you because I know that my firstborn would never come home and not call his father first thing, you know? You are home, right?”
He sighed and sat down at the desk. “I’m home, Dad.”
“How long have you been home?”
“About two months.”
“I know this because Georgio told me you stopped by with Sophia Loren. I told Georgio he was crazy, but he said it had to be Sophia Loren because he remembered the hair. Thick, strong hair. So, who is this beauty?”
Falcon got up, keenly aware of the precious minutes ticking by while his father grilled him. “Her name is Angelina.” He opened a box of ammo and started loading up his gun belt.
“And when do I get to meet her? You should bring her by for a little dinner.”
“I will Dad, but I’m working for a while.”
“Oh, what’s the case?”
“You know I can’t talk about it.”
“Yeah, I know, you can’t talk about anything. What pisses me off is that even if you could talk about it you wouldn’t because that’s just how you are. You know, I believe if I didn’t know I was your own father, you would keep that from me, too, you tight-lipped Sicilian. You’re just like your mother, you know that?”
Here we go… If they got into a debate right now, his father would never get off the phone.
“Dad, it’s your side of the family that’s Sicilian. Mom’s from Parma.”
“And so that makes her better than me? Because she’s from the North?”
“I miss you too, Dad. Is this what you called me for?” He held the phone between ear and shoulder and shrugged into the bulletproof vest.
“Actually, I called to ask a favor, besides you coming to dinner.” His father’s tone changed from ill-conceived affront to congeniality in an instant.
“Sure, what is it?”
“I need you to check on Sacha for me.”
“Who?”
“You know, Roman’s baby girl. You remember how you used to give her swimming lessons?”
A slow smile spread across Falcon’s face at the memory. “Oh, you mean, Little Angel.”
He saw them now in Egypt. They’d visited the pyramids. He had placed Little Angel on top of a sphinx and they pretended they were part of a caravan. He made funny honking noises like a camel and took her picture while she laughed.
That vacation was the last time he had seen Sacha. She had been eight years old and he a grown-up seventeen.
Falcon shook his head. He had thought he was a man at seventeen. After only a few months in Tuscany with his mother, he’d left home.
“Wait until you see her,” his father said.
“Little Angel was a doll with all that black hair that made up at least half her weight. And those golden eyes … I bet she’s breaking hearts now.”
“She’s an exotic beauty,” his father said.
Falcon chuckled, sheathing a dagger. “How is she?”
“She’s fine, I hope. But I know how rebellious she can be and that’s why I’m worried.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, she’s here in Italy, and I’ve been checking up on her. Oh, and with the fire in her would she be mad to know that Roman calls me for a weekly report on his daughter,” his father laughed. “But for the last couple of days I just keep getting her voicemail.”
“She’s probably just enjoying Italy. Maybe she met a guy.”
“I would go by where she’s staying myself but Maria and I are in Milan this weekend. Your brother’s minding the store, so could you stop by her place and make sure she’s okay?”
Falcon checked his watch. “Granger will be back soon and then we’re heading out, but I’ll put your mind at ease. Where is she staying?” He picked up a pen to write down an address.
“Casa di Città on Piazza Avellino. Do you know it?”
“Che? What?” Falcon stared at the piece of paper.
“Casa di…”
“I heard you the first time, Dad.”
“Hey, what are you biting my head off for?”
“Sorry, Dad.” Falcon put down the pen and leaned back in the chair. Sudden
comprehension settled in his gut. “So, what’s Sacha doing in Naples anyway?”
“She’s here for the symphony. If you’d kept up with family, you’d know that Sacha turned out to be a musical genius. You’re not the only one in the family, you know. She studies the violin and she’s going to perform at the Teatro di San Carlo at the end of the month,” his father stated proudly.
After a long silence in which praise for Sacha’s accomplishments were not forthcoming, his father said, “Son?”
Stretching out his legs, Falcon rubbed his brow and wondered about fate. Fate had set him on a quest for a violin that had been in his possession centuries ago. Fate had brought Angelina, an exotic beauty who he now realized was Sacha Angelina Cardiff—and she had the nerve to accuse him of being a liar!—to Italy with that very violin. And now his fate was to die by the hand of his own father, if the overprotective chef found out that Roman’s baby girl had been kidnapped on his watch. But not before his father castrated him for knowing Little Angel in the biblical sense, on his watch.
“Dad, I’m in her apartment right now,” he confessed, and then listened to the calm before the storm while his father digested that statement.
“What are you doing in her apartment?” His father’s words chilled into precise ice. “Don’t answer that. Armand, you’re joking, right?”
“I couldn’t have made this up if I tried.” Falcon stood and started pacing the floor.
“What are you saying?” His father’s labored breathing came through the line. “Are you telling me she’s Sophia Loren?”
“Yeah, but she told me her name was Angelina Natale, and now I find out she’s Sacha Cardiff!”
“Why would she do that? Cos’hai combinato?” His father shouted, asking him what he’d done.
“I don’t know, Dad. I’m looking forward to asking her that when I pick her up.” He took a deep breath and shook his head in awe of destiny. “And I haven’t done anything that she didn’t want.”
His father cursed a colorful Italian streak, apparently oblivious to the fact that he was cursing his own unborn grandchildren. “Where is she?”
“She’s out with some friends,” Falcon supplied the lie quickly.
He’d get her back before his father found out about the kidnapping.
Angel, I hope you didn’t tell Ruggiero who you are.
The kidnapping of Roman Cardiff’s daughter would make headlines. Ruggiero might get greedy and decide that the Strad wasn’t an even exchange for her safe return.
Sounding the alarm with reporters and television coverage would make Ruggiero nervous. That would mean more people he would have to go through. It would just increase the body count in the end.
“Listen Casanova, that girl is like my own daughter. She’s like your sister! She’s not one of your women!”
“Oh, so we’re back to that now? Well, I haven’t seen any of those women since I came back in town! Since I’ve been with Angelina. Oh, wait a minute, she’s Sacha now! I am going to get her for this.”
He thought about how he was going to get her. In the shower up against the wall with the water streaming down those creamy breasts and glistening droplets clinging to the rosy areoles as he rammed into her … on top of the island in her kitchen with those long legs wrapped around him…
“You’re living with her, aren’t you?”
“Dad, you don’t really want to know what I’m doing with her.”
His father started cursing again. This time he summoned a few saints to come to his aid in dealing with his firstborn, not exactly in those words.
“Dad, I love her.”
His father abruptly stopped his ranting.
Falcon sat down on the side of the bed and waited. Silence is good.
When his father began talking again his voice was thick with emotion. “I’ve never heard you speak of a woman in this way. Every time you come home, there’s a different woman on your arm. They’re all beautiful, but to you I know they’re just that, eye candy.”
“She’s different, Dad.”
“You know your mother calls me whining about how you work too much and never come to see her, and how she’s going to die cursed without any grandchildren?”
“I know, Dad.”
“You remember how Sacha used to call you Falcon?”
“She was always good with her legs.” He chuckled. “She would wrap those long legs around me and ‘fly’ while I spun her around faster and faster…” Falcon remembered who he was talking to, and sobered.
“Roman’s baby girl…” his father murmured. “Does she love you?”
“She’s crazy about me.” She just doesn’t know who I am. I can’t wait to see her face when she gets a taste of her own medicine… “And she’s going to be my bride no matter what name she wants to call herself these days.”
“Go see your mother.”
“I will. Dad, do you think Roman still remembers me?”
His father laughed. “Maybe you should bring up the swimming lessons when you ask for his daughter’s hand in marriage. Might be a good selling point.”
Chapter Four
“Help me!”
Angelina woke up screaming, clutching the bedspread with her fists. In the next moment, she was coughing, her throat was scorched, her skin hot as if she had been burned alive.
She had ignored the water in the crystal decanter for fear it was drugged, but now reached for it. She’d dreamed of the inferno again, the blaze that had consumed the house she had been trapped in.
Someone was watching her. She lifted up on her elbows.
Reality faded in this cavern. She could imagine herself back in that furnace. The horror of searching for a way out as first the intense heat damaged everything in its path, melting the gold crown moldings on the ceiling and curling the gold-filigree-embossed wallpaper, and then finally the flames rushing in to consume her…
Slowly, Angelina pulled herself up and rubbed away tears. No one would come for her. Her aunt and uncle would wonder where she was, but they wouldn’t know where to look for her. They wouldn’t know whom to ask of her whereabouts.
Thanks to her secret life at the Casa di Città, they had no idea about Armand.
Armand is dead. No! He is alive. He must be.
Even if by some chance Armand was alive, he would never think to search underground in this barren cave with its indistinguishable rough-hewn walls that soared around her.
She couldn’t tell if she was still in Naples or in a crater on the other side of the moon.
Dizzy from hunger, Angelina lay back down, but she’d wandered to the edge of the bed and fell over the side in a tangle of red velvet. The jolt knocked the wind out of her.
The floor was so cold that she could feel it through the bedclothes. Her back was the only area of her body that burned with a radiating pain.
Angelina took a ginger breath and tried to get up. She did not hear the wooden doors open and was leaning up on her elbows when strong arms lifted her against a hard chest.
“Angelina, you must eat.” Luciano’s voice was surprisingly soft in anger.
She tried to hold herself away from him, but lost that battle and sagged against him.
“Are you hurt?” His lips were against her cheek. His hand ran slowly over her back, her hip.
She winced when he laid her against the pillows.
“You will not get up. I will carry you when you must relieve yourself.”
Angelina stilled at the threat. But he would never know when she needed to go to the bathroom.
Unless there are cameras in the cavern. She looked up at the alcoves that lined the upper region but there was nothing but darkness beyond.
Luciano lifted the lid on a covered tray on the nightstand. He held a plate in one hand and a fork in the other.
“I am … not hungry,” Angelina said. She couldn’t turn away from the forkful of roast beef, but she managed to close her mouth.
“Two days without food and you are no
t hungry?”
How long can I go without food? She might die of hunger, but if Armand did not come for her, why should she live?
“Ah. You think it is drugged.” Luciano brought the fork under her nose, and she inhaled tantalizing spices. “If you knew Vanuccio, you’d know he would never allow anyone to taint his cuisine. That would be a mortal sin.” He pulled the beef off the fork in front of her face and popped it in his mouth. His eyes caressed her. “Delizioso.”
He speared more beef on the fork. “So, I am still alive. You will eat now?”
Angelina shook her head and the cavern swayed.
“I will not let you starve to death. I could not bear it.” He brought the fork to her lips, but before he could touch her, she took it from him.
Luciano gave an appreciative grunt as he rubbed away the gravy that ran down her chin.
“Good, eh?”
Go away! But it was obvious he meant to watch her eat the entire meal. She kept her eyes on the plate and when she had eaten nearly half the food, her head felt clearer. As her brain functioned better, so did her anger.
“How long do you think you can keep me here? You know that Tony will find me.”
“The thief is dead.”
She choked on a mouthful.
Luciano sighed, patting her on the back.
“Why do you love him so? He was nothing more than a criminal!” He grabbed the glass of water and held it out to her.
Water spilled over the side of the glass, but she took it anyway. Her vision was blurred with tears as she held the glass of water with both hands, wishing it were drugged. She didn’t want to think anymore, but his words confirmed her fear.
Armand had just lain there on the street without moving while they sped away in the Fiat that night.
He might have gotten run over by a car while lying in the street, or thugs who roamed the district at night may have finished him off.
He was dead, and she had killed him. She hadn’t trusted him, had been hurt that he had lied about who he was, and yet she was guilty of the same thing, withholding her own identity.
How characteristically impulsive of her to assume Luciano Biagi was right about Armand that day at the ristorante. Why couldn’t I have just believed in love?
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