by Lila Dubois
Leila reached for a gun that wasn’t there. Damn it, she needed a gun.
The door slammed open. Antonio stood framed in the doorway, a naked sword in his hand. He was wearing jeans and a black shirt. His hair was wet, as if he’d just gotten out of the shower. One lock fell over his eye, and he looked like a dark avenging angel.
Leila was better with a gun than with her hands, but she knew how to fight. She jumped from her chair and stripped off the robe, which was too bulky for her to move in. She whipped the tie out of the loops and wrapped the ends around her hands, pulling the center taut. It was a plush, terry cloth garrote, but it was all she had at hand.
If she had the opportunity, she’d grab a butter knife off the sideboard. Not a good stabbing weapon, so she’d go for the eyes.
Antonio’s gaze slid over them, and she saw the moment he finished his assessment, realized they were safe, and relaxed a little.
Then he turned to the newcomer, raising the tip of the sword a fraction of an inch.
“Grigoris.” The name was an oath, an accusation.
“That’s Grigoris Violaris?” Karl asked.
After meeting with his father last night, Antonio had told them that Grigoris Violaris, a knight from Ottoman and the leader of the task force hunting for Ciril, might be flying to Italy to talk to them.
She’d heard about Grigoris, and nothing she’d heard matched the man standing at the computer, looking wholly unconcerned by Antonio’s dramatic arrival.
He finished typing something, then carefully shut his computer, setting it on the table and gathering up the books. “Antonio.” He smiled at Leila. “And, Leila, Karl.” He spoke English with only the slightest of British accents. His Italian had been flawless, too.
The number one thing she heard about Grigoris, when people talked about the leader of the janissaries, was that he was brilliant. The man supposedly collected academic degrees the way other people collected pennies or stamps. The second thing she heard was that he was ruthless.
A Greek Cypriot, he’d grown up an orphan near the UN buffer zone on Cyprus, and had been adopted by a Turkish couple from the northern half of the island as a teenager. His adopted parents had been members of the Masters’ Admiralty, and he’d followed in their footsteps, rising quickly to become the chorbaji of the janissaries. In a territory that saw huge amounts of political upheaval, maintaining the safety of the members and enforcing the laws of their society was a twenty-four-seven job.
She’d thought he was the IT guy.
Everything they’d said about him was right. Grigoris was very, very clever—fooling her and Karl into a false security, despite everything they’d suffered at Ciril’s hands. To her thinking, that made him very dangerous.
Antonio stormed into the room and headed for Grigoris, who was putting the books back on the shelf. Vico stalked in behind him, his sword sheath empty. He looked a bit rumpled and was glaring at Antonio.
“Grigoris,” Antonio snarled.
Grigoris pointed at his chest. “Yes, my name is Grigoris.” He pointed at Antonio. “Your name is Antonio.”
Karl snorted out a laugh and tried to cover it by taking a sip of coffee.
Antonio shot them a half-exasperated, half-outraged look.
Leila put her robe back on.
“You do not talk to them without me.”
“The cavalieri made me aware. All I did was tell them there was coffee.”
Antonio looked at him suspiciously, then glanced over to her for confirmation.
“I thought he was here to fix the Wi-Fi,” she said sheepishly.
Antonio widened his eyes. Leila pressed her lips together to hide the smile. She should probably feel bad—what kind of security officer was she?—but the situation wasn’t dangerous. Antonio was just being protective and a little violent.
He was being Antonio.
Vico took advantage of the moment to take his sword back, sliding it into the scabbard. He cursed at Antonio in Italian, and then marched out of the room, slamming the door.
“Coffee?” Grigoris asked Antonio as he walked to the sideboard.
“I make my own coffee.”
“Of course.”
Grigoris poured himself a cup, then walked over to the table where Karl and Leila sat. “May I join you?”
Leila looked at Karl, then they both looked at Antonio. He nodded.
“Yes,” Karl said once Antonio gave the go-ahead.
Grigoris looked between them. “Ah, interesting.”
Leila knew exactly what he saw—Antonio was a security officer, as was she. That meant they were both paranoid with a tendency toward overreaction.
Antonio was at least twenty levels beyond that. There was no mistaking the three of them—Karl, Antonio, and Leila—were in very serious danger of falling in love with each other.
There was no point in denying it.
Grigoris took a seat. Antonio joined them, moving his chair so he could see all three of them and get to his feet quickly and easily.
After a moment, Karl rose and walked away, returning with a cup of coffee for Antonio and a second cup for her. After he set Antonio’s cup down, Karl touched his shoulder. Antonio reached up and placed his hand over Karl’s. It was a brief moment of contact, but it made her heart beat faster and her blood heat.
When Karl was seated once more, Grigoris cleared his throat.
“Tell me about Ciril.”
They’d been over this all before, time and again, but something about the way Grigoris said it stopped her from pointing that out. Instead, in halting words, she and Karl each told the story of their kidnapping and torture.
The words weren’t easy, but the pain wasn’t as sharp as it had been.
Grigoris didn’t write anything down, didn’t comment or ask questions. He simply listened, but with an intensity that made her squirm a little.
“The third he was going to get. Tell me more about that.”
“It’s Antonio,” Leila said. “He said that, in the note.”
“After he rescued you, yes. But before then, it had to have been someone else. Did he give any indication as to who or where?”
Leila shook her head. Karl took his time, considering the question, then did the same.
“What about the first victims? What did he say about them?”
“They had names. Christina, Nazario, and Lorena,” Antonio cut in.
Karl repeated what Ciril had said. Under the table, she reached for him. Their fingers met, and though his voice was calm, Karl gripped her hand as if it were a lifeline.
“And he said nothing about poison?” Grigoris asked.
“Poison?” Leila asked. “Like what killed the fleet admiral?”
Grigoris nodded.
“Christina, Nazario, and Lorena weren’t poisoned. There were some drugs in their systems, but not poison,” Antonio pointed out.
“Actually…he did mention drugs. He said something. When he put that IV line in me.” Karl touched his chest with the hand not holding hers. “Something about how he didn’t like poison because there was nothing to see.”
Grigoris frowned even as he nodded.
“Why do you ask?” Antonio demanded.
“I will tell you why, and then I’m going to tell you something else. We found the purchase of several ingredients that could be used to make ricin on a prepaid credit card we believe Ciril had access to. However, we cannot confirm he made those purchases.”
“Weak,” Antonio said.
Grigoris’s jaw clenched and he turned oh so slowly to look at Antonio. He’d gone from nonthreatening to looking like a killer, within the space of a few heartbeats.
Grigoris and Antonio stared at each other in silence.
Leila yanked her hand from Karl’s and stretched the robe tie taut, ready to join the fray if Antonio’s and Grigoris’s staring escalated to a fight.
“The way he said it might have meant he’d tried poisoning someone before.” Karl’s comment broke the tension.
; Grigoris shifted his attention to Karl. “Tell me why you think so.”
“He mentioned that he would kill us in a way the world had never seen before. Combined with the comment about nothing to see with poison, it makes me think that for Ciril, the spectacle of death is critical.”
“Madman,” Leila said.
“Sociopath,” Grigoris said.
Karl sat back. “A serial killer.”
“Yes.”
“Has he killed before?” Karl asked.
“We’re looking into it. There were reports of witchcraft and Satanism in groups he grew up in, but they’re unconfirmed. The religious intolerance in Serbia leads to multiple false reports.”
“The cult where he grew up were Satanists?” Karl asked.
Grigoris shook his head. “They were not a cult, and not Satanists. His father was a member of Obraz, an anti-immigrant, anti-human-rights group. After the father was imprisoned for beating a man to death in a clash between protestors at an immigration rally, his mother moved them to a small area outside Jabukovac. That’s where reports of witchcraft came from, but no direct ties to his family.”
“But that’s two links to extremist groups or religions. Shouldn’t you investigate that?” Karl asked.
Grigoris shook his head. “The real question is where his first victims are.”
That was met with silence.
“You mean the victims before Christina, Lorena, and Nazario.” Leila felt sick saying the words. How many other people had suffered as she and Karl had? How many people had not been lucky the way they had? How many people had had no Antonio to rescue them?
She swallowed hard, trying not to think about what it would feel like to die at the hands of someone like Ciril. To die cold and terrified. Had they known any peace or hope before their death, or had there been only fear and pain, dooming them to never rest, pieces of their souls trapped in an endless cycle of agony and cold, burning fear?
Strong hands closed over hers—Antonio took one hand, Karl the other.
She ducked her head, embarrassed by whatever they must have seen on her face, whatever thoughts had been reflected there.
“We’ll find him,” Grigoris said, and there was a surety in his words. “And that brings me to the other thing I want to say.”
He cleared his throat, drawing their attention. When she looked up, there was a ruthless predator looking out from inside Grigoris’s eyes.
“Stay away from the investigation. I am sorry it is taking time, but you have to stay away. Coming to Rome, going to the cave…you are not helping. You are dividing our attention and resources. Stay here, stay together, and stay out of it.”
With that, Grigoris rose from the table. He turned and, without looking back, walked out of the room, snatching his laptop on the way.
They watched him in silence.
Leila felt cold, despite the robe.
“Now might not be a good time to say this…” Karl took off his glasses, cleaned them, then put them back on. “But we need to go to Dublin.”
“Okay,” Leila said.
“Just okay? Not ‘why?’ Or ‘But he just told us to stay here?’” Karl asked.
“I don’t answer to him,” Leila said. “And I won’t be shut away, even if that’s safe. I won’t be stupid, none of us will, but I won’t be locked away.” The last bit came out less fierce and more fearful than she’d intended.
“Why Dublin?” Antonio asked.
“I think the investigation needs help. There are things…pieces…that don’t fit together.” Karl looked at Antonio as he said it, then jerked his gaze away. “I need to make a call. Hopefully I can meet with the people I need tomorrow night.”
Leila looked at Antonio. “You’ll come with us?”
Antonio raised a single brow, his answer—of course, where else would I be?—unspoken but not unsaid.
Leila smiled, and the knot inside her loosened.
“Good. I’ll get my phone.” Karl rose and walked toward the door. It opened before he got there.
Vico stuck his head in and spoke in rapid Italian. She might not be fluent, but Leila was picking up bits and pieces.
The knight had said, “Antonio. The admiral wants to see you.”
Leila watched in concern as Antonio rose without a word and walked out the door.
Chapter Fourteen
Antonio snarled silently at Vico’s back. The knight had insisted on escorting Antonio to his father, rather than just telling Antonio where Giovanni was.
He needed to be with Karl and Leila, not only because they were his to protect, but because there were things they needed to figure out, clues as to Ciril’s motivations and identity that they might see, whereas Grigoris and the task force would miss them.
Why did they need to go to Dublin? What was there? It was the first thing Antonio was going to ask Karl after he was done dealing with whatever it was his father wanted from him.
Vico led him into the central hall of the villa.
The sun was at just the right angle to shine in the windows on the back wall, filling the space with golden light. He blinked against the sudden brightness, pausing for a moment to let his eyes adjust.
“Antonio.”
He blinked and turned, surprised to see his father standing near the windows, backlit by the sun so he was nothing more than a dark silhouette.
There were two people with him—women, from their outlines.
Vico took up a position along the wall, his shoulders back, his posture stiff and formal. It was only then that Antonio took note of Vico wearing a three-piece suit, when normally he opted for a more casual shirt and slacks.
Saverio, his back to the opposite wall, was also dressed formally.
Antonio stiffened—and had to fight the urge to take a step back.
This wasn’t simply his father wanting to talk to him.
He’d been summoned by his admiral.
“Ammiraglio.” Antonio bent at the waist in a shallow bow.
With his father, formality was a form of defense. His sister never approached their father unless she was dressed as if she were attending a state function. The worse the news she had to give—or anticipated receiving—the more elaborate her ensemble.
Antonio had just shaken his head at her, instead putting up a wall of silence around himself like the curtain wall around a castle. Now he wished he’d taken time to put on something other than a uniform of shirt and jeans.
“Come,” Giovanni commanded. “It is time for you to meet.”
Antonio walked into the sunlight streaming in the windows.
Once he was closer to them, he was able to make out his father’s face, and that of his companions. Both were lovely dark-haired women. One he recognized.
He had known Rosa Romano since they were children. Her father had been the security minister before Lorenzo. Her younger brother Marco was in training to be a knight, and her older brother had, briefly, been engaged to Sophia. His father had used marriage to Sophia as a political bargaining chip, though he had never actually gone through with calling his sister to the altar.
But his father had been saying for years that it was time to unite the Starabba and Romano family lines.
Antonio’s stomach clenched, and he had to force himself not to show any outward physical reaction.
The other woman looked familiar, which didn’t mean much, as he liked to periodically read over the files of everyone in the territory, just in case. He hadn’t memorized names—that was more the job of a knight than a security officer—but he was sure she was a member.
He was also sure they were about to become his wives.
His father was calling him to the altar.
Giovanni held up his hand, motioning Antonio to come closer. Antonio took two precise steps forward then stopped. He nodded to Rosa. “Rosa, it is a—”
“No, no, you will let me make the introductions.” Giovanni looked from Antonio to each of the women in turn. “If things were different, there w
ould be more time. A ceremony. A reception and my best champagne.
“But we are at war. A silent war against an old enemy.” He paused for dramatic emphasis.
“With the beauty of our homeland before us, and Rome’s light shining down, I, Admiral Giovanni Starabba, will bind you in the trinity marriage of our society.”
Antonio closed his eyes briefly.
When he opened them, he found Rosa looking at him, one brow raised, her head cocked to the side.
His lips twitched—he was trying to smile but he didn’t think it worked.
“Come closer,” Giovanni demanded.
Antonio took a step, not toward his father but toward his wives.
His wives.
These were the people he’d spend the rest of his life with. These were the people who would hold him and touch him.
Not Karl and Leila. They weren’t his. They never really had been.
No. They’re mine.
I’m theirs.
“I hereby bind you, Antonio Starabba, Rosa Romano, and Viola Ricci, in marriage. Your union will serve to better and protect the people of our proud and ancient society.
“It is your duty to love, protect, and keep your spouses. I will hear your pledge to not only keep and protect one another, but to strive to better our world.”
Antonio had never in his life fainted. He’d been knocked unconscious a time or two in a fight, had a concussion, but never fainted.
Right now, for the first time, he felt light-headed.
When Rosa and Viola knelt, he did the same, though it felt more like he collapsed. Rosa, the closest to him, reached out and put her hand on his arm. He had to fight the urge not to jerk away from her as if her fingers burned him.
Rosa was intelligent, accomplished, and beautiful. Many men and women would be weeping with gratitude to find out she was in their trinity. She deserved someone who felt that way.
All he felt was a desperate need to run.
Antonio didn’t run. He never had, and never would.
That thought bolstered him enough that he was able to straighten his spine. He looked up to find his father glaring at him. Giovanni’s jaw was clenched, the muscle standing out. Antonio knew that expression—his father was livid.