Betrayal

by Christina Dodd

  “All those letters you wrote from Paris… you were in Amsterdam?” Nonna sounded stunned.

  “Yes, Nonna. I’m sorry.” An understatement.

  Eli jumped in first. Of course. “Let me get this straight. You survived this horrendously difficult robbery, and they told you…?”

  “They told me I’d been taped by Oblak’s security system, and since I was the only one who hadn’t been in disguise, I was the only one who could be identified.” When Rafe would have spoken, Noah held up his hand for silence. “We’re short on time here. Let me finish. Liesbeth and the gang had taken the evidence, not to ensure that I was safe, but so they had me under control. If they decided to release the tapes, Oblak would send his private thugs to kill me. If Oblak didn’t get to me, well, we had stolen the painting to be sold to another private collector, so the Russian secret police would take me and torture me until I gave up all the information I knew. Which was nothing. If Russian secret police didn’t get me, the CIA and Interpol would put me in prison forever, or until one of my dear relatives assassinated me.”

  “They’re after Nonno’s bottle of wine and the diamonds?” Rafe said.

  “Exactly.” Noah nodded.

  Okay, the worst was over. They were still speaking to him. Although everyone was definitely viewing him differently, especially Penelope, who sat with her head cocked, her soft brown eyes watching him as if she couldn’t quite comprehend everything he had done.

  “How did you not suspect?” Brooke had known and worked for Noah for years, and that he could have been so gullible clearly astonished her.

  “Part of the training was respect for those who had more knowledge than me. That was everybody. So I didn’t ask questions. I did as I was told. Frankly, I was so exhausted, I didn’t even think of the questions until afterward.” Noah’s voice faded. Excuses. Those were nothing but excuses.

  But Rafe nodded. “They brainwashed you.”

  “Clean as a whistle,” Chloë said, and she sounded as if she wanted to take notes.

  “I have a question,” Penelope said. “All these years, you’ve told no one. Why are you telling us now?”

  Noah knew this wouldn’t go over well. “I’ve been protecting… all of you.”

  Bao and Rafe both snorted.

  “I’m serious.” This was the critical moment. Noah had to convince them of the truth. “I told you they trained me hard and long. I’ve trained since, too, and I’m pretty good. Rafe, you know that.”

  Rafe nodded. “You are.”

  “In hand-to-hand combat, they’re better than I am. In weaponry, they’re better than I am. Better than you are, Rafe, and for sure better than Eli.”

  “Hey!” Eli said.

  “I saw you fight, Eli. You saved my life, and I love you for it.” Chloë leaned across the table and put her hand on his arm. “But right now, what would you do in a fight? Club them with your cast?”

  Rafe and Noah laughed.

  Eli glared at his wife, then shot his brothers a distinctive signal with that cast.

  They hastily sobered.

  Noah said, “The gang, even Hendrik, physically trains at least three hours a day. They shoot an hour a day. They can engage in close combat and shoot a bull’s-eye and change their disguise—all at the same time. And they have rules.”

  “What kind of rules?” Nonna asked.

  “First rule: Family is the only thing that matters. Never betray them. Second rule: No matter what it takes, bring home the treasure. What I’m trying to tell you is”—Noah couldn’t say this clearly enough—“they don’t care if they kill. Human life means nothing to them.” He gritted his teeth, but he had to tell them the whole truth. “During the heist, they killed three of Oblak’s servants without even blinking. That was when I realized—as far as they’re concerned, the Propovs are at the top of the food chain, and everyone else is inferior and therefore not worthy of consideration.”

  “They kill for sport?” Eli asked.

  “Not even that,” Rafe said.

  Everyone looked at him, surprised.

  “Sorry, but I know what Noah’s saying. I’ve met people like that in special ops and on the other side. Killing is not done for fun; it’s just something that happens. Women, children, old men… if a murder makes your mission work more smoothly, then murder and never think twice. Those people, they call it collateral damage.” Rafe shook his head. “Noah’s right. I do think before I pull the trigger.”

  Convincing Rafe was half the battle. “You can’t fight these guys. I can’t fight these guys. I can’t kill without compunction. I would hesitate to murder another human being, and in that hesitation, I would be dead.”

  “But why are you telling us now?” Penelope spoke clearly, spacing the words, demanding the real response.

  Noah didn’t want to answer. He really, really didn’t want to answer.

  And before he could, Rafe said, “You believe you know too much about them. You believe they’re not going to let you live.”

  “I’ve always known I had two choices. I either take over the gang, or when I’ve fulfilled the duty for which I was born—to find the bottle of wine—I’d be killed. As you said, I know too much, and if my mother balked at doing the job, my cousins would not. But right now, it’s a little more immediate than that.” The clock was ticking, and so was the bomb at his throat… and the baby in Penelope’s womb was growing by the minute. He looked at her, but he spoke to his brothers. “Because unless we do something, I’m going to die in about an hour and a half.”

  “What?” Eli snapped.

  “What?” Rafe came to his feet.

  Now Noah spoke only to Penelope. “I know I’ve proved myself to be the corrupt fool you always believed I was, but I love you. I always have, and as God is my witness, I always will. If I live through this day, will you marry me?”

  Her eyes sharpened. “If I say yes, will you live through this day?”

  “That is my intention.”

  “Then, yes. I will.” She smiled, but her lips were tight. She grabbed his hand in both of hers and dug her fingernails into his skin, although he didn’t think she realized she was doing it. “Why do you think you’re going to die?”

  Noah eased his hand out of her grasp, loosened his tie, and unbuttoned his shirt. As the dog collar came into view, the reactions almost made him laugh. Almost.

  Trained by long years of absurd adolescent fashion, Nonna tilted her head and silently studied it.

  “I’d stick with the shirt and tie,” Brooke advised.

  Eli woofed.

  Chloë, the mystery writer, said, “Wow, with those studs, you could wire that thing to do anything. Play music, show videos, shoot off a—” Then she got it, and her eyes got round with horror.

  Rafe and Bao got it, too, and came to their feet.

  Penelope slowly stood also. She leaned toward him, looked into his eyes as if demanding the truth. “You told me you lost a bet. That’s a lie. You’re not going to die. Those animals tied that around your neck. They’re planning to murder you—and now you propose to me?”

  Chapter 61

  Joseph Bianchin stood in the window and watched those Smit hoodlums drive away in his cars.

  How dared they? They had eaten his food, lived in his house, hacked into his computer—oh, yes! He knew the truth. It took him a long time to realize that was the problem. He’d blamed it on his computer, on the connection, on everything and anything, trying to figure out why the damned thing worked only part-time.

  He was indignant until he realized that the Internet was behaving oddly, too. He could get to certain pages—no problem getting to his pressure-points page or researching pink diamonds or reading his news stories. But other pages, pages about the Smit gang and their crimes, pages he’d visited only a few days before—they showed up blank, as if they had been hijacked. He didn’t want to believe those thieves downstairs could outsmart him… but the suspicion had been growing on him.

  Somehow, they had
hacked his computer and falsified e-mails.

  He hadn’t been able to make calls.

  He hadn’t been able to leave the house.

  They had controlled him in every way.

  Now they stole his cars, leaving him here alone for the first time in weeks… and like an animal caught in a trap, he was afraid to leave.

  What if this hurried leaving was nothing more than a trick to lure him outside, where they could slaughter him? Or they’d set an explosive that activated when he opened his door?

  But none of that made sense. If they wanted to kill him, they could have done it at any time. As he’d once heard Liesbeth say to her bloodthirsty relatives, Let the old man live; a body stinks.

  Going to the phone, he lifted it and held it to his ear.

  Still no dial tone.

  He walked down the stairs. He peered in every room. The study showed signs of their hurried leaving.

  He walked toward his desk.

  His mail was here, opened, stacked, tossed, violated.

  His indignation clawed at his gut.

  His mail. Was nothing sacred anymore?

  A brown manila envelope caught his eye.

  For more than a week, he’d been watching for something like this. Not that he expected that that Penelope person was truly his daughter, but he wanted to know for sure. It only made sense to know.…

  He picked up the already opened envelope, pulled out the report, read it. Then he stood there, stupidly holding it in his hand, staring at the words.

  That girl was his daughter.

  Penelope was his daughter.

  He had a child.

  He looked out the window.

  He’d wanted progeny, but in an abstract way, as Bianchin-DNA-bearing creatures who would take him into the future.

  She wasn’t what he wanted. Penelope was opinionated, sharp-tongued, without the proper respect for his position and his wealth. She had no patience for his intolerance. She said she had no need of his fortune. Not that he believed her, but… she’d so clearly despised him. She hadn’t bothered to fawn on him even the slightest bit.

  Most important, she failed him because she was a girl. She would not carry the Bianchin name into the future. She’d get married, have children, and those children would bear their father’s last name.

  Or maybe Joseph could bribe the young couple to do his bidding, get them to take the Bianchin name.

  But not if he didn’t get out of here now.

  He quickly moved toward the front door, then hesitated, his hand on the knob.

  What if one of those awful goons stood on the other side, waiting with a loaded rifle and an obnoxious grin?

  No. He had seen them leave.

  Taking a deep breath, Joseph flung the door wide. He stepped out on the porch.

  Nothing stirred in his shady, well-groomed, expansive, and expensive front yard.

  Nothing except… his gardener, that Jap, driving his Ford F-150 down the curving driveway toward the gate, headed out for lunch.

  Joseph realized… this was his chance. He could get away.

  “Hey!” he shouted. “Hey!” He waved his arms.

  The Jap kept driving.

  “Hey!” Joseph shouted louder, running down the stairs, sprinting across the lawn, trying to cut off the truck before it reached the gate. “Hey. You! I command that you wait for me!”

  Chapter 62

  Nonna got to her feet, looking agitated. “I’ve already got a roast out of the freezer, so I’d better get dinner going.”

  “Get Darren on the phone,” Brooke instructed Rafe.

  Rafe already had his cell phone out, calling his best computer guru. He explained the situation in terse sentences, then handed the phone to Brooke. “Talk to him. From the information Noah presented, it’s my opinion the Propov gang will be coming to watch the Fourth of July—”

  Noah supposed that was Rafe’s way of saying, When Noah gets his head blown off.

  Rafe continued. “—and if my security can get the jump on one, we can pull him in here and force him to remove that thing around Noah’s neck.”

  “Quite right. I’ll work the team.” Bao ran out the door, speaking into her phone.

  Rafe put his hand on Noah’s shoulder. “One way or another, we’ll get this taken care of.” His voice was affectionate and reassuring.

  Improbably, Noah relaxed. He had confessed his past and his present to his family for exactly this reason. Because these sensible, loving, intelligent, daring people were the only ones in the world who could rescue him, and even better—they would save their reproaches until the collar was off.

  Then, he knew, they would kick his ass, individually and collectively.

  Turning to Penelope, he said, “I proposed to you because for the first time, I could ask and know you could answer honestly, knowing the truth about me.”

  Penelope nodded. She stood up. She slapped him on the side of the head.

  He swayed back.

  “I always knew who you were,” she said. “I just didn’t know the specific details.”

  He glanced around.

  Smiles all around, hidden or not.

  “Thank you for saying yes anyway.” He rubbed his skull.

  More smiles.

  “You’re welcome,” Penelope said coolly, and sank back down on the chair.

  “See you when I get back.” With one more squeeze of Noah’s shoulder, Rafe raced out after Bao.

  Chloë had her netbook on the table and open, her fingers flying on the keys. “I can find no reference to a murder weapon of this type,” she said to Brooke, “but surely they didn’t invent the device.” She shot a worried look at Noah.

  “I assure you, they did,” Noah said.

  Brooke held the phone away from her ear and asked, “Noah! Is that thing around your neck leather?”

  “Yes.” Noah ran a finger around the edge. “The Propovs were very concerned about fashion.”

  The Di Lucas frowned at him as if questioning his sanity.

  “They have crappy taste,” he added.

  Chloë shoved her netbook under Eli’s nose.

  Eli studied the screen and nodded. “Great. On the leather, I mean.” Going to Nonna’s junk drawer, he dug around until he found the utility knife. Opening it, he tested the razor blade, then got a fresh razor blade. He changed it, then pointed at the chair closest to the window. “Sit there. We’re going to slice that baby open to see what’s inside.”

  Penelope moaned slightly.

  Noah hugged her. “Don’t worry. I’d trust Eli with…” My life, he meant. He decided to leave it unsaid, and sat in the chair indicated.

  “Well, you’re gonna.” Eli stared at the open blade with a cold eye, then nodded kindly at Penelope. “Don’t worry. I’m always grafting vines, and it requires a steady hand. I’m the best man for this job.” Eli’s assurance was immutable. “But I would like another pair of eyes. Chloë, can you talk me through this?”

  Chloë closed her netbook and stood. “Yes. Let Darren search. Because I’m getting so many hits on explosives, I can’t distinguish a good link from a bad link. Why do so many people want to blow stuff up?” She walked to Noah, put her hand on his shoulder, leaned close, and looked.

  He stretched his neck, moving it from side to side to allow her a clear view.

  “Put me on video so I can watch,” Darren said on speakerphone.

  He and Brooke made the connection; then Brooke placed the phone on the counter close to Noah, propped up so Darren could see and hear.

  “It’s a flat leather band against his skin,” Chloë said. “Another leather band is overlaid on that and they’re stitched together. The studs cut through the top leather, so it’s safe to say there’s a wire underneath the top band that connects the studs and controls the mechanism.”

  Darren’s voice came from the phone. “Noah, how are they going to kill you? Bomb or electric charge? Or laser?”

  “Explosive,” Noah said. “On a timer.�
��

  “Primitive, but effective,” Darren muttered; then he yelled, “Cut the stitching very carefully.”

  For a brief, disgusted moment, Eli glared at Darren’s face on the phone’s screen. “I’m going to do this whole thing very carefully.”

  “Right,” Darren said, a little more subdued.

  Chloë moved out of Eli’s light.

  Nonna turned away from the stove to watch.

  Brooke crossed her arms, her gaze narrowed and intent.

  Penelope covered her eyes, and then took her hands away; Noah knew she couldn’t stand to observe, and couldn’t stand not to.

  The kitchen was deadly silent as Eli positioned the utility knife at the side of Noah’s throat, slid the sharp blade between the two leather bands, and cut the first stitches.

  Nothing happened.

  It was the best nothing Noah had ever experienced.

  Relieved, frightened, angry glances were exchanged; then Eli continued slicing through the stitches, moving slowly, making sure he disturbed nothing lethal, until Noah finally snapped, “I haven’t got all day, Eli, and I mean that literally.”

  “Right.” From the corner of Noah’s eye, he saw Eli’s hand tremble; then he moved swiftly to slash the stitching, top and bottom.

  “Now slice the leather up and down so we can peel it back,” Darren said.

  “Want me to take over, Eli?” Brooke asked. “You’re sweating.”

  “So are you,” Eli said.

  Brooke pushed her hair off her forehead. “Am I?” she asked distractedly.

  Chloë circled Noah, examining the collar again. “Take the slice right there.” She pointed toward the middle of his throat.

  The profound silence made her look around at their doubting faces. “Ask Darren if I’m right. Eli can’t cut at the back. Everything’s connected into the latch, which is the timer and the most wired part of this contraption. The farther away from that we get, the better we are.”

  “She’s absolutely right.” Darren’s voice got a little wobbly. They could hear him still typing, still searching for some knowledge of how to fix the problem. “Not that there’s a good choice.”