“Aw, Sophie, I’m sorry.” He did what he itched to do. He pulled her into his arms. Smoothed a hand over her back, threaded fingers through her hair and inhaled her unique scent, better than flowers. “I know you’d remember if you could.”
“I go over and over in my mind what I do remember, but it doesn’t help,” she said, her breath warmly damp through his shirt. “Nothing connects. I see images of the two weeks at Vadim’s villa. They’re like disjointed clips from a weird indie film.”
“There’s some clue I should bing on too. I feel it in my gut. Something that bothers me, but I can’t nail it down.”
She gave her head a small shake, as if dismissing her distress. She stepped out of his arms. “This thug Tomasso is not Vadim. Can’t you let the polizia arrest him?”
“I can’t stand hearing long-distance about what’s going on. All this damn marching in place has stretched my nerves until I feel like I’ll snap like last night’s lightning. I won’t let Vadim get away.” He punched the air.
Her gaze softened, and she slipped her arms around him. “You need to do something, to be in the action. I understand. But you’re not going to leave me alone here.”
He ought to just go, but she felt so good. He placed his hands on her shoulders. “You’ll be safe. Nobody knows about this house.”
She threw back her head and laughed. “Everyone knows about this house. The whole town knows two Americans are staying in this farmhouse. What if Tomasso gets away and comes here? What if you don’t return?”
The band around his chest tightened. “I won’t take you along on an op. That’s just plain nuts. The town where I’m headed is having a big market-and-antiques day. Hordes of shoppers. Too dangerous for you with that many people around.”
“No way, Giovanni. I’m coming with you.”
“What the hell do you think you’re going to do?”
“For one, you don’t speak Italian.”
That hit too close to the mark, but he’d get around that problem. “Dammit, woman. I’m a trained operative.”
“He’s not looking for you. He’s looking for me. I can be the bait. Let me help.”
“Negative. I’ll be back in a day or so. I’ll leave you my other cell. Byrne is number one on the speed dial.”
“Magnifico. A man thousands of miles across the Atlantic will save me if you miss Tomasso and he shows up here. Negative back at you, Jack. If you don’t take me, I’ll find a way to follow you. Arturo will let me borrow his produce truck or Bianca at the trattoria will lend me her Renault.”
Arguing would achieve nothing except sear his belly with acid. She didn’t know where he was headed. He had to call her bluff.
Ducking his head so he wouldn’t see the thunderbolts shooting from her eyes, he opened the car door. As he began to fold himself into the driver’s seat, Sophie’s voice stopped him faster than a stun gun.
“Fiorasole isn’t far away. I’ll see you there.”
Chapter 21
SOPHIE NEARLY WEPT with relief. Now she had a better chance to convince him that he had no alternative but to let her help. If he found this Tomasso and learned Vadim’s hideout, he would try to kill him.
But not with her glued to his side.
“How do you know the name of the market town?” He stalked around the car, fists on his lean hips.
Was it anger or resignation that deepened his voice and tightened the skin across his cheekbones? Her heart thudded, but he’d never hurt her. She wouldn’t back down.
She drew her lips into a satisfied-cat smile, although trepidation churned her stomach. “The Fiorasole Market Saturday is a big event in this area. Everyone goes. Flyers all over Giordano advertise it.”
Linking her arm with his, she strolled toward the back garden. When he didn’t resist, she knew she’d won. She resisted a sigh of relief.
On the terrace she flattened her palm over his scudding heart. The fragrance of oleander and spiky yellow broom wrapped around them in the encroaching dusk. “Stay here tonight and make a plan. We’ll go to Fiorasole together tomorrow. It’ll be all right. You’ll see.”
You’re not going to stop me from getting Vadim.”
His perception shouldn’t surprise her. He read people well. She might as well own up. “I intend to try. If you go after Vadim and kill him, supposing you live, you’ll never find peace.”
“Maybe not. But I will have kept my promise to my son and his mother. My pain will be eased.”
His words tore at her heart. “I know about vengeance, a poison deep in Italian roots. Vengeance doesn’t heal. Vengeance only pollutes grief and infuses more pain.”
He tilted his head and regarded her with too-sharp awareness. “You sound like the voice of experience. What revenge is in your past?”
No sidetracking allowed. She would save Great-Uncle Vinnie for another day. “Hello, we’re talking about you, Jack. Not about me.”
“Hello, but we are talking about you.” He lifted her hand to his lips. Anxiety filled his eyes. “Don’t ask me to dangle you on a hook. Byrne checked out this Tomasso. He’s a soulless killer who works for a Mafia don.”
Picturing the man, his dead eyes and his predatory demeanor, she shuddered, and not from the touch of Jack’s lips on her palm. The taste of fear was acrid on her tongue, but she wouldn’t acquiesce.
“This situation’s not the same, not like your family. I’m already in danger because of something I may know. Sebastian Vadim is responsible, not you.”
“Dammit, I know that. But I care about you. A lot. Not to mention that you’re a civilian under my protection, not a professional operative. What kind of protector throws his charge to the wolves?”
“A smart one who sees he has no choice?”
He emitted a growl from between clenched teeth and brushed a kiss on her lips. “A cornered one who has no choice. I must be — what did you say, pazzo? That means crazy, but what’s the rest of it?”
“Pazzo da legare. It means tied up, ready for the loony bin. I didn’t really mean it.”
“Yeah, right. But this pazzo decision verifies it.”
“So you’ll agree? You’ll let me help set the trap?”
The warmth of his smile wrapped around her. He cradled her head between his hands, curling warmth from her scalp down through her body. “I’m damned impressed at your courage. Yes, sweet Sophie, tomorrow we’re partners.”
“Partners,” she agreed as he rocked his mouth over hers.
Courage? Sophia Constanza Elena Rinaldi, brave? She didn’t feel brave. Thoughts of what could happen chipped at her mind and pounded with every beat of her heart. Perhaps Santa Elisabetta would give her the strength she would need tomorrow.
For tonight, the bliss of being in Jack’s arms would block the fear.
***
Beside Jack on the way to Fiorasole, outwardly calm and eager, Sophie gazed out at the vineyards and farmhouses. She wore flame red — guaranteed to catch Tomasso’s eye — a bright twisty thing on her French braid, a sleeveless top, loose-fitting capris and canvas shoes she called espadrilles, the only footwear in her classy wardrobe she could run in.
He hoped like hell she wouldn’t have to run.
Sophie was throwing herself into the Colosseum with a Mafia beast, with Jack as her sword-bearer. Byrne and his Interpol pals had thumbed-up the plan in true Roman fashion. Jack had her back, but damn, she wasn’t an operative, an officer or an agent, and his gut said the danger in this arena was too great.
At first, the venerable market town looked benign and picturesque — wrought-iron gates, colorful doors and shutters, a couple of crumbled Etruscan tombs — and deserted. On the cobblestone through street two small children kicked a soccer ball. Nobody else in sight.
When he braked at the piazza blocked off for the market, he nearly turned around and aborted the op.
Vendors’ stalls and wagons, crammed with what appeared to be complete stores of wares, l
ined the piazza from entrance to the far end. On the left side, stragglers filled the steps of the redbrick duomo — a Romanesque gem of a cathedral, according to Sophie and her guidebook. As soon as he shut off the engine, the buzz of vendors hawking their wares and shoppers haggling prices assaulted his ears.
Abort the op? He couldn’t.
He needed whatever scraps about Vadim that Tomasso knew. Compromising Sophie’s safety for that purpose birthed a second clawed beast in his chest. Rubbing his sternum was an automatic reaction, as if that had a chance in hell of easing his dread.
“What’s the matter?” Her hesitant question betrayed her anxiety.
Anxious didn’t begin to name the rampaging inside him. “This place is a circus and a beehive all rolled into one. Swarms of people. Stacks of crap as far as the eye can see. A maze of aisles.”
Her eyes sparkled, but her crinkled forehead betrayed her anxiety. “It reminds me of the Macy’s after-Christmas sale. Only there’s much more.”
“This setup is worse than I expected. If Tomasso grabs you, some bozo with a side of pork or an antique lamp might block my way. Sophie—”
She squeezed his forearm where muscles jumped from white-knuckling the steering wheel. “You have everything set up. I’m wearing an earpiece transceiver and a button like yours—” she fingered her lapel pin “—and I have the mini flashlight hooked to my waistband. You won’t lose me.”
He jetted out a long breath, calming himself, cloaking himself with the job. If things turned sour, he could abort at any time. “My backup’s in place. I got the go-ahead.” He touched the tiny transceiver in his ear.
They’d worked out procedure and communications last night between calls to Byrne, whom he would owe major favors when he returned to the States. The Global Positioning System buttons and communication equipment had been delivered to him in the same envelope with the Opel’s keys. The flashlight contained a panic button. From a command post nearby, Dark officers were monitoring their locations on GPS. Jack could communicate with both via his lapel mic.
“Remember, stick to English so I can follow.”
“Andiamo,” Let’s go, she said with a teasing grin, but her hand shook as she slipped the straps of a cloth shopping bag over her arm.
He wanted to hold her tight, to tell her … to tell her… Hell, he had no business making this personal. “Roger that.”
After they left the car, she ambled toward the crowded marketplace. She stopped at the first stall, where an entire roast pig stared glassy-eyed from a slab. The vendor, porky himself with little eyes in a fleshy face, sliced hunks of meat for another shopper to take home.
He turned away. Losing sight of her for even a nanosecond stung his nerves like bites from Florida fire ants. But he’d stick to the plan. He sauntered through the open door of the bar behind him. Shortly, an espresso in hand, he slipped out the back. Gulping down the brew as the Italians did slammed his system with caffeine. The potent stuff could power the Mars probe.
After leaving the shot-size cup on a barrel by the door, he jogged past the trash cans into the back street and circled around. Three shops down, he ducked through another shop and returned to the marketplace.
The shops on that side of the piazza occupied an ochre-brick building fronted with a colonnade. He lounged behind one of the columns and hoped he was inconspicuous. His height made that problematic, but remaining on the fringe was his only option. His position kept him out of the sun, but the day’s heat and his stinging nerves dappled him with sweat.
He listened through his transceiver as Sophie bargained with vendors in a mix of English and phrase-book Italian. Her beauty and waifish vulnerability charmed the men. Her warmth won over the women. By the time she’d made her way down the aisle, she acquired more free samples than purchases.
And no Mafia hit men. Thank God.
Jack rolled his shoulders. He wanted this possible lead to Vadim but not at the expense of Sophie’s life or safety. If the rent-a-gorilla showed up—
Priorities, dammit. What the hell was wrong with him? He knew what had to be done. But a spiked pang had him rubbing his sternum again.
***
As Sophie made her way to the produce section, she began to relax. All around her thronged villagers and travelers, women and children, farmers and merchants — no Mafia hit men.
Yet. Be alert, Sophia Constanza.
Pretending to survey the scene around her, she swept the crowd with a searching glance. Jack was watching from cover, as planned. She propped up her courage with that thought.
Beside her a blond woman in a chic gray suit discussed a legal case with a man who’d just stepped out of GQ. The woman’s demeanor conveyed cool confidence and expertise. A professional who knew her role. A lawyer, a woman who’d found her calling and made a life for herself.
“Mamma, Mamma, come look!” A scabby-kneed little boy about five yanked at the blond woman’s skirt.
She has a child? Sophie examined a head of lettuce while she observed the tableau with fascination.
Lawyer sophistication dissolved into maternal smiles. The woman knelt and hugged her son. “Yes, Emilio, what treasure have you found?”
GQ man frowned with what seemed mock ferocity. “We came here for fresh fruit and vegetables, not toys.”
Little Emilio tugged on his hand. “No toys, Babbo. A man has puppies! Black-and-white ones.”
The boy used the Tuscan term for Daddy. Sophie gaped as the laughing parents allowed their son to lead them away to temptation. No mistake — they were a family.
She replaced the lettuce and sorted through the pears. Well, lawyers had families too. The woman must’ve established her career first. Maybe. Probably. Then again, it could happen the other way around.
Sophie wanted a family too, just not yet. Still, if Jack let himself love her, could she give up her dreams? Would she have to? Did independent have to mean alone?
“Signora, you want?” The vendor, a red-faced woman in an equally crimson apron, smiled and slanted glances at the pears Sophie was mangling.
“Oh, sì, sì, mi dispiace.” Fumbling in her purse, she managed to find the right euros to pay the woman. Uh-oh, she’d apologized automatically in Italian. Even the casual American tourist would know that much. But maybe with an accent.
As she strolled down the next aisle with three bruised pears in her shopping bag, Sophie felt a chill in spite of the day’s heat. Someone was following her.
Chapter 22
JACK HUSTLED BEHIND another column. Thank God the bright outfit gave Sophie the visibility he’d hoped for in such a crowd. She shone brighter than the Tuscan sun baking the piazza. From his vantage point he had a clear view as she strolled farther away from him. The side aisle’s wagons and stalls appeared to hawk mostly T-shirts and linens.
When she stopped before a stall, scarves and lengths of cloth that might be curtains or tablecloths floated from awnings and blocked his view. He could hear her but not see her. Not good enough.
He sidled around the piazza to the end of the colonnade. At the corner he caught glimpses of her through the waving stuff, enough to satisfy him she was still safe.
Sophie thanked the vendor and was about to leave the booth when a raspy male voice murmured something in Italian. A display piled high with T-shirts hid the speaker from Jack, but the man’s threatening tone hiked his pulse.
Before Jack could move for a better view, he heard Sophie. “What are you doing? Take your hands off me!”
The menacing voice again, in hesitant, heavily accented English, said, “You come. No trouble.”
Jack’s adrenaline spiked. The game was on. But dammit, he couldn’t see them for the crush of people and the angle.
The steady chorus around Sophie told him no one noticed that this man was kidnapping her. People seemed to be caught up in their own business. Italians were used to pushing and shoving. But he slowed his pulse with one thought. Witnesses would dete
r overt violence.
Into his mic Jack said in a low voice, “Tomasso has approached her. I’m moving in.”
“Copy that,” came the reply. “I have her on the screen. Heading toward the duomo. Backup on the way.”
Jack checked his weapon and started edging in the direction his contact had indicated.
Sophie’s sharp intake of breath came next. “Is that a gun in my ribs?”
“No talk. You come.”
The edge of fear around her bravado squeezed Jack’s chest. No panic. She had the presence of mind to let him know the shit had a gun. Jack shoved emotion away, concentrated on control and experience.
Sophie and her captor came into sight. They were making their way toward the duomo’s open doorway.
Jack began to step from his shelter and toward the market.
Cold steel pricked his neck.
He froze in place.
***
Jack, where are you? Sophie’s throat constricted. The oxygen in the crowded piazza seemed insufficient as she fought for air. Even if she could drag in enough breath to yell, she couldn’t scream bloody murder. Tomasso would run away, and they’d lose him. She had to cooperate.
Maybe Jack hadn’t heard her before. The mic wasn’t working or his transceiver was turned too low. Slowly she slid her left hand to her waistband, toward the panic button on the flashlight.
“What you do?” The man’s words spat at her like bullets from his pistol. “Put hands down.”
He hustled her up the steps and inside.
“Why are you taking me into the duomo?” she managed to gasp out before the heavy wooden door slammed shut behind her.
***
Jack rammed an elbow back as he went for his Glock with the other hand. A hard body shoved him against the column. His head cracked against the stone. He fought off the clanging pain and waves of dizziness.
Ready for a countermove, the man relieved him of his Glock. The knifepoint stung. This time it drew blood. “Andiamo al duomo,” the man said, his breath a rancid stench of garlic and dental neglect. “Subito.”
Dark Vengeance (The DARK Files Book 4) Page 17