Secrets of Bella Terra: A Scarlet Deception Novel

by Christina Dodd

  “It’ll work,” he assured her. “Take the wire off from around the cork, shake it up, aim it, and pull the cork. Even if you don’t pull the cork, it’ll pop on its own within a few minutes. Delayed release. A time bomb.”

  “Right. Thank you.” She ran after Ebrillwen.

  “Plus you can carry that and none of the guests will think a thing about it,” he called after her. Then he said, “Oh, hell,” and limped toward Noah’s office.

  Chapter 46

  Noah and Rafe relaxed in Noah’s office. Rafe’s new, secure computer was propped up against the lamp, and both men watched the feed from the wine cellar and talked desultorily.

  “When do you figure he’s going in?” Noah stretched back in his office chair behind his desk and hooked his hands behind his head.

  “Soon.” Jacket off, Rafe leaned against the twodrawer file cabinet. “The way these things usually work is—the thief has so much time to acquire the merchandise before he’s done.”

  “Done how? They kill him?”

  Rafe laughed. “Wishful thinking. You’ve been watching too many movies.”

  “This guy already killed at least one person and attacked Nonna. It’s more than just wishful thinking.” Noah’s smile was bright, toothy . . . vengeful. “It’s preplanning.”

  Rafe’s amusement faded. “It’s a policy in my company that we try not to get ourselves arrested when we apprehend a perp. I do think this guy is getting anxious—the escalating violence means he’s desperate. Why else would you do things guaranteed to call attention to yourself?”

  “Desperate equals sloppy?”

  “In this case, it does. Assuming Bianchin is behind all this, he’s ordered a pickup, not a hit.” Rafe paused, then added, “But he’s not too picky about how the job is done.”

  Noah seemed fascinated by the details. “How do you know he didn’t order a hit?”

  “I don’t, but murder entails prison time, and I’m guessing he’s smart enough to avoid committing himself to violent intentions. The people causing the problems usually make sure there’s a lot of distance between them and the crime. They aren’t the ones who get caught, and if they do, they don’t get prosecuted for the worst charge.” Damn it.

  “I could kill the old fart myself.” Noah’s voice came from deep in his chest, the growl of a fighter who had seen his grandmother injured and his business hurt by the malice of one selfish man.

  Ten minutes passed in silence.

  “This is boring,” Noah said.

  “Mind-numbing,” Rafe agreed. “And you thought I had a glamorous job.”

  “Another dream crushed.” Noah turned to the computer on his desk. “If you’ll watch the monitor for a while, I’ll do some of my glamorous job—accounting.”

  “Our lives are the envy of millions,” Rafe said drily. Picking up the computer, he wandered toward one of the chairs and sat. He perched the computer on his knee, halved the screen, and brought up a game of solitaire.

  Five games in, he still hadn’t won and the cellar remained stubbornly empty. The afternoon was getting late, and for the first time he wondered whether the perp was suspicious. Had he seen Rafe remove the bottle from under his coat? Had he noticed Rafe place his cameras? Or his transmitters? That would thoroughly suck.

  A faint knock sounded at the door.

  Rafe flipped the cellar to full screen, stood, and looked out the peephole. “Uh-oh.”

  “Who is it?” Noah asked.

  Taking a long breath, Rafe opened the door. “Hi, Mom. What’s up?”

  Francesca burst into the room with all the exuberance and emotion of the Italian drama queen that she was. “Rafe! Is it true? Have the wicked polizia dragged Victor to prison?”

  Oh, God. What role was she performing now?

  With great care, he placed his monitor on Noah’s desk. “I wouldn’t call DuPey wicked, but yes, Victor’s in custody.”

  Noah stood. “Won’t you take a seat, Francesca?”

  “Ah, Noah, good afternoon.” She smiled at him with all the pleasure she always showed for Rafe’s family. “Thank you, but I cannot sit. Not while this injustice continues. Victor is not guilty of any misdeed!”

  Not now, Mom, I’m really busy. But Rafe couldn’t say that—not if she knew something that would spring Victor from jail. “Probably he’s not, but he can’t provide an alibi.”

  “I can provide the alibi.” She struck a pose. “He was with me!”

  Victor and his mother? Rafe wanted to slam his head against the wall—or hers. “Another affair?”

  “No. No!” Her nostrils flared in disdain. “I would not sleep with that man if he begged me on bended knees. But he was with me.”

  Rafe looked at his brother for help.

  Noah grinned, sat back down, and settled in to enjoy the show.

  “Really?” Rafe glanced at the monitor.

  It wouldn’t save him. Still nothing moved in the cellar.

  He returned his attention to his mother. “I mean, really? Because if you’re on some imaginary mission to save some guy who’s been respectful to you—”

  “No!”

  “Or who you slept with—”

  “No!” She stomped her foot. “I tell you, I do not like him at all.”

  “You don’t like a handsome, courteous gentleman who admires you?” Rafe had more than a little trouble believing that.

  Her mouth turned down, not in the attractive pout she had perfected, but in a thin, petulant line. “He does not admire me.”

  The brothers exchanged raised-eyebrow glances.

  “What did he do?” Rafe asked.

  She didn’t answer.

  “What did you do?” Noah asked.

  Francesca turned on him. “Nothing! I did nothing! A little light flirtation, that is all.”

  “I’m confused.” Noah sat forward, glanced at the monitor, then stared compellingly at Francesca. “Why should you be angry with Victor if you indulged in a little flirtation with him?”

  “Not with Victor! I flirted with that young waiter, the handsome one. The one who works the lobby and bar. Tall, blond, firm buttocks—”

  Rafe covered his eyes with his hand.

  “Trent?” Noah suggested.

  “Yes. Trent.” Francesca’s voice turned sultry. “He worships me. But I wouldn’t have slept with him!”

  This was getting more and more odd.

  Apparently Noah decided Rafe needed help, because he took over the questioning. “What does Victor have to do with Trent?”

  “It was late. The boy and I were teasing. The wine bar was closed.” She frowned at him. “Noah, the bars close too early here.”

  “I have nothing to do with that, Francesca.” Noah’s scrutiny wandered to the monitor, then returned to the conversation. “The state of California regulates the hours.”

  “Preposterous!” she said.

  “Victor, Mom,” Rafe prompted.

  “Victor arrived in a huff! He spoke rudely to the boy of whom I am very fond—”

  “What’s his name?” Rafe asked.

  She hesitated. “Trevor.”

  Noah cackled.

  “How fond can you be of him, Mom? You can’t even remember his name.” Rafe glanced at the monitor again. Still clear.

  “That is of no consequence! He was sweet to me! And Victor sent him away.” She threw her hands into the air. “Then he . . . he escorted me back to my cottage.”

  Noah leaned into the keyboard and started typing, his gaze fixed on the screen.

  “Mom, did he hurt you?” Rafe asked.

  “No. He is not that kind of man.” Francesca sounded huffy on Victor’s behalf.

  “Can you see them on the security tapes?” Rafe asked Noah.

  “I’m looking. Yes!” Noah pointed at the screen. “There’s a shot of them on the path to her cottage, and the timeline is right.”

  Rafe looked. “Okay, so Victor and Mom were out the door of the Luna Grande after the feed to the cameras was cut. T
hat’s why we never saw him exit the bar. When did Victor leave her cottage?”

  “Looks like about four in the morning.”

  “He shouted at me!” Francesca was clearly affronted and astonished they were not outraged on her behalf.

  Noah was jumping from one time frame to another, one camera to another. “Victor went straight to his room and didn’t come out for two hours, right before he reported the vandalism.”

  “So Victor’s off the hook,” Rafe said with satisfaction.

  Francesca tugged at Rafe’s arm. “No, he is not, because in my cottage, he said rude things to me.”

  Rafe was liking Victor more and more all the time.

  “I can’t imagine any man saying rude things to you,” Noah said. When Rafe glared, Noah shrugged. “Really. Have you looked at her?”

  “I know.” She took a deep breath. “It is outrageous.” But her voice shook, she sank onto a chair in front of Noah’s desk, and a tear dripped down her cheek.

  At his mother’s sniffling, Rafe’s liking for Victor faded. “What did he say?”

  “He said . . . he said I should not waste my time chasing after children.” A sob hiccupped out of her. “That sleeping with a little boy would not recapture my own youth.”

  “Ouch,” Noah said.

  “He said a beautiful woman deserved more than . . . than vapid posturing men who want only to u-use me for my money and influence in the movie business.” Her shoulders shook as she tried to suppress her tears. “He said . . . he said I do not need any man, that I should be . . . should b-be strong by myself. Only th-then could I meet a man who was my . . . my . . . my . . . equal.”

  Noah passed Rafe the box of Kleenex.

  Rafe offered the box to his mother. “I’ve been saying that for years.”

  She pulled out a handful of tissues and blew her nose. “But you are my son. Of course you must say nice things to me about how strong I am. But it’s not true!” She tossed the wad of tissue at the trash can. “The body is no longer firm, the skin is not smooth and beautiful anymore, and I still have no one to love me with the passion and the fire I desire!”

  For once, she wasn’t speaking for effect or providing a spectacle. She really meant what she said, and Rafe knelt in front of her and smiled. “Mom, you don’t need anybody else. You’re pretty damned cool all by yourself.”

  “Do you think so?” She got more tissue and blew again.

  “Who was the young girl who fought her way up from the streets of Naples to become Italy’s biggest film star?” he asked. “Who picked her own scripts and put her name on the top of the credits? Mom, you don’t give yourself enough respect.”

  “I’m a big fan of yours, Francesca,” Noah said. “On-screen, you always play the kind of strong woman I admire.”

  “Don’t play me, Noah Di Luca,” she retorted. “I know the truth. Most men like stupid, clinging women.”

  Noah nodded. “Sad but true.”

  “Yes, there are very few men whose egos are sturdy enough to stand up to a strong woman, but we are the only ones worth having,” Rafe said.

  “You!” Francesca threw the box of tissues at him, but she laughed. “So I must grow old alone?”

  Rafe got serious in a hurry. “Surely that’s better than being humiliated by men like your former husband.”

  “Yes . . .” She dabbed at her red nose, and stood. “Victor is innocent of this vandalism, but he would not say that he had been with me because he didn’t want anyone to know we had been together in a cottage. He is an old-fashioned gentleman, and he didn’t want false rumors that said we had been lovers.”

  “Why didn’t you tell the truth as soon as you heard?” Rafe asked.

  Her gaze fell. “Because I didn’t want people to know I had been scolded like a wayward child.”

  Noah nodded. “I can see it would rankle.”

  “So, Rafe, will you tell your polizia that Victor is innocent?” she asked.

  “It would be better if you did that, as your first act of independence.” Rafe waited to see how she would respond.

  She thought, then said slowly, “I could do that.”

  Rafe opened the door. “Perhaps you could arrange for the car to bring Victor back so he knows who sprang him from jail?”

  “He doesn’t deserve such a courtesy!” She tossed her hair again and strode out.

  The storm was over. Francesca was back in fine form—but perhaps between Victor, Noah, and Rafe they’d given her food for thought.

  Rafe sure hoped so.

  As he shut the door, Noah leaped to his feet. “Rafe! We missed it! He’s in!”

  Rafe swung away from the door. “Who is it?”

  “Blond. Tall. He’s turning so I can see his face. . . .” Noah pointed at the monitor. “Josh Hoffman. Josh Hoffman! I gave that little shit a donation for his college fund!”

  “Focus, Noah. Let me make sure we’re recording.” Rafe walked to the desk. The record light was on.

  Then, for the first time since it had been hacked, his cell phone rang. Suspiciously, he pulled it from his pocket.

  The number was from overseas. From Kyrgyzstan. He answered, put the phone to his ear, and shouted, “Where the hell have you been?”

  His team leader shouted back, “In hell, but you know what Winston Churchill said—if you’re going through hell, keep going. We brought her out. She’s alive and well!”

  Rafe crowed with laughter and relief.

  His team was out of the mountains and safe, their mission accomplished, the helicopter pilot safe in their hands.

  He was looking at the hacker—they’d caught him red-handed.

  Success. Success all around. Success at last.

  “Congratulations, Ellis!” he said into the phone. “Listen. I’m working a situation, but do whatever is necessary, call in any reinforcements to get out of the country and onto a U.S. military base. I’ll meet you there and—”

  Somebody knocked furiously on the office door.

  He and Noah looked at each other.

  “Just get out,” he said to Ellis. “Okay?”

  “Affirmative.” His team leader hung up.

  Whoever it was started hammering with a fist.

  Rafe hurried to the door and yanked it open.

  Ebrillwen stumbled in, her perfect hair mussed, her cool eyes wild. “I can’t go down there. Come on. Come on! I can’t go down there.”

  Tom Chan limped up behind her. “We’ve got a mess on our hands, man.”

  “Calm down,” Rafe said, although his own heart started a fast, powerful beat. “What’s wrong?”

  “She sent me to get you.” Ebrillwen had her hand on her chest. “It’s Josh. He’s going down into the cellar—”

  “It’s okay. We’re taping him,” Rafe told her.

  “Son of a bitch!” Noah shouted. “Brooke’s in the cellar. She followed him down!”

  Chapter 47

  Heart racing, hand clutching the bottle of champagne, Brooke stood outside the last cellar door, at the end of the long, gloomy corridor. She’d followed Josh from a distance, taking care to stay back, to move soundlessly, to be one with the shadows.

  She thought she’d succeeded. He seemed oblivious to her presence.

  Now she peered inside the murky room, trying to remain as still as possible, to see what—or who—was in there. All Brooke could recall was Zachary telling her that Josh liked to pull the legs off the gophers.

  Why hadn’t Madelyn come when Ebrillwen paged her?

  Did Josh have her trapped down here?

  Oh, God. Brooke wished Ebrillwen were here with her. But Ebrillwen had taken one look at the stairs leading down to the cellar and backed up, shaking her head.

  Brooke had discovered Ebrillwen’s phobia—going underground.

  Nothing had shaken her refusal, and Brooke didn’t have time to persuade her. Didn’t really want to worry about someone so out of her mind with fear that she would give them away.

  But Brooke didn�
��t want to be alone. Ebrillwen wasn’t the only one who, just on principle, didn’t like basements. Brooke didn’t like them, either, and more than that, she didn’t want the responsibility for Madelyn’s rescue to be hers and hers alone. Because the cellars smelled like a tomb, looked like a tomb. And Brooke was afraid that for Madelyn, this was a tomb.

  Brooke had sent Ebrillwen to get Rafe. The housekeeper could handle that—and hopefully, she had.

  Josh walked from an unseen corner to the huge barrel that stood on its side on a stand. He worked eagerly to open the trapdoor at the end. He pulled out a bottle of wine, glanced at the label, and laughed.

  The wine? Massimo’s wine? Was that why he was down here? Had he found it?

  Because Brooke wasn’t willing to risk her life for a bottle of wine, no matter how valuable.

  She started to ease back—and jumped when he said loudly, “See? I told you this was where I’d find gold.”

  He turned and looked toward the corner closest to the door, out of Brooke’s line of sight.

  Oh, no.

  Madelyn was there. Or at least, someone was.

  He walked toward the person, saying, “I know, you don’t care, but I’m going to make a fortune . . . and you’re going to stay here forever and ever.” He disappeared from Brooke’s view . . . and grew silent.

  Brooke needed Rafe. He’d save Josh’s prisoner.

  Ebrillwen had promised to send him.

  Brooke would leave, go meet him, give him all the details.

  But first, she could do this one thing. A distraction that might save the prisoner’s life.

  Brooke twisted the wire off the champagne. Shook it up. She put it on the floor and prepared to run.

  And Josh leaped from behind the door, grabbed her arm, and slammed her forehead against the wall.

  She screamed in surprise and pain.

  He laughed, twisted her wrist high behind her back, and marched her inside the cellar room. “You are so fucking stupid.” He spoke into her ear. “I knew you were there all the time. I heard your message to your boyfriend. Man, as soon as I heard my name, I knew it was time to set a trap. And you fell for it! So fucking stupid.”

  Her eyes were swelling. Her nose was bleeding. “Didn’t think you could monitor all the phone calls.”