“I’m sorry, darling.”
“You were asleep when I returned from my dinner with the Royal Police. Busy day?”
Nothing escaped Carlo. He was giving her the chance to explain. “I took a quick trip out of the country yesterday afternoon.”
“Interesting…my personal secretary was asked about a fuel recharge for the jet this morning. Just enough to go to Croatia and back.” Crinkles of concern appeared at the edges of his golden brown eyes. “Teresa’s funeral?”
“No, I wouldn’t do that.” She slipped her hand from her husband’s and took a seat on the large ottoman that dominated the center of the closet, then crossed her ankles. “I went to see Rocco at his villa after the service.”
Pain flashed across Carlo’s face. “You should’ve told me. I’d have come.”
“No you wouldn’t have. You’d have forbidden it. And even if you hadn’t, you know he wouldn’t have seen you. Frankly, I didn’t think he’d see me. He kept me waiting for some time.” And had the audacity to make her leave the car outside the gate and walk, though she wouldn’t mention that part to her husband.
“He didn’t know you were coming, did he?” Carlo crossed the space to take a seat beside her. “Why did you go? And why yesterday, of all days?” A beat later he added, “I assume no one saw you?”
“No. I flew there with Umberto so he could act as my driver and my eyes.” The man who regularly patrolled the entrance to Fabrizia and Carlo’s palace apartments and headed their security staff was the most trusted person in their employ. “I gave Rocco the diamond and sapphire necklace you designed for Teresa, the one Kelly found in the antique chest when she did the remodeling work in Massimo’s apartment.”
“Good. He should have it.” An aggrieved note in Carlo’s voice made it clear he was thinking, if he won’t have me. “I assume that’s not the only reason you went or you’d have simply asked Umberto to deliver the necklace.”
She angled her body so she faced Carlo. Knowing he had three children who carried his blood, yet who refused to see him, burned a hole in his heart she feared might never mend. “You asked me not to have him followed after he was questioned by that reporter in Dubrovnik.”
“But you did.” His lips thinned in disappointment.
“Yes. Not at first, not right after you asked me.” She hated to confess this to him. “But—I’m sorry, darling—I couldn’t shake the feeling that—”
“No apologies. Just tell me what you discovered.”
She gave him a brief overview of what she’d learned about Karpovsky and Radich. About her suspicion that Rocco had been working on a project in his lab that attracted the Russians’ attention. And about the risk to Rocco’s wife. “I didn’t believe Rocco would take action if I’d simply called or sent a message. He’d never trust me. I needed to know I’d be heard.”
“But to go on the day of Teresa’s funeral—”
“I had no choice. My eyes and ears on the ground feared that plans were in motion. Teresa’s death would work in their favor. It meant Rocco would be emotionally vulnerable and more likely to capitulate to their demands, whatever those demands might be. I told him he needed to take action to protect himself and his wife immediately.”
“Are you still watching him?”
“I promised him I wouldn’t.” Carlo’s skeptical look made her roll her eyes, despite the fact it was warranted. “Believe it or not, I pulled off my men. However, after Kelly found the necklace I had Umberto hide a tracking device in the lining of the jewelry box in case the piece ever went missing again. It didn’t occur to me that Rocco would take it with him if he fled with his wife, but—”
“He did. I see it all over your beautiful face.”
Fabrizia smiled at her husband, realizing that she was forgiven for going against his wishes. “He’s on the Adriatic. I believe his wife is with him. Judging from the location, my guess is that they’re on the Split-Ancona ferry. I don’t know where they’re headed, but as long as the Russians haven’t followed they’re safer than they were in Dubrovnik.”
“Good. He’s a resourceful man and a wealthy one. We have to assume he can take care of himself and his wife now that he’s aware of the danger.” Carlo blew out a breath and propped his elbows on his knees, dropping his gaze to his shoes. “I only wish—”
“Someday, Carlo. Someday he’ll know the truth, that being separated wasn’t your choice.”
“I don’t know if the truth would be better or worse for him. I suspect worse. He’s done very well in his life. It’s selfish of me to want him in mine.” He turned his head to look at her. The world at large saw him as a powerful man, one with a loving wife, six dynamic children, and the world at his feet thanks to the billions in his bank account and his political popularity. Only Fabrizia knew that the wrinkles emanating from the edges of his tired eyes came as much from sorrow as from his infectious smiles.
She wrapped her arms around her husband’s broad shoulders. Carlo was an honorable man, despite the naive mistakes of his youth. He’d grown and changed. Most of all, he was a survivor.
“You love Rocco, even if you haven’t seen him since he was a toddler. Never consider it selfish to love someone.”
He gave Fabrizia a long, sweet kiss before resting his forehead against hers. “Thank you for that. Even if you lied to me about following Rocco…thank you.”
“You do what is necessary for the people you love. And I love you more than life itself.”
Somehow, some way, she’d do what was necessary to make things right for him.
Chapter Ten
Rome fascinated Justine. From the moment she and Rocco emerged from the train station and she spied the well-preserved ruins of ancient baths standing across the street from a regal, columned building that housed modern offices above a street-level series of crowded cafés and gelaterias, she wanted to indulge in its charms. To take a day and meander into whatever alleyways and shops drew her attention, to enter one of its thousands of churches and savor the stillness amidst the chaos of a large city. To soak in the city’s millennia of history while enjoying the fashion show of its young professionals as they made their way between work and the Metro.
The crisp breeze and the bright afternoon sun that filtered through the blossoming trees only intensified her desire to explore. Unfortunately, Justine had to settle for viewing Rome from a tiny, third floor room overlooking an English-style pub. Rocco had brought them here as soon as they’d arrived at the train station, leaving no time for gawking.
“Big rugby tournament this week,” Rocco observed as he followed her gaze out the window to a group of raucous men wearing kilts and Scottish jerseys who sauntered toward the pub entrance. “Anyone who’s not at the stadium is finding a bar where they can watch. I imagine they’ll get louder once they have a few beers under their belts.”
“Not sure whether I should cheer for the Scots to win or lose. Which will make them rowdier?”
“If they traveled all the way from Scotland to see the tournament, they’re primed for rowdiness either way.” A smile tugged at the edges of his mouth as his attention went to the far side of the square from the pub, where a group of twenty-somethings in kelly green shirts walked. “And here come the Irish. Our odds of a peaceful night are officially zero.”
He closed the lace curtain. “There’s an Internet station downstairs near the front desk. How about we finalize our ticket purchase for tomorrow, then go to the mom and pop grocery on the other side of the pub to buy something for dinner?”
“It’s a crime not to eat out while we’re here.”
“I agree. Better that we stick to the room, though. We have a good view of the square and there’s a back staircase through the door next to ours. It’s as safe as we can get.” He ran a reassuring hand up her arm. “I’m bringing you back here. I promise.”
“What if I grab takeout from the trattoria we passed just off Via Cavour? I can order while you’re booking our flight. I doubt anyone would
notice me between here and there.”
She could see him waffling, so she punched his shoulder. “Come on, Rocco, you know you want to. I saw you eyeing the handwritten sign for freshly-made gnocchi as we walked by. It’s only a few blocks further than the grocery store.”
“Fine,” he said with a laugh. “Take some cash from my wallet. It’s at the top of my backpack. I’ll lock up. If you beat me back, find me by the front desk.”
“Gnocchi?”
“Of course. And a bottle of wine.”
“Goes without saying.” She pulled several Euro bills from Rocco’s wallet, then took the back staircase to the street. After checking to ensure no one lurked about, she made her way to the trattoria using a circuitous route as Rocco had done when they’d walked to the bed and breakfast from the train station. The instant she stepped through the trattoria’s narrow entry, she was enveloped in the scent of fresh pasta, garlic, and baking bread, then was greeted by a round, elderly gentleman wearing a pair of dark slacks and a sky blue button-down shirt. She understood enough Italian to gather that his family owned the place.
She asked for a menu, then managed to place a takeout order in passable Italian. While she waited, the owner brought the bottle of Chianti she ordered, then surprised her with a plate of cured meats on crackers and a fizzy aperitif that appeared to be made with Apertol, telling her that he loved to treat the beautiful women who entered his restaurant.
It was early and he wasn’t yet busy, so she invited him to join her. She asked a few polite questions about the restaurant and was regaled with the tale of a kitchen fire his wife put out by beating it with her apron. Justine didn’t understand all the details, but the gist of the story made her laugh. When the gnocchi was ready, he handed her the paper bag with a wide smile and showed her that he’d included a few cookies. She thanked him, paid, then meandered her way back to the bed and breakfast. She was about to turn the final corner when she realized she’d left the bottle of wine on the restaurant table.
“Shoot.” She paused, tempted to take the bag upstairs before returning, but figured she was less likely to attract attention if she only entered the bed and breakfast once. On a sigh, she spun on her heel and took yet another route along side streets back to the trattoria. As she approached, the owner came outside with her bottle and she thanked him before turning back. This time, she walked the most direct route, taking care to blend in with the crowds of tourists and shoppers making their way along Via Cavour. She spied a sign indicating an alley cut-through to the Basilica di Santa Maria Maggiore, the Catholic church just beyond their bed and breakfast, and zigzagged through the crowd in the direction of the alley. Just before she turned the corner, she caught sight of a group of nuns in full habits standing on the opposite side of Via Cavour, laughing as if they were young girls sharing a joke. Justine paused, watching the women for a moment. Only in Rome would one see such a thing. She wished she had a camera to capture the scene: an early April evening, a boisterous group of nuns, a melting pot of tourists and locals speaking every language imaginable, all the colors of the stores’ window displays. She couldn’t wait to come back with Rocco to soak it in. To spend the days discovering the city’s nooks and crannies, to spend the nights rediscovering each other.
Her attention snagged on a man standing outside a leather goods shop behind the nuns. While the rest of the street moved, he was still, his eyes scanning the crowd. Justine’s stomach dropped in fear as she recognized him.
Karpovsky.
Dark clothing helped him blend into the display of dark leather jackets hanging along the store’s doorway, but there was no mistaking his broad build or scarred face. Before he could spot her, she dodged into the alley and crossed to the shaded side, then stepped into a raised apartment entryway from which she could see him, but he couldn’t see her.
How had he known to come to Rome?
Her heart thundered in her ears as she watched him pull a cell phone from his pocket. His eyes never stopped studying the crowd as he held the device to his ear and listened. After a moment, he pocketed the phone, then slid behind a group of shoppers and walked down Via Cavour in the general direction of the bed and breakfast.
Justine remained in place, waiting with her back pressed against the entryway’s scarred oak door. A motorcycle turned off Via Cavour and zoomed past, followed by a taxi. Slowly, she peeled herself from the entryway and walked to the bed and breakfast, forcing herself to keep her head down and her pace steady so she wouldn’t attract attention. Every sound around her seemed magnified. The scent of the food wafted up to her nose and she could feel the weight of the bottle tucked under her arm. Despite the fact her senses were on high alert, she resisted the impulse to race directly back to Rocco and safety.
She had to warn him. On the other hand, she couldn’t allow herself to be seen or she’d give away the location of their accommodations…assuming Karpovsky didn’t already know.
A threesome of Scottish rugby fans passed her, singing as they went. She gave them a noncommittal nod as they greeted her in drunken English, but kept her gaze beyond them, scouring the street ahead for any sign of Karpovsky.
If Karpovsky was on Via Cavour, where was Radich? Had he managed to tap into Rocco’s computer usage on the ferry to see that they were coming to Rome? She couldn’t imagine the skill that would take, but when it came to hackers, she supposed anything was possible.
Finally, she approached their B & B from the direction of the pub. A large contingent of Scots crowded around a television set near the entrance, while a group of men decked out in the Union Jack stood cheering alongside them. Irish and Italian fans were spread throughout the square, speaking in loud voices and using an abundance of hand gestures. Keeping to the periphery, she slipped past them, then into the back staircase of the hotel. A glance at the lobby on the way upstairs showed her Rocco had finished, so she made her way to the room.
“I can smell that through the door.” Rocco’s voice was cheery as he flipped the lock to admit her. “Did you remember napkins? We have glasses and silverware, but I couldn’t find any paper products.”
“I’m so glad you’re here.” She shoved the door closed, turned the lock, then set the wine on the top of the small counter that served as the room’s kitchenette and made a beeline for the window, carefully edging the curtain aside. No sign of Radich or Karpovsky in the crowded square. “Karpovsky is here. He didn’t see me, but I don’t think we’re safe anymore.”
She felt Rocco behind her. “He’s outside the hotel?”
“No, not that I can tell.” Her heart still pounded as if the man were about to burst through the door. “He was on Via Cavour. I walked different ways to the trattoria and back—I had to go twice because I forgot the wine the first time—and I saw him about ten minutes ago on my second trip back. He was across the street from me, talking on a cell phone. I hid in a doorway in a side alley until he left. He headed this direction, so I waited a few minutes before I left the doorway, but I don’t know—”
“You’re certain it was Karpovsky?” Rocco’s voice was low as he took the bag from her hand, then pried her death grip from the curtain. “This morning in Ancona you thought your imagination was playing tricks on you. Via Cavour is crowded this time of day. Thousands of people must be shopping there.”
“Positive.” She knew she sounded panicked. On an exhale, she put her hands to her stomach, attempting to settle the knot that had formed there, and made an effort to speak more slowly. “He was wearing a black shirt and gray slacks that helped him blend with the crowd, but I recognized the scars. All down here.” She gestured to the side of her face. “The man is distinctive, even if he tries not to be.”
Rocco’s jaw worked. “I didn’t see him on our train. I went through every car twice. Even waited to see who came out of the restrooms.”
“I don’t know how, but he’s here.”
“That’s the question then, isn’t it? How could he possibly know where we are?” Rocco set
the paper bag on the counter beside the wine and reached inside for the gnocchi. “Set places and I’ll open the wine. I saw a corkscrew here somewhere.”
“Are you kidding?” They needed to get out of here. Get as far from Rome as fast as humanly possible.
“No, I’m not kidding, and before you ask, yes, I do believe you.” He fumbled in the kitchenette’s lone drawer, then came up with the corkscrew and went to work opening the Chianti. “You said he didn’t see you on Via Cavour. You don’t think he saw you come into the B & B, do you?”
“I doubled back and made sure no one was behind me, then was very careful when I entered the building. I doubt anyone saw me, even the drunks going in and out of the bar.”
“Then for the moment, we’re safe. If we go out there” —he waved the corkscrew in the direction of the window— “we have no idea what we’ll face. We have nowhere to go until our flight tomorrow afternoon, and the more we wander the streets, the more we put ourselves at risk.”
She watched as Rocco poured the Chianti into two glasses he’d rummaged from the small kitchenette. “I don’t think I can eat. My gut is telling me to get the hell out of Dodge.”
“Karpovsky would be an idiot to barge in here when there’d be dozens of witnesses. Come on. Sit. We’ll think better once we eat,” he assured her. “Besides, that smells too good to abandon.”
After a moment’s hesitation, she retrieved the two containers that held the gnocchi and set them atop the room’s two-seat table. She popped the lid and couldn’t stop the gasp that escaped her lips. “No wonder the bag was heavy.”
“All of that came with it?” Rocco moved to her side, handing her a filled glass as he peered into each gnocchi container, then to the containers Justine continued to pull out of the bag. In addition to the gnocchi, there was warm garlic bread, steamed artichokes, and, finally, the cookies the trattoria owner had shown her.
“I didn’t think so. I suspect the owner added it gratis. The cookies were definitely a bonus item.” She told Rocco how she’d chatted with the man and that he’d treated her to an aperitif before showing her the cookies.
The Royal Bastard Page 9