Francesca’s five-year-old son sat on her other side. Sensing her sadness, he squeezed her hand. Alex had been in tune with her feelings since the day he was born, smiling or frowning in concert with her emotions.
“I’m fine, caro,” she said in Italian. She straightened his bow tie, brushed lint from the satin lapel of his jacket, and added, “Women are supposed to cry at weddings, sì?”
Another squeeze and a look that told her he knew better. Her young son was good at that. Though he rarely made eye contact, he could communicate with no more than a facial expression, a turn of the head, a shrug. Sometimes it seemed as though his very thoughts coiled outward to embrace her. Francesca was thankful for that, because her precious son—the miracle who had held her life together when the man she loved had died—couldn’t speak. Doctors credited it to a spectrum disorder. Alex was autistic.
He was also a genius.
A five-by-seven computer tablet rested on his lap. It was his constant companion—his link to the world around him. When he wasn’t using it, he tucked it in a side holster clipped to his belt. But for now he stared at it. An ever-changing swirl of fractal patterns filled the screen.
The first boat arrived at the dock, and onlookers made way as Tony and Ahmed stepped out. They looked splendid in their black tuxedos. A string quartet struck up a traditional Italian wedding song, and the crowd stirred in anticipation. A group of teens added their voices to the popular music. Others joined in, and soon the swelling chorus drew eyes from up and down the walkway that skirted the lagoon.
Lacey lowered her veil. Marshall sat beside her, handsome as ever, even beneath the red blindfold he wore. He’d been honored to oblige Lacey with the unusual ritual. It symbolized trust and mutual respect. The blindfold would remain in place until they reached the altar, the groom guided there by the woman who would then follow his lead until death. Francesca was touched by the gesture. Lacey danced to her own tune. This was her way of embracing her unique spirit while professing faith in her man.
Once the party was gathered on the dock, a score of striped-shirted gondoliers cleared a path leading to the entrance of the Hotel Danieli. As they set off, Alex hesitated. He let go of Francesca’s hand and stared through a break in the crowd. She followed his gaze and noticed a commotion atop the arched walkway in front of the Bridge of Sighs. There were shouts. A man sprinted down the opposite side toward San Marco. Two men pushed through the crowd and sped after him. The ruckus startled her. She pulled Alex into the folds of her dress.
It was over before it began. The three men disappeared around the corner. Tourists filled in the gaps left in their wake. But Francesca’s racing heart wasn’t so quick to settle. Even after years of peace, her nightmares surfaced easily. She blew out a breath to calm herself, releasing her protective grip on Alex.
“It’s nothing, my son,” she said. “Crazy tourists, that’s all.”
Chapter 5
Venice, Italy
THE WEAPON FELT odd under his clothing. Renzo had taken it from the car before he had ditched it. The need for it angered him. He wore a linen sport coat over a polo shirt, pleated trousers, and runners—paid for with cash from a rushed closure of his bank account.
He grabbed another handful of seeds and held out his palm. A frenzy of wings flapped around him. Two pigeons alighted on his hand and pecked at the morsels. More birds hovered nearby, their heads twisting and turning as they searched for an opening to the easy feast. Dozens more surrounded his feet, grabbing at leftover scraps. Other tourists joined in the fun, tentative arms outstretched. Cameras clicked, vendors smiled, and children ran in circles.
Piazza San Marco was famous for many things. Pigeons were the least of them. But they provided the perfect blind as Renzo studied his surroundings. The expansive piazza was framed on three sides by the former state offices of the Venetian Republic—now an arcade of shops and restaurants. Regimented rows of small tables spilled into the square—where white-gloved servers attended a buzz of diners. The eastern length of the piazza was commanded by the great arches, domed rooftops, and Romanesque carvings of Basilica di San Marco. Tourists waited in roped-off lines to catch a glimpse of its ornate interior. The towering orange-brick campanile, or bell tower, presided over the scene.
Renzo was nervous about his next move. The kid’s parting words the day before had been in Italian, signaling their importance. He’d said, Piazza San Marco, tomorrow, noon, Danielle. Renzo checked his watch. It was ten past noon. But now what?
Instinct told him to hide. Instead, he brushed off his hands, removed his dark glasses, and stepped beyond the swirl of birds. If Danielle was to find him, he needed to present a tall target. He strode toward the basilica.
He noticed a group of tourists abandoning their positions in line at the church entrance. They’d been drawn by music around the corner. Renzo followed, capturing gazes along the way, searching for signs of recognition. Walking along the waterway, he saw a wedding party disembark a gondola among a throng of spectators. He strode across an archway to get a better look.
The music was cheerful. The bride was stunning. She twirled to the applause of the crowd. But it was the young boy behind her who captured Renzo’s attention. The child stood frozen in place. His head tilted. Eyes narrowed. It felt as if the boy stared into his soul.
A disturbance behind Renzo broke the spell. Two men shoved their way through the crowd. Dark glasses. Rubber-soled shoes. Their eyes fixed on his position. One had a hand to his ear. They ran toward him.
A familiar panic swept through him, and Renzo raced back over the arched walkway. He pushed through the crowd and ducked into the south entrance of the Palazzo Ducale—the Doge’s Palace.
“Alto!” the entrance guard ordered.
“Emergencia!” Renzo said, as he rushed past the guard and into an open-air courtyard. He kept moving, ignoring the shrill of the guard’s whistle. He ran past a grand staircase guarded by two colossal statues, skirting a richly decorated arch and ducking through the southeast portico. Angry shouts confirmed that the men were close behind. In the next salon, tourists milled at the foot of a roped-off golden staircase that led to the upper floors. Beyond the ropes, at the first landing, a tour guide had opened a hidden panel. She was ushering the last of her guests through a narrow passageway. Renzo leaped the rope and took the steps two at a time. He caught the door just before it closed, slipping in with the group.
“Scusi,” the attractive and petite guide said with a stern edge. “This is a private tour.”
“Yes, I know,” Renzo replied casually. The run had tousled his hair, but he was barely out of breath. He offered her his best smile and peeled a hundred-euro note from his money clip. “The gentleman below said I might join you.”
She appraised him, shrugged, and took the money. The sounds from downstairs muted as the panel clicked shut. The woman brushed past him toward the head of the line. She left a pleasant hint of jasmine in her wake. “Signori e signore,” she whispered conspiratorially to the group in Italian, “the Doge’s Palace is layered in secrets.” She winked at Renzo. “Let us explore the fate of the man who stole a kiss from one too many wives. Follow now in the footsteps of Giacomo Girolamo Casanova!”
She ushered the group up a dark staircase. The wooden planks creaked with each step. The narrow corridor smelled of moist wood and decay. “Casanova was thirty years old when he was arrested,” the guide said. “The charge was irreligious behavior…”
They continued forward, and Renzo tuned her out. He tightened his belt around the pistol at his back and wondered if he could actually use it. He was an artist, not a killer. At least that’s what he believed. The men following him had known he would be in Venice, he thought. But how? And why did they so desperately want him dead? His past haunted him, and the only person with answers was the wounded kid on the scooter. Renzo recalled the vague sense of familiarity he’d felt when they’d met. There had been a flash of memories. But they had faded when the small pyramid had
been flung into the gutter. His consciousness had been unable to recapture it. He’d hoped that Danielle—whoever she was—would provide him with answers.
But it was too late for that now. If he didn’t get off the grid soon, he’d be dead.
There was a sudden rumble of footsteps behind him. Renzo shouldered past the other guests. But when he tried to slide by the guide, she placed her hands on her hips and blocked his path. “You really must stay with—”
She cut off when Renzo picked her up by the waist and spun her around behind him. He kissed her, winked, and dashed off. A brief round of applause from his tour partners was quickly replaced by angry shouts.
The first exit door was around the next corner. He barged through and kept running. His route took him through the State Inquisitors’ Office and the Torture Room. Then up a staircase to I Piombi—the Leads—so named because the attic prison cells had a lead roof that created an oven in summer and a freezer in winter. The cells were tiny, and Renzo shuddered as he ran past. He hated small spaces.
He darted down one corridor, then another, down service stairs, always moving north. He made the ground floor, spotted the exit, and skidded to a stop. The palazzo guard at the door had spotted him. He’d been alerted to the chase. One hand unstrapped a baton. The other brought a whistle to his lips.
Renzo was about to double back when the plastered wall beside his head exploded. A spray of debris stung his cheek. He bolted forward like a racehorse out the starting gate. One of his pursuers was at the far end of the corridor, his silenced pistol extended. Two more rounds ricocheted off the marble floor at his heels. A woman screamed, tourists scattered, and Renzo barreled into the exit guard. Both men went down in a heap. Renzo’s pistol slipped from his waistband. It skittered across the marble floor. The startled guard kicked it out of reach. He latched onto Renzo’s leg, and the shrill whistle sounded between his lips. Renzo tried to twist free, but the man hung on like a mastiff to an extended towel. It took a kick to the man’s temple to loosen the grip. Renzo wrenched free and rushed out the exit.
The sudden brightness narrowed his vision, but he didn’t stop running. He weaved through a river of tourists, around a corner, and down an alley. The maze of cobbled walkways was his only hope of escape.
Past gelaterias and pastry shops, clothing stores, galleries, and shops filled with masks. Deeper into the ancient city he fled. Heading northwest. Away from the lagoon. The crush of tourists didn’t let up. Neither did the commotion of his pursuers behind him. He wedged through a Japanese tour group at an arch that bridged a canal. A raised fist, an irritated shout, and a gondolier’s song cut off midchorus. He ignored it all. His focus ahead.
High-end jewelry shops lined either side of the next stretch. A throng of window shoppers narrowed the pathway. He pushed through, took the next alley, and found a less-busy straightaway. Renzo poured on speed. A vaporetto, or water bus, cruised across the end of the stretch dead ahead. It was the Grand Canal. A glance over his shoulder. Two men bobbed and weaved through the crowd. They were thirty paces back.
He skidded around the corner and kept moving. The Ponte di Rialto loomed a hundred meters ahead. Two inclined ramps covered by a portico with shops on either side. He recalled from his map that the ornate bridge was one of four that spanned the Grand Canal. It led to the less-crowded San Polo district. If he could make it across, he’d have a chance to pull away. He skirted past an artist chalking an image of the bridge, grinding his jaw over the loss of the peaceful life he’d embraced only twenty-four hours before. He was halfway to the bridge when a herd of uniformed children exited an alley ahead of him. They squeezed five deep between the sidewalk vendors and the water’s edge. The path was blocked. Beside them, a row of docked gondolas bounced in the wakes of the water traffic.
An angry shout. The men behind him had turned the corner. Renzo leaped onto the bow of one of the gondolas and kept running, arms outstretched for balance, skipping from one boat to the next, thankful for the grip of his runners. Children shouted at the sight. They surged together like fans at a rock concert, cell phones held overhead. Their mass created an impassable palisade.
Three more leaps and he was past them and back on the walkway. A quick sprint and he turned the corner onto the bridge. The two men behind him had vanished, and Renzo assumed they’d detoured down the alley behind the children. This was his chance. Up the stone steps three at a time, sticking to the outer walkway along the balustrade. He dodged an arrangement of knockoff purses displayed on rugs and hurried over the top.
The sight of dark sunglasses and rubber-soled shoes stopped him cold. The man stood at parade rest at the bottom of the other side of the bridge.
Renzo sidestepped under the portico to the central walkway. Glittery shops lined either incline. Tourists were everywhere. The man ahead of him had followed his move. He stood at the base of the bridge. Another man joined him. A glance over his shoulder, and Renzo saw the two previous pursuers working their way through the crowd behind him. They spotted him, and one of them raised a finger to his ear. His lips moved as he coordinated the collapsing net.
Renzo was trapped.
Vendors hawked, a gondolier sang, and the motor of a vaporetto echoed below.
The men closed in on him from either side of the ancient bridge. Renzo felt a surge of anger. He was about to die and he didn’t even know why. He squared himself to the two men moving up the incline behind him. They were closest. One of them gave a feral grin, and Renzo resolved that he wasn’t going down alone. Determination balled his fists, and a rush of blood pumped through his limbs. They’d be on him in twenty steps. He was ready.
But when a family strolled past him and he saw the children licking gelato from cones, the wind left his lungs.
Collateral damage.
The echo of the motor spurred Renzo’s feet even before the decision was half-formed in his consciousness. Three strides and he was atop the balustrade. The nose of a vaporetto pushed into the sunlight from under the bridge. The top of the passenger compartment was fifteen feet below. He prayed, jumped, and rolled when he hit its surface. Bullets puckered the rooftop beside him. He scrambled to the edge, dropped to the next level, and ducked under the roof. Passengers cried out in alarm, distancing themselves from him. Two more hammer blows from above, and then the shooting stopped.
The driver yanked back on the throttle and turned to identify the trouble. The boat slowed. Renzo rushed forward. Something in his expression caused the driver’s eyes to go wide. He stepped aside and Renzo took the controls, slamming the throttle to its stops. The boat surged ahead. He steered around the sharp bend and out of sight of the bridge.
“The sooner I’m off your boat, the better for you, sì?” Renzo said.
The driver nodded three times in rapid succession.
Renzo pointed at a dock on the San Polo side of the canal. “Then drop me there,” he said, stepping aside to allow the man to take over.
Barber-striped mooring poles framed the private dock. The four-story palazzo behind it stretched a full block. Its facade was obscured by a network of scaffolds. It appeared deserted. The boat approached, and Renzo moved toward the exit. Passengers edged away. He hesitated at a large wall map. They’d expect him to run to the train station, he thought. It was on the other side of San Polo. He placed a finger on the station, knowing that others were watching. But his mind traced a route that led to a marina in the opposite direction. He’d catch a water taxi there and disappear on the mainland. The vaporetto slowed. He unhooked the rail chain and readied himself. A quick look over his shoulder, and the passengers shrank back. They seemed to hold a collective breath.
“I’m sorry—”
He cut off when he saw a name on one of the posters on the opposite wall. It was an advertisement for a five-star hotel by Piazza San Marco. The Hotel Danieli.
A place, he realized with a start. Not a person! He swore to himself at the mistaken assumption. The kid had wanted him to go to the hotel. At no
on. He checked his watch. Thirty past the hour. His mind raced. Maybe it wasn’t too late.
The roar of speedboats shattered the thought. Two of them careened around the corner from the Rialto. Dark sunglasses locked onto him. Renzo turned his back to the threat and leaped onto the dock.
Chapter 6
Venice, Italy
TONY WAS THE first to enter the hotel lobby. Pretty damn posh, he thought, soaking it in. He’d been called in to plenty of lavish spaces as a senior cop with LAPD, but nothing compared with this. The lobby wasn’t wide, but it was tall. A red-carpeted grand staircase hugged a mahogany wall as it twisted and turned up three open stories. The extended balconies above were edged with richly decorated balustrades, supported by hand-carved marble columns and gilded arches. Bouquets of fresh-cut flowers sprang forth from waist-high vases. Colored glass chandeliers reflected off marble floors that were polished to a mirror finish. The furniture was antique, the imported rugs luxurious, and the lighting subdued. It was glamorous, old-world, and it smelled like money. Tony couldn’t have felt more out of place.
Seven impeccably dressed attendants bowed at his arrival.
Tony hesitated, unsure how to respond. Then Ahmed stepped past him. He approached the group with authority, issuing quick instructions in Italian. The attendants dispersed like a football team from a huddle. Two stepped outside to hold the doors for the bride and groom. Another rushed upstairs to prepare the waiting guests. The remaining four took usher positions at the base of the staircase. Tony respected the kid’s take-charge attitude. It made sense that he was comfortable in this environment, he thought. Before his incarceration in a medical-health facility years ago, Ahmed had grown accustomed to lush settings. He’d been raised by Luciano Battista—the wealthy international terrorist who had brainwashed the kid into nearly killing Tony and all his friends. Now the seventeen-year-old was like an adopted son to Francesca, and a big brother to Sarafina and Alex.
Brainrush 03 - Beyond Judgment Page 3
