Love's Shadow (Brothers Maledetti Book 2)

by Nichole Van

  I barely controlled my wince.

  “Thank you . . .” Barbara’s tone clearly indicated she found my mental faculties lacking. She tugged on her hand. I held it firm. “It’s nothing fancy like you Americans prefer.”

  From the corner of my eye, Branwell slipped back into the museum proper. His suit coat was off and draped over his left arm, gloves on his hands.

  Hallelujah.

  “That’s why I love it,” I said, still studying the ring. “It’s so simple. I think we tend to overdo things in the States.”

  Barbara pulled harder, demanding her hand back, her eyes communicating her opinion of my (defective) mental state. I let go with a too-wide grin.

  “Hey! There you are!” I turned my too bright smile to Branwell as he stopped beside me. “We were starting to think you got lost in the restroom.”

  Branwell met my fake smile with one of his own.

  “Yeah,” he pretend laughed and rubbed his stomach. “Sorry about that. I must have eaten something that didn’t agree with me.”

  Branwell had never been slow.

  Thank goodness.

  “I really must go,” Barbara said again, tucking both hands tight against her sides and moving away with alarming speed.

  Branwell straightened beside me, snapping an intent look to Barbara’s back. What was up?

  Eager to chat with Branwell, I said goodbye to Alessio. Branwell left a card for Professor Ross so he could call us when and if he decided to show up.

  Which meant we were walking out the front door just as two police officers walked in.

  We stood to the side as they approached the reception desk, talking in sharp Italian. Alessio’s eyes widened and he swallowed nervously.

  They exchanged a series of tense sentences.

  Branwell paused for another second, listening, and then opened the door for me, directing me out into the sunny, gravel parking lot.

  “What was that?” I asked, softly as we walked toward Branwell’s car.

  “The police are looking for Roberto. He failed to show up for questioning yesterday, and they are trying to find him.”

  “Not good.”

  “Nope.” He opened the passenger side door for me.

  It was only as the car door closed that I finally noticed.

  Something wet seeping up through the suit coat draped over his left forearm.

  Blood.

  Twenty

  Branwell

  I walked around to the driver’s side and climbed in, wincing as my arm flexed.

  “You’re bleeding.” Lucy fixed me with a laser-gaze. “You had another run-in with Chucky.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Yep.”

  “You’ve gotta stop with this passive-aggressive, tough-guy wounded act. I promise there are better ways to get attention.”

  “Funny.”

  “Thank you. Want me to drive?”

  That was a good question. My right arm was still bandaged and my left stung fiercely with the new scrapes. I wasn’t so macho that I had a problem with Lucy driving, but I knew the frenetic mess that passed for traffic in Italy wasn’t what she needed right now. Given how rigidly she sat with her palms pressed against her thighs . . .

  Had brave, sunny Lucy finally hit the end of her rope? She could only stay in Coping Mode for so long . . .

  I reversed and backed out, ignoring the flare of pain up my arm.

  Why did the scratches have to sting so badly? I had been luckier this time around, as my suit coat blunted the attack. Both my coat and my shirt were shredded, but the scratches were shallow. That didn’t stop them from burning.

  “Want to tell me what happened?” she asked. Tense.

  “I’m not a hundred percent sure. I was listening to a scene with your Gruncle Jack. I startled and then suddenly Chucky was coming at me—”

  “From out of the scene?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What were you touching?”

  “That’s the weird thing. It was just an old leather glove, nothing shiny about it.”

  “Mmm, so Chucky is maybe changing?”

  I frowned, replaying the incident. “I jumped back, breaking the contact with the glove momentarily. And then . . .”—a flash of realization—“I touched my phone. My hand was still in contact with my phone.”

  “Chucky came out of your phone?”

  It was puzzling. I had touched my phone thousands of times, my screen protector and leather case shielding me from the phone directly. But who knew how Chucky worked in the end? “I’m not sure. He’s never attacked me from there before. I’ll have to test it.”

  She bit her lip. “I don’t like that Chucky keeps hurting you.”

  “I’ll heal.”

  I thought I heard her say, “That’s not exactly the problem,” but I wasn’t sure.

  She shook her head, staring out at the passing countryside. Terracotta roofs and overgrown fields.

  My mind spun with everything I had heard in Roberto’s office.

  Sofia D’Angelo.

  Gruncle Jack had seemed to have a thing for Sofia D’Angelo. She had to be an ancestor. That was why she looked familiar. The resemblance to my own sister, Chiara, was uncanny, despite two hundred years of history between them. I hadn’t recognized the location of the villa, though it had clearly been Tuscany somewhere. Was it a former family holding?

  I scrubbed my gloved hand over my face. What now? Had Jack received permission to continue his archaeological digs on the D'Angelo lands? Had he found his treasure?

  “Talk to me.” Lucy turned back to face me.

  I shrugged and caught her up with what I had overheard. The mysterious meetings with FUP. Those disconcerting cryptic comments about ‘the girl,’ some research and the unknown woman Roberto had been talking with. Their reference to the phrase Jack had said, ‘Love will draw out the shadow.’ The concerns of his colleagues, particularly Barbara.

  I had just finished summarizing my overheard conversation between Jack and Sofia D’Angelo as we pulled through the arched corridor driveway and into the courtyard of the family palazzo in downtown Florence.

  “Professor Ross is in deep. That whole reference to a little girl.” Lucy shivered. “It almost seems too much of a coincidence. Do you think he took Grace?” She asked as I parked the car.

  I turned, angling my body toward her. My stupid arm stung.

  “It’s possible. If not, he very well may know who did.”

  “But if Roberto knows something about Grace and she’s in danger, why isn’t he saying something?”

  “Because Roberto is complicit in her disappearance,” I finished the thought for her.

  “That’s what I was afraid you’d say.” Lucy hung her head, nodding. I didn’t need any supernatural gift to understand her discouragement and worry.

  But . . . what if?

  Could I nudge my GUT like I had earlier with Jack and Sofia? I already felt Dante and Tennyson’s emotions involuntarily. Would a little concentration extend that to others?

  And if it worked, would it be an invasion of Lucy’s privacy? Was it unethical if I already surmised how Lucy was feeling? Or was I trying to justify doing something that was ethically suspect in order to feel (pun intended) that much closer to Lucy?

  Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on the point of view), just thinking about nudging my gift was sufficient to do the task.

  Lucy’s emotions opened up, like stepping outside on a summer day, warmth washing through me.

  Discouragement and terror for Grace, yes. But there was a thread of something else. Heartache. Sadness. Emotions that seemed separate from her worry for Grace.

  Inwardly, I frowned. That was odd. But who knew what else she was dealing with. And given how new I was to this whole empath thing, I could simply be ‘hearing’ her wrong.

  “We’ll find her, Lucy. We will,” I said. “Whatever it takes.”

  “I know.” Voice a whisper.

  “How are you coping?” I had
to ask it.

  “Me? How am I coping?” She lifted wide blue eyes to mine. Freckles stark against her pale skin. “I’m hanging in there. But then I’m not the one who keeps being randomly clawed by a supernatural entity.”

  Fair enough.

  “I’m fine.” I shrugged.

  She snorted. “Yeah, well, so am I. Fine, that is.” Sarcasm dripped. That heartache punched through me again.

  I sighed. “Alright, so let’s just both agree that we’re not fine—”

  Lucy snorted. “I’m doing a solid impression of a kitty-on-a-wire. Dangling over a crocodile infested pool, hanging on for dear life.”

  Pretty much summed up how I felt. Though surprising to hear it from Lucy. But, I supposed, even perpetual rays of sunshine weren’t immune to thunderclouds. It was a simple law of physics.

  I ruthlessly suppressed the part of me that wanted to haul her into my arms, clutch her close and whisper that everything would be okay. That I would fight and destroy anything that threatened her.

  “I’ll probably end up letting go,” Lucy continued.

  “And falling into the crocodiles?”

  “Yep. And then fighting for all I’m worth.”

  That was my girl.

  She didn’t need me anyway.

  Twenty One

  Portland, Oregon

  Six years earlier

  Lucy

  Rain pounded on the windshield. Portland weather at its most stereotypical.

  I leaned forward, resting my head on the steering wheel.

  Deep breath. Keep it together.

  It had been a hard day . . . a fight with my sister, which had devolved into a hissing exchange with another sister, a failed science test, too much caffeine and not enough sleep, summer internship applications looming—

  I swallowed. I had to pull my emotions into a healthy, happy place before walking up to the D’Angelo’s apartment. Tennyson needed me to be his Pocket Sunshine, and I couldn’t leave the car until I had all this emotional turbulence stuffed away.

  A tap on my window startled me. I lifted my head to see a familiar, hulking figure.

  Branwell with an umbrella and kind smile.

  My heart skipped and then raced ahead, pounding in my throat.

  I rolled down my window.

  “Tennyson won’t be home for a while, accident on I-5,” he said. “He wanted me to tell you.”

  “Thanks.”

  Rain dripped, pattering in puddles in the parking lot.

  “You okay?” Branwell asked, his warm hazel eyes lit with concern.

  I nodded sure even as a traitorous tear escaped.

  “Sorry,” I swiped it away.

  My bottom lip trembled. “Give me a moment to find my sunshine,” I whispered too soft for him to hear.

  Silence.

  More rain falling. The shush of traffic.

  “If Tennyson isn’t home, I should probably go back up to campus and study,” I finally said, glancing at the bulging book bag on the seat next to me.

  Hanging out with Branwell probably wouldn’t be the best idea. I was rapidly realizing there was a difference between my emotions for him and my feelings for Tennyson.

  I adored Tennyson with all my heart. I did. He was sweet and fun and gorgeous, and I felt proud to be his girlfriend.

  But Branwell . . .

  Branwell spoke to something deeper within me. Something more profound.

  Tennyson only held my heart. Branwell, I sensed, could own my very soul—

  I ruthlessly cut off that train of thought. Branwell obviously didn’t see me that way. I was with Tennyson, and given the connection between the brothers, Branwell would never be an option for me. He would never betray his brother.

  “You could go study.” Branwell fixed me with his too-seeing gaze. “Or you could wait in the apartment here. I have a pizza in the oven, and there’s an I Love Lucy marathon on Lifetime. C’mon up. Chillax and laugh.”

  He paused, as if debating what to say next, but then continued:

  “Give yourself a break, Lucy. Even the sun can be tired of shining sometimes.”

  Twenty Two

  Florence, Italy

  2016

  Branwell

  Predictably, my mom fussed over my injured arm.

  “I raised triplet boys with psychic abilities; I reserve the right to fret over you as adults,” was her wry comment.

  Mom dug out an enormous first aid kit—she had been a veterinarian for over twenty years—and proceeded to cut bandage strips in silence. She helped me out of my torn white shirt, Chiara and Lucy looking on, leaving me perched bare-chested on a kitchen stool.

  I summarized our museum visit while Mom cleaned and then bandaged my scrapes, my arm resting on a towel. Lucy sat beside me throughout it, adding comments when necessary, but generally remaining outwardly calm, eyes politely averted from my half-naked form.

  Inside, however, was a different story. Lucy churned with emotion—heartache, worry, guilt, yearning. A toxic mix.

  Not good . . . on so many levels. Just that slight opening up had seemingly lifted the floodgates.

  My GUT honed in on her with fierce attention.

  As my mom bandaged my arm, I tried to erect walls to keep Lucy’s emotions out, not wanting to invade her privacy. But a feeling would slip through every now and again, tantalizing me, daring me to reach out more.

  Fortunately, Chiara came unknowingly to my rescue with a multitude of questions. I swear her first words were a question and she hadn’t stopped asking more since.

  “So this Sofia chick looks like me?” She reached for a piece of Glitterati hard candy from the bowl on Mom’s table—assorted citrus flavors in sparkling wrappers.

  “Spitting image. You guys could have been sisters.”

  “Crazy.” Chiara popped a pink sour candy into her mouth, nodding at Lucy to help herself. “I gotta say, it seems almost too coincidental that Gruncle Jack had a connection with us D’Angelos. Like . . . creepy coincidental. I’ll research D’Angelo history and Jack’s excavation sites. See what I can dig up.”

  “‘Dig up.’ Nice pun,” I snorted.

  “Thank you.” Chiara grinned around the candy. “That’s only the tip of the research iceberg. I don’t know what to make of that phrase, ‘Love will draw out the shadow.’ It’s telling both Gruncle Jack and Roberto said it. Maybe Roberto thought Grace would be a connection between him and Jack?”

  “Possible,” Lucy chimed in. “Though it could also be a complete red herring.”

  “True. Still, I think it’s most important to get my people on Dr. Roberto Moretti. Is he really on some sort of overnight ‘research’ bender?” Chiara asked. “We need to find him. Or, barring that, at least understand what the police suspect with regards to him.”

  “Yeah, what do the police know that we don’t?” I asked, wincing as my mom dabbed somewhat forcibly. “Maybe Barbara Bruno knows something?”

  “Yes! I’ll see if I can’t chat with her.” Chiara pulled out a tablet and started making notes.

  “Don’t mention me, though.” Lucy shook her head. “After my performance this afternoon, Barbara has every reason to think I’m a crazy freak.”

  I watched Mom carefully apply antiseptic ointment to my scrapes. “I wish I had more information about the first unknown woman I heard Roberto talking to.”

  “The one who made cryptic comments about the ‘little girl’ being harmed?” Lucy asked. A blast of anxiety punched through me before I managed to push it back.

  “Exactly.”

  Chiara scrunched up her mouth. “Mmmm, let me see if I can flirt my way into some answers from the office staff.”

  “Alessio will love you,” Lucy said without a trace of sarcasm.

  “Thanks, Chiara,” I said. “We should also track down this FUP that Roberto has been meeting with after hours, particularly the night Grace disappeared. It could be nothing—”

  “Or everything,” Mom chimed in.

  �
��Let me google it right now.” Chiara tapped on her tablet, head bent. “Should be easy enough to tell if it’s an organization or a person.”

  Lucy reached for a handful of candy. “What about your phone, Branwell? Is Chucky in it now, too?”

  My walls slipped again. Heartache flooded me. Poignant. Searing. All hers.

  Whoa.

  Not the loss or worry or fear I had been expecting.

  But heartache.

  So . . . odd. Was I just misunderstanding Lucy’s emotions? This part of my GUT was new to me after all. Why heartache instead of worry?

  Lucy didn’t meet my gaze, concentrating instead on the small pile of candy in front of her, separating them out by color. Pink, gold, aqua . . .

  I swallowed and focused on Lucy’s question. I jerked my chin toward my phone where it rested on the table. “I have no idea.”

  “May I?” Lucy dropped the candy and picked up my phone, gingerly, turning it in her hands. A new model smart phone, it undoubtedly met the definition of ‘glossy.’

  Lucy pursed her lips. Obviously thinking what I was thinking: Chucky liked shiny things.

  “There’s only one way to find out, Luce,” I said, motioning toward my bare upper body.

  She hesitated.

  I nodded in encouragement. Knowing was worth the risk.

  Lucy touched the shiny screen to the skin on my upper right arm.

  The scent of dead roses instantly assaulted me.

  Convulsively, I jerked my arm away, breaking the contact before anything happened. Good to know I could do that.

  “Is that a yes?” Lucy asked, breathlessly.

  “Yep.”

  Now what? Chucky was like beach sand—determined to infiltrate everything.

  Lucy stared at the phone in her bare hand, brow furrowed. “Why you?”

  I angled my head at her.

  “I mean, no one else draws out Chucky. He only seems to want you.”

  Chiara chuckled, still tapping her tablet screen. “It was just a matter of time before a supernatural entity decided to take out one of my brothers. Though I’m kinda surprised, Bran. I had all my money on Dante.”

  She had a fair point.

  Why was Chucky out to get me, and me alone? Dante had touched Chucky infested things many times, so I knew he was Chucky-proof. I was less sure about Tennyson, but still—