by Mari Carr
They looked at one another, then at him.
“Go,” he said.
They went, but grudgingly.
Antonio turned and walked to stand in the archway that connected this wing of the house to the center hall.
His father was smiling in a genial way that contrasted oddly with the sharp, almost predatory intelligence in his eyes.
“Ammiraglio,” Antonio said in greeting. He bowed his head in a slight nod.
“Come to my office,” Giovanni ordered.
“I must see to the guests I’ve brought.”
“Ah, the latest victims.”
“They are not victims.”
Giovanni shrugged. “I am glad you are here. I want to hear from you what happened. How you found them, when the knights and security officers from their own territories could not.” There was pride in the words.
“I was only trying to make sure justice was done, for Christina, Nazario, and Lorena.”
“Leave justice to the knights.” Giovanni flicked his fingers. “You don’t need to worry about justice, but about being strong, fierce. Ruthless. You hunted him down, and it seems you will need to do it again. They are not having any luck.”
This was the perfect opening for him to ask questions about the investigation, but an old frustration and anger was burning in him, making his throat tight.
“I’m not a mindless killer. I do care about justice. I’m ruthless, you made sure of that, Father, but I am not heartless.”
Giovanni frowned. “Of course you are not heartless. Men like us, we love and fight fiercely.”
All he wanted to do was go and be with Karl and Leila. He was regretting leaving Venice. There’d been so much peace there, with them.
“I’m going to take care of my guests.”
“Very well. You will come to me later. I will let Germany and Kalmar know that I am protecting their people.”
The implication that Rome could protect them when their home countries could not was not subtle.
Antonio nodded respectfully and turned away. He mounted the steps slowly.
He didn’t hate his father. Hate would be easy. He loved his father, though the man was more like a caring senior officer or mentor than a parent. His father was what he needed to be to rule Rome. It was not hubris for Antonio to say that his father was the most powerful of the nine admirals, second only to the fleet admiral in authority.
He didn’t hate his father, but there were times he wished he were someone else’s son.
The second floor of the villa was just as lovely and elegant as the first, but Leila didn’t care about that. She was leaning forward, straining to catch what Antonio was saying.
“How good is your Italian?” she asked Karl.
“Not very good. Shh.”
She spoke multiple languages, but of the Romance languages, she spoke only French, and that wasn’t enough for her to decipher the conversation of two Italian native speakers.
“He’s talking to his father,” Karl said.
“I guessed that much.”
“Patience is a virtue.”
“I’m patient when I have a gun.”
Karl looked at her in alarm.
“All snipers are patient.”
Karl opened his mouth, but then cocked his head to the side, attention pulled by the conversation below. He blinked and then frowned.
Leila wanted to shake him and ask what he’d heard, but settled for listening not for the words themselves, but the tone and inflection in Antonio’s voice. He sounded stiff and stilted. Antonio wasn’t loquacious by nature, but this was something else.
When the conversation below ended and footsteps sounded on the stairs, Leila and Karl both retreated. Antonio’s head appeared, his dark hair glossy. Next came his shoulders, which were bowed as if under a great weight.
There was a slight pause between one step and another, and she was able to watching him change—his head came up, he rolled his shoulders once and then squared them. By the time he joined them in the second-floor hallway, he looked confident and dangerous once more.
“Come, I’ll find you rooms.”
Leila and Karl shared a look, then followed him.
The rooms he directed them to were elegant and ornate. The walls were covered in flocked wallpaper with gold accents, the floors polished stone. The beds were heavy wooden pieces mounded with ivory linens. Each room had a private bath done in gray-veined marble with silver accents.
Karl’s and Leila’s rooms were next to each other’s. Karl checked his out, then popped into her room, finding it nearly identical to his own, then together they went back out into the hall.
“Where will you be?” Leila asked softly.
“Close. I will not leave you.”
Antonio opened the door across the hall, revealing a third bedroom that was a match for theirs, though slightly smaller. “I’ll be here.”
“Not here?” Leila asked, gesturing to the floor of the hall.
Antonio raised one brow, though he looked a little chagrined. Karl snorted out a laugh.
“Come,” Antonio said in that casually commanding way he had. “There’s a sitting room. There will be coffee.” Antonio led them a few meters down the hall, opening yet another door to reveal a bright, airy space outfitted as a parlor, though it was roughly the same size as the guest rooms. A sideboard near the door had a neat stack of cups. Antonio went to an electronic panel and pressed a button. “Someone will be up with coffee soon.”
“You have a button for coffee?” Leila asked.
“It lets the staff know someone is in the room, and they will assume we want coffee. We are Italian.” Antonio went to the French doors in the outer wall, opened them, and stepped out. He checked the balcony before closing the doors once more.
As promised, a slim, middle-aged woman appeared pushing a cart. It had a small coffeepot, espresso cups, a larger French-press of coarse-ground coffee, and two trays of foodstuffs, one sweet, one savory. She set everything out on the sideboard, and once she was gone, they helped themselves. After satisfying their desires for food and caffeine, Karl and Leila sat on the divan and chairs near the unlit fireplace. Antonio remained standing.
“Antonio, why did you decide to become a security officer?” Karl asked.
Antonio paused, then half turned, arching one dark brow. “You heard my conversation with the admiral.”
“I’m not sure if I understood it,” Karl said hesitantly.
“I didn’t understand it at all,” Leila said.
“What do you think you heard?” Antonio asked.
The question was so deceptively calm that Leila winced. She looked at Karl and gave a slight shake of the head. He frowned at her, then stepped forward, putting himself between her and Antonio.
“I think I heard your father talking about how you are ruthless, and you don’t care about justice.”
Leila sucked in air through her teeth. His father had said that?
“Your Italian is good.”
“And then you said you weren’t a mindless killer.”
“I’m not.”
Leila darted out from behind Karl. “Of course you’re not.”
“I agree,” the Dutchman said. “But why would you have to tell your father that?”
Antonio shrugged.
“Why did you decide to become a security officer?” Karl asked again.
Antonio was silent.
Leila raised her hands. “You’re a hero, Antonio.”
“Hero?” He snorted. “Do not say that near my father. He is why I’m a security officer.”
“He turned his son into an assassin?” Karl asked.
Antonio flinched at the word. It was a small movement, but she saw it. Leila put a hand on Karl’s arm. “Karl, enough.”
“No, it’s not enough. Antonio is a knight. I mean, he should be.”
Antonio’s head, which had sunk so he was looking at the floor, whipped up. “No. I have killed to keep our secrets.”
>
“And so do the knights. But you rescued us, protected us. You were there because you were trying to find justice for people who died. You’re a knight in every way that matters.”
Antonio’s smile was at first cruel, almost mocking, but he couldn’t hold the expression. He went back to staring at the floor. “Since the time I was young, he told me I would be a security officer. Told me to be ruthless. Told me people would fear me.”
Leila went to him, sliding her arms around his waist. Karl was right behind her. He wrapped his big arms around both of them.
“I think he intended my sister to be admiral, and I would be her enforcer. She is smart, cultured, respected, and loved. A good leader. And if that wasn’t enough, I would be there, ready to murder her enemies.”
“You’re so much more than that,” Karl said.
Leila agreed, but with her face pressed to Antonio’s chest, her words would have been muffled. She settled for squeezing him as tightly as she could.
They stayed that way until Antonio inhaled deeply, then blew out his breath on a long sigh.
“Come. We need to find a knight.”
Chapter Ten
Antonio clasped the knight. They kissed cheeks in a way that made every part of Karl’s Dutch soul vaguely uncomfortable—and he was bisexual. Antonio said something in Italian, his voice too low for Karl to hear. The knight nodded, then turned to them.
“This is Martino Cavaliere. A knight.” Antonio made introductions in French. As was customary in many of the territories, the men and women who were the knights used Knight—or in this case, Cavaliere—as a last name.
“Most people, they guess that because of the sword,” Martino said.
Antonio smiled briefly, and his posture was relaxed.
“I am glad you are safe,” Martino said to them.
“Thanks to Antonio,” Leila pointed out. Her arms were crossed, and she seemed ready to do battle. After the conversation they’d just had, it was hard to look at a knight and not think about how Antonio’s life had been shaped—or perhaps it was more accurate to say that he’d been forced into a shape, a mold, that wasn’t a natural fit. It wasn’t this man’s fault he was a knight and Antonio wasn’t, but it seemed like she was willing to blame him.
Martino nodded. “He is the best of us.”
That took some of the fight out of Leila, and Karl relaxed too.
“It’s been nearly three weeks, Martino,” Antonio said. “What’s happening?”
Martino’s gaze slid uneasily from Antonio to Leila and Karl. “Everything is well in hand.”
“If it was, you would have caught Ciril,” Karl said.
“You are scared he’s still out there. I understand.”
“No, Martino. They are not scared.” Antonio stared down the knight, who shrugged and then flicked one hand through the air.
“I’m not going to say more. You are not a part of the investigation team.”
“You are going to say more,” Antonio countered.
“Ah, you want to fight?” Martino pursed his lips as if considering.
“No time. But it has been too long. They deserve to know, and I want to know.”
“You’re putting me in a bad position,” Martino said.
“I know. But you owe me.”
Martino bared his teeth. “Everyone owes you, Starabba.”
“I like it that way.”
Martino looked at the three of them, then motioned for them to follow. They’d met on the second-floor balcony that ran along the entire back of the house and looked out over the grounds. With Martino in the lead, they went inside. The knight turned to Antonio. “Where can we talk?”
“Sophia’s room.”
“Twenty minutes.”
Martino sketched a shallow bow, then walked away. Antonio gave him a few minutes’ head start, then he too left, motioning for Karl and Leila to follow.
Karl did his best not to get distracted by the various objets d’art on display in the halls. This place could be a museum. They went up to the third floor of the private wing.
Antonio’s sister’s room was beautiful—large enough to be an apartment all on its own, with plush carpeting and expensive antique furnishings. Antonio checked the room, including opening doors to a massive closet and spacious bathroom. There was also a set of double doors that led out onto a small third-floor balcony with wrought iron railings and a view of the moonlit Italian countryside. Unlike the balcony on the second floor, this one didn’t provide access to any other rooms.
Leila went to investigate the bathroom while Karl perused a bookcase. The books all had uniform maroon spines with gold filigree on them. He pulled one off the shelf, only to discover that the maroon was just a dust jacket, covering a copy of EU art crime regulations. Karl started pulling more books and checking what was hiding behind the covers.
Antonio came over and selected a book. He removed the dust jacket and dropped it to the floor. “My sister would hate having her books hidden like this.”
“If she’s married to the admiral of England, and living there, why does she still have a room?” Karl asked.
“A room and a closet full of clothes,” Leila added. “Expensive clothes.”
“In case she comes back.”
“Comes back? You mean for a visit?”
Antonio shrugged.
Karl whistled. “If I were the admiral of England, I’d sleep with one eye open.”
“He is safe enough. My father admires courage and bravery. Arthur has both.”
The door to the room opened, and Martino slipped in. He was wearing a jacket he hadn’t had on before.
He closed and locked the door. “I can’t be gone long, and I can’t leave this with you.” He unzipped his jacket, revealing a file folder.
They hustled to gather around a small table set up under one of the windows, probably as a private spot to have a cup of coffee. Martino passed the file to Antonio, who immediately handed it to Karl. Karl put his hand on Antonio’s shoulder and squeezed it in thanks.
“Who is on the task force?” Antonio asked.
Karl opened the file—and his stomach knotted. The first page was a full-sized glossy photo of Ciril. It looked like a passport photo, and even in this bland image, the madness and evil was evident in his eyes. Or maybe that was just Karl’s own fears projecting onto the image.
“Each territory sent someone,” Martino answered, “but it’s headed by two of the knights from Hungary, and Grigoris Violaris from Ottoman.”
Leila whistled through her teeth at the mention of the name. Karl thought about asking her why she’d reacted that way, but if they had limited time with the file, he wanted to skim through it. He could ask her questions later.
“Petro and Hande are the real leaders, then,” Antonio said, naming the admirals of Hungary and Ottoman, respectively.
Martino shook his head. “Petro tried, but the fleet admiral made it clear he wanted the task force to be independent. I heard Petro and Eric fought…and the fleet admiral pulled the other man behind closed doors to discuss it.”
Karl flipped a page, scanning records of Ciril’s time in prison. There were three copies of every page, one in the original language, and then French and English translations.
Antonio grunted. “I would not want the fleet admiral angry with me.”
Martino nodded and leaned forward. “They’re working out of properties in Bucharest owned by the territories. That’s where Ciril was last seen—a bank security camera captured him.”
“When was that?” Antonio asked.
“Two weeks ago.”
“Two weeks.” Leila tapped her fist on the table. “Nothing since then?”
“No. And there’s a theory he’s dead. To remain hidden for that long is hard…impossible, even.”
“Unless he’s very good and very smart.” Even as he said it, Antonio was frowning.
“Yes. Or he has a bolt-hole of some kind—stocked with food, water. Someplace he can go w
here he doesn’t have to come out.”
Karl flipped another page. Ciril had not been a model prisoner.
“What if he changed his appearance?”
“They’re using advanced facial recognition that tracks the distance and size of the eyes and shape of the ear. Those things aren’t easy to change.”
“Why?” Antonio asked.
“Why can’t you change the space between your eyes?” When Antonio growled, Martino held up a hand. “I’m sorry. We’re taking our humor where we can.”
“Why did he do this?” Antonio clarified.
Martino relaxed a little. “We found a connection. Ciril’s great-grandfather’s sister was a member.”
“Ah,” Leila said. “So he knows about us from her. Why aren’t the rest of the family members?”
“We’re not sure. Petro is looking into it, but the records in Hungary aren’t good.”
Considering many of the countries in that territory had experienced political upheaval within the past fifty years, that wasn’t surprising.
Karl skipped forward a few pages, past the rest of his prison record to the more personal information. There was a family tree, with an asterisk by the name Aleksandra Bilić. She was listed as unmarried. Technically, many people in the Masters’ Admiralty were unmarried, since most of the European governments only recognized one marriage.
“He developed a drug problem in prison—drugs are easier to get than food in some Serbian prisons—and we think he had contact with several men who were enforcers for a man who ran gambling parties. They were known to kidnap people in the middle of the day.”
“That may be where he acquired the skills and knowledge to take us,” Leila said.
“If he wasn’t insane before, time in prison might have done it.” Antonio’s voice held the barest trace of sympathy.
As much as Karl hated the man, the pictures of the prison included in the file were horrific—filthy, crowded, and reeking of despair.
“That might be where he learned the sophisticated techniques he used,” Antonio said.
Martino nodded. “We read your notes, that you don’t think he was smart enough to pull this off on his own. Grigoris thinks he might be smart enough to mimic and follow a plan.”
