My lack of covert skills limited my ability to follow Craig undetected in the hope he’d lead me back to Keira. He’d either catch me tailing him, or he’d hop on a speedboat, leaving me at the mercy of another lazy water taxi driver. This left me with only a face-to-face confrontation before he reached the canal. And it would be on my terms.
I listened to his footsteps echo farther away, and as soon as it was safe, I sprinted down an adjacent alley—my combat boots thudding in time with my heart as I dashed through the shortcut I’d carefully rehearsed. If I ran at full speed, I could beat him to the abandoned plaza by at least a minute. I inhaled the musty scent of algae on the swishing canals as the empty piazza came into view.
I entered the eerily black square, the flap of a pigeon taking flight rattling me as I ducked into the first darkened doorway, my hands quivering as I pressed my back against the peeling paint of the door’s wood panels.
It may have taken months, but I’d found the man who’d pretended to be my sister’s boyfriend, who held her hand, dried her tears, rocked her bed, then ripped her from a bloody bathtub.
This was happening.
I took a slow inhale through my nose, trying to control my breathing as I pictured the fight in my head. The objective was to strike first and focus on my legs. I could kick harder than I could punch, and I had to make sure he didn’t punch me, didn’t get my throat. I’d learned that lesson in Cortona. Instead, I’d wear him out. The more he swung and missed, the more tired he’d be, and the more likely he might be to mess up.
Blackness spread in front of me like the curtain to the symphony as I heard a heavy set of footsteps drawing closer. I recognized the click of his fancy Italian shoes. He was headed straight toward me, and there was no Department D, or CIA, or local cops, or group of friends, waiting in the wings to interfere.
Just him and me.
I closed my eyes and breathed down to my belly. The sound of his steps scraping the gravel reverberated off the walls.
I pictured his mouth bleeding and his eyes blackened.
Step……Step……
I imagined him wincing in pain.
Step…Step…Step…
I remembered him touching my sister.
Step. Step. Step.
I recalled every feeling of guilt, every comment I regretted, every tear I shed.
He turned the corner of the narrow alley, and I flung my fist into the base of his throat.
Kill him now, I thought as he bent forward, grabbing his neck. Before he could breathe, I kneed his nose. A loud crack followed, and blood splattered like abstract art onto the slate pavers below. He gripped his face, standing upright, purple liquid dripping down the scar on his lip. It reminded me of my sister’s tub.
I shifted my weight, then kicked his face with a straight leg, my boot connecting loudly with his jaw. Craig stumbled, spitting blood, and glared at me as if just realizing what was happening. He tossed up his fists and abruptly moved toward me, snarling with a homicidal look that sent a spasm of fear to my belly.
“You fucking little bitch,” he hissed.
He swung his right arm toward my face, and I ducked. He threw three quick punches, which I batted away with my forearms. My final block spun him backward. I precisely struck his kidney, and he yelped, pausing, before he thrust his leg back in a donkey kick—connecting with the side of my gut. I winced, then quickly jumped into my fighting stance. There was no way I was going down easily, not this time.
Craig rushed toward me, and I swung a roundhouse to his face, but he batted my leg, spinning me around and grabbing my arm behind my back, twisting my shoulder. I elbowed his side, and he released me, growling. Then I whipped around and jabbed his Adam’s apple with a row of straight knuckles. Craig gagged and stumbled, gasping for air.
It all happened in seconds, and unlike Cortona, I felt more exhilaration than panic. I wanted this. I moved forward, attempting a jump-kick to his knee, but he saw me coming. He swung at my leg, his hand knocking me off-balance, then he thrust his fist at my face. I bobbed perfectly, but his other fist connected with the side of my gut. I yelped involuntarily.
“Not so fun, is it?” He sneered.
All the rage inside me wiped away the pain. My eyes flamed as I sprung upright, right arm protecting my face. I glared over my fist.
“Where is my sister?”
“Heard she bled to death.” He rubbed his bloody nose.
“Bullshit! I know Luis Basso brought her to Italy. I know you took her picture in the trunk of a car in Rome. I found her initials carved on her bed at Campo dei Frari.”
His eyes narrowed. He didn’t know that one.
“I’m smarter than you think,” I snipped.
“You might be. But your sister’s the one who invited me into her bed.” He winked before blowing me a bloody kiss. “She’s got one hot little ass.”
A fresh wave of fury washed through me, and I charged at Craig, faking a right jab before swinging with my left. My fist crunched his ear, and he instinctively grabbed his head. So I jump-kicked his groin, slamming my boot between his legs in a massive uppercut. Let’s see what you can do in bed now, douchebag…
He yelped like a dog, doubling over, and I prepared for a kick to his head, but he barreled at me. I twisted to the side, letting him brush past like a bull to a matador. He hit the ground face-first.
“Where is Keira?” I shouted.
“Where do you think? She’ll be at the soccer match on Friday. Or didn’t you get my text?” He smirked, and considering he was bleeding from the mouth, nose, and ear, he shouldn’t be so smug.
Still, it was all the confirmation I needed. The soccer game was a setup. He’d dropped his phone on purpose. He wanted us to find it.
“Why are you doing this? What do you want from us?”
“We don’t want anything from you.” He wobbled on tired legs. “In fact, you already served your purpose.”
“What are you talking about?” My face crumpled in confusion. “You know what, I don’t care. Glad to have helped. Now, let us go home!”
“Oh, sure. Why not? Let me buy you a ticket.” He spat blood. “After all, we practically drew you a map here to begin with.”
“No shit. You went through a whole lot of trouble to get me here. For what? Who’s behind this? Phillip Stone? Does he want some sort of revenge because of what my parents did to Julian? Because if he hasn’t noticed, my parents are dead! Revenge achieved.”
“Wow, you really are clueless,” he scoffed.
“Then fill me in! Where’s my sister?”
“If you had stuck to the plan, you would have found out in two days at the soccer match. Now, who the hell knows what’s gonna happen. On to Plan C, I guess.”
With that, he took off across the piazza.
I bolted after him and, given his multiple injuries, I was significantly faster. There was no way he was getting to the Grand Canal and hopping on some stupid getaway boat. Not this time. I spied the water ahead, the lights of the taxis moving across the current. Our narrow alley opened onto another plaza that ended in a small wooden bridge curving over the canal.
I increased my pace, my eyes determined as I dove onto Craig’s back, wrapping my arms around his throat. I fish hooked his mouth with two fingers, digging my nails into the flesh inside his cheek. He angrily twisted, flinging me off, which sent me soaring into the square. I crashed onto the stone pavers, landing on my side, my forehead butting the earth as my body skidded a few feet. I screeched as my skin scraped the uneven gravel. Stumbling, I got to my feet, wiping the abrasions on my face. My cheek and eyebrow were cut, and I could feel the warm sticky blood begin to flow.
I ignored the pain as Craig attempted to brush past, heading for the pedestrian bridge. I flew at him with a diving kick to his knee, and this time I connected with a thundering pop. He dropped instantly, screaming. His knee was either broken or dislocated. Either way, he wasn’t getting far.
“Luis said you were going to kill
Keira, but you changed your mind. Why? Why did you take her? What’s going on?” My voice cracked with naked desperation. But I needed him to talk. This was the only chance I had. I couldn’t fail her again.
Craig looked up, the pain from his knee obvious, but more than that he seemed almost irritated that I’d managed to hurt him. He struggled to his feet, using the bridge’s railing for support. “You know, we should all thank your sister for that asinine DNA test, because if it weren’t for her, we may never have learned the truth.”
“The truth about what? Why did some stupid lab work get Keira in all this trouble?” I was trying to sound strong, but my voice was shaking.
“Ask your father.”
“My dad’s dead.”
Craig smirked, a fresh glint in his eye as he watched me, pausing as if enjoying the moment. Then he took a long breath. “Which one?” he asked, his lips curling to the side.
That was when the world stopped. Literally. I think for a second I was in an X-Men movie, because I swear even the flies over the water halted in midair.
What was he talking about? My dad was dead. Both of my parents were dead.
“Haven’t you wondered why no one’s shot you? Why Luis Basso cut your arm?” He nodded to the now-healed wound on my biceps. I’d gotten lucky; Luis was about to stab me before Marcus intervened.
“What, what are you saying?” I stuttered, shaking my head in denial.
“I’m saying there was more than one DNA test being run, sweetheart, and you might owe someone else a belated Father’s Day gift.”
I glared at his cocky grin, his thick scar covered in blood, his eyes smug despite his numerous wounds. Then he raised an eyebrow, as if proud of himself, and that was when something inside me erupted. It felt like ants were crawling on my skin. My mouth turned dry. The lights gleaming on the water blurred, and all I could see was Craig Bernard in a fiery red film.
He was lying. He was trying to make me doubt my father, my dead father. Hadn’t this psycho already done enough to me? To Keira?
I ran at him, leaping what felt like a mile as my foot swung into his jaw. The crack was loud. He crashed onto his back, and I kicked his gut, then his groin. He rolled over, crawling up the bridge, and I thrust my boot into his tailbone. He fell flat.
Then I heard the screaming, the sirens. I whipped toward the sounds, hair flying, dazed with rage, and saw people sprinting along the other bank of the canal. They were racing for the bridge. They were holding guns.
It was the police.
I snapped my eyes toward Craig and caught him crawling pitifully toward the center of the bridge. He grabbed a handrail and pulled himself upright on his broken knee.
What is he doing? My brain was still foggy. The cops are here.
The officers on the other bank pointed their firearms, yelling for us to freeze, screaming for Craig to stay where he was.
That’s when I saw the ferry. It was a few hundred feet away and preparing to move under the bridge. He’s gonna jump.
I ran forward. “You can’t make it! You’ll die from the fall. Give up! Just tell me where my sister is!”
“You still don’t get it?” he mumbled with a swollen jaw, his eyes drawn to the ferry. “You’re doing all this for a girl you’re only half related to, and you’re missing the family you really have. Are you telling me you never wondered, you never suspected? You never saw the way your parents acted around him?”
Every follicle on my being rose up as if hit with an icy wind. No…no…no. It’s not true. He’s lying…he has to be.
But Craig saw my doubt. “Ahhh… You’re starting to see it. Why we’re in Venice? Why we went to that apartment? Your father stole your mother, right there in that flat. Banged her in the kitchen from what I hear.” He looked me up and down, loving this. “But it didn’t end there.”
Randolph Urban.
My mother was dating Randolph Urban before she met my father. But it ended, right? It had to have ended. She couldn’t have cheated on my dad…
Craig watched my doubt gleefully. “In case you’re wondering, the blood from Luis’s knife confirmed it. Congratulations, Anastasia, you’re officially an Urban! You’re rich! And I guess that makes Sophia, like, your niece or something…” He snorted, blood splattering from his mouth.
“You’re saying Randolph Urban is behind this? He did this? Not Phillip Stone. Not some random enemy. Why?” The motive didn’t make sense. Why would he want to hurt me? Or my sister? Especially if he thought I was his kid.
“It’s not because you’re his offspring. Don’t take it personally. That’s just a knife twisting old wounds. Pun intended.” He winked, then looked around at the chaotic scene of whipping helicopter propellers, blazing sirens, and pointed guns. He seemed amused by it all. “Honestly, none of this was even about you, or Keira, or the lab work. It’s about what happened when we went to intercept the DNA test.”
I stared blankly.
“Luis went to the lab that night in Boston, only before he could make a simple change to the records, a couple broke in. Shots were fired, Luis’s shoulder was grazed, and the couple got away. But not before Luis got a good look at them, an eerily familiar husband-and-wife duo who looked a lot like people we worked for not long ago, people we thought were dead.” He eyed me carefully, savoring my devastated reaction and seemingly oblivious to the vortex of police activity swirling around us. “You see, we weren’t trying to draw you to Venice; we’re after dear ol’ mom and dad. So consider yourselves bait to lure those betraying bastards out of the hole they’ve been hiding in.”
No, it’s impossible. I pressed my fists to my ears, shaking my head. It was too much. He was a psychopath. He’d say anything to hurt me. My parents were dead. I’d buried their bodies. He was just trying to distract me from finding my sister. I had to stay focused.
“Where’s Keira?” My head snapped up.
“You mean your half sister?” He cocked his head. “You’ll have to ask your bio dad.”
“Tell me where she is!” I shouted as my eyes caught a gondola in the distance. It was moving slowly behind the ferry that was heading toward the bridge, and suddenly my mind flicked back to that infamous photo: my parents in a gondola in Venice, Randolph Urban pushing the boat, his hand on my mother’s shoulder. Maybe they were still dating then. The photo obviously meant something to him. He kept it on his wall. I focused on the image: them, the gondola, the canal…the hotel.
There was a hotel in the background. A large, grand white hotel in the heart of the bay, steps from St. Mark’s Square. I’d run right past it the night I’d chased Craig Bernard, and if I’d learned one thing during this entire miserable journey, it was that nothing was a coincidence.
“The hotel,” I sputtered in a barely audible voice, but Craig heard me. I could see the shift of his eyes. “The Londra Palace.” I pictured the hotel’s sign in my mind, the photograph crystal clear. “That’s where Keira is. She’s at the Londra Palace. There’s a picture on Urban’s wall. That’s where they stayed during that first mission. Everything else you’ve done has mimicked that mission…”
“What better way to draw two dead spies out of hiding than to kidnap one daughter and convince them that the other is about to follow in their footsteps.”
Draw two dead spies out of hiding? Was this really happening? I couldn’t speak. I could hardly see. No, no, no. They can’t be alive. They burned in a car wreck. They wouldn’t let us bury them, mourn them. They wouldn’t leave us on our own.
Craig glared at me, his face swelling badly, blood slowly dripping like the spigot in our horrific tub—but in that moment, he could see that I was the one who was really in pain. “Room 204. Tell Keira I say hi.”
He blew another disgusting kiss, then jumped off the side of the bridge.
A passenger ferry moved underneath as he soared through the air. I rushed to the edge, searching the darkness as his body crashed onto the boat’s upper deck. Passengers shouted, tourists scattered, and cameras
flashed. Then Craig rolled to his side, staggered to his feet, and dove into the canal.
The water was black, motionless. I searched for air bubbles, signs of movement. But I saw nothing. No shift in the current, no paddle of hands, but somehow I doubted people like him died that easily.
Die… My parents. They’re alive!
Randolph Urban is my father…
No. Not now. I couldn’t let my mind go there; it might never come back. I had to get to Keira. I had to find her before anybody tried to move her again, before they had time to use us in any more schemes.
I pushed off the railing and ran across the bridge, sprinting in the direction I’d come, back toward San Marco’s, back toward the Londra Palace, away from the police.
Voices barreled behind me like angry gusts of wind.
“Anastasia! Stop! Are you okay? Stop! Please!” It was Charlotte.
I could hear Marcus and Julian yelling beside her. I could hear the stampede of footsteps. I could hear the blaring sirens, the bullhorns, the rescue dogs. I could see the helicopter beam illuminating me from overhead. I could feel the swirl of its blades.
But I didn’t stop.
“It’s Keira! I know where she is!” I shouted.
I kept running.
Chapter Thirty-Five
I beat the authorities to the hotel. Not by much. But I beat them—sirens chasing me all the way and a helicopter spotlight tracking me like I was Harrison Ford in The Fugitive.
It seems illogical. I could have hopped on a police boat and taken a nice, leisurely ride to save my sister. But I didn’t trust the police. And as selfish and immature as it sounded, I wanted to be the one to burst into her room, I wanted to save her, I wanted to be the first safe face she saw. And I wanted to see if it was all really true.
I tumbled into the lobby of the hotel; if I thought my accommodations in Rome were luxurious, they almost seemed middling when compared to the spectacle that was the Londra Palace. The floor was an interesting mosaic set to a damask pattern, and the front desk was lit up with blue electric lights that made it seem like the water from the Venetian lagoon outside was pouring down the front of it. Not that I had much time to appreciate the décor. I ran straight to the first desk clerk I saw, screamed that I needed to get into Room 204, and hollered that it was life or death. I shook the lapels of his navy wool blazer and pounded on the desk with my other hand.
Proof of Lies (Anastasia Phoenix) Page 26
