“Who was he?” The blond woman asked, cutting through Margo’s thoughts, a strange expression on her face as she realized the girl was counting under her breath.
“I’ve never seen him before,” Margo answered truthfully. Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen … “He grabbed me in the piazza, and I didn’t know where else to go.”
“Well, someone should call the police! You should tell that man”—she pointed a blunt fingernail at the elevator operator—“and get him to do something!”
Margo nodded distantly. Twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight … The elevator was slowing, and soon it would be do-or-die. Literally. Did she want him arrested? Was that the smarter plan? Even if someone called the authorities, it was unlikely they’d arrest him; no one in the atrium had seen the fight or the chase, none of them knew he’d fired a gun at her. The police would tell him to leave the area, and he would retreat to the shadows and watch the campanile’s only exit. Even if she managed to talk the entire carabinieri into giving her an armed escort back home, Crossbones could tail them to the Palazzo Rambaldo.
No. He had to enter the tower—it was the only way. She just needed to hope that his rage occluded his reason to a point where he was more eager for a quick revenge than for an anticlimactic, if cunning, victory.
“If you’d like—” the woman began, but the elevator stopped, the door opened, and Margo bolted off it before the sentence was finished.
Four to a side, sixteen arched openings looked out on the city as night closed in, the sun little more than a fiery smear on the horizon and the sky a deep purple over densely packed, cinnamon rooftops. Wind swept through the metal fencing that guarded the windows, swirling around the loggia, bringing a chill that made the sweat on Margo’s neck prickle like frost.
Thirty seconds. That’s how long it took for the elevator to reach the belfry, which meant she probably had less than a minute and a half—allowing for people to get off and on down below—before it returned, possibly bearing Crossbones and his gun. Steeling her nerves, she looked around. Dead center in the drafty room was a small gift shop; but just past it, behind a secured cage door, a metal staircase rose in a tight spiral to the thick shadows above.
It took three hard kicks to snap the lock, the noise explosive and dramatic, calling attention from every corner—but then she was through the door and pounding up the steps on legs weak with exertion, her three-hundred-euro escape hatch weighing her down, echoes pursuing her past the bells and up to the high ceiling.
Above the belfry and below the campanile’s jade-green spire, four brick walls formed a cube surrounded by a narrow, open-air walkway. Each of the walls bore a carved relief—the lion of St. Mark facing north and south, while Justice, with her sword and golden scales, faced east and west—and substantial floodlights, bolted to the upright balusters of a stone railing, made the figures glow fiercely against the approaching darkness.
Margo burst out into the air beneath one of the sculpted figures, chest heaving, stars just beginning to poke through the sky over the lagoon. The wind was stronger up here, colder, and she shivered violently. A lifetime had passed since she’d taken in these same views with Axel that afternoon.
The elevator had doubtless reached the ground by now, and she hurried to the south railing. Music blared in the piazzetta, the brightly lit island of Isola di San Giorgio Maggiore and the Santa Maria della Salute throwing their illuminated reflections against the inky water, and Margo crouched beside a massive floodlight that glared up at a relief of St. Mark’s lion. She breathed deep into her gut, time ticking down, making herself ready with a series of practiced moves and whispered prayers.
And then she heard it: A distant pounding, growing louder, feet slamming against metal as someone mounted the spiral staircase—Crossbones? A policeman? Rising, Margo peered over the railing, the stone plaza below rising and receding at the same time, and she blinked. Three hundred feet was a long way.
Just as the clanging stopped, a figure lurched into view around the corner, tall and bulky against a roiling, satin sky. She couldn’t see his face, or whatever tattoos he might have on his hands, but the wind sweeping between them carried the scent of the canal, and that was good enough. Saying a quick please to every deity she could remember from her World Religions class, Margo leaned into the air above the piazzetta—and dropped.
Her conversation with the guy hawking skydiving lessons in the Piazza had boiled down to three matters: Yes, the chute was real; yes, it was packed properly; and yes, she could buy it. She’d carried it into the campanile, put it on in the elevator, and then snapped the clip of the static line to one of the sturdy metal arms anchoring the floodlight to the stone balusters of the railing.
Now, for one dizzying, nauseous moment, she saw her life flash before her eyes; and then the lead line snapped taut, yanking the chute free, and the fabric snapped open to catch the hurtling updraft of air. People in the square shouted, the straps pulling fiercely against Margo’s flesh as her plunge slowed, but the ground still rose with alarming speed. Gunshots cracked like thunder, bullets ripping through the canvas of the chute and striking the stone below, drawing belated screams from passersby.
Margo struggled for control as she hurtled downward, rushing at the embankment. People scattered as another shot rang out, smashing into a granite column bearing up a statue of St. Theodore only yards from the water’s edge. Ten feet in the air—and fifteen feet from the canal—she pulled the release, dropping hard to the ground and rolling as the chute skimmed blithely on, sailing into the lagoon and drawing more gunfire.
Bruised and breathless, Margo was on her feet in a rattled instant, sprinting east—disappearing into the scattered crowds along the waterfront, drawing curious looks as she bolted for the water taxi stand at San Zaccaria, where a vaporetto was already waiting to depart. Barging through the line with gasping cries of, “Permesso! Permesso!” she tumbled onto the craft, winded and shaking.
Not until it pulled away from the dock, engines throbbing as they churned through the water toward the Arsenale and beyond, did Margo finally begin to sob—with relief, with terror, and with something that felt almost like joy.
By the time the boat reached Sant’Elena, she had regained her composure enough to make a call.
Groggy and unhappy, Axel answered on the fifth ring of her third try. “What. The. Fuck?”
“You were right.” Margo’s voice was hoarse but determined. “I’m coming back to LA. These assholes want to fight, and now so do I.”
36
Los Angeles, California
Three weeks later
The streets off Laurel Canyon twisted into the hills, a tangle of threads cast over the craggy mountainside, shockingly steep in some places and prone to blind corners. Speeding along Willow Glen, the headlamp of a matte-black Zero DSR motorcycle carved a tunnel through the stygian, late-night darkness. The rider, dressed in black leather and a gleaming helmet, watched carefully as the beam picked out trees, telephone poles, and the occasional car tucked against the downslope side of the road.
Screened by jasmine, manzanita, and cypress, with foundations well below street level, many of the grand homes were nearly invisible at night; but the rider’s GPS pinged when the bike reached a wide metal gate—behind which a pale, geodesic dome stood like a lonely igloo in the Southern California moonlight. Bringing the Zero to a stop, swinging a long leg over the seat and removing her helmet, Margo Manning shook out her champagne-blond hair and buzzed the metal call box beside the short driveway.
Since her return from Europe, she’d been staying at the villa with Davon, Georgia, and the Moreaus. When she’d escaped his grasp in Italy, Petrenko had ordered his men to resume their watch of the mansion in Malibu, and now she could only come and go from the canyon under cover of darkness, hidden in the backseat of the Challenger or rendered anonymous by helmet and leathers on Axel’s borrowed motorcycle.
It suited her fine. She had few advantages to press, and surprise was the
cheapest to come by.
A voice came through the call box speaker. “Yes?”
“It’s me,” she said, looking into the security camera mounted overhead.
There was no response, but with a buzz and a click, the gate rolled aside, and Margo steered the Zero onto the terrace. Parking the bike, she reached the dome just as its security door opened to reveal James—Reginald Castor’s hulking, broken-toothed manservant.
“Long time, no see,” Margo greeted him awkwardly. He just stared, his face stony and expressionless, and she cleared her throat. “Not long enough no see, but—”
“Did anyone follow you?” James interrupted curtly, eyes on the gate. A gentle wind stroked the hills, making leaves chatter softly, but otherwise the neighborhood was silent.
“No, and I’m insulted by the question.” Margo put some frost into her voice. “I mean, sure, the last time we met was because a bunch of mafia guys followed me, and then you guys followed me—”
“Inside,” James snapped with a short gesture. Shutting her mouth, she stepped past him and into the dome. Just beyond the doorway, a staircase plunged down into the body of the house, and Margo descended with care, watching as honeyed light touched the plush carpets, African art, and priceless antiques she remembered from her previous visit.
Castor, seated exactly where she’d seen him last, was waiting for her. A fire still danced in the hearth, opera music still floated in the air, but this time it was a bottle of sherry and two tiny glasses that sat on the tray between the two wing chairs. With a regal nod, the man gestured to the empty seat. “Margo, so nice of you to come. Did you have any trouble finding the house?”
There was a smug twinkle in his eye, which Margo graciously chose to ignore. Castor was unlisted, and he’d refused her calls for an entire week. It wasn’t until she’d managed to plant a device on his car—one she knew he’d find immediately—that he finally accepted she wasn’t going to give up.
He filled both glasses. “I hope you had a nice time in Italy. From what I hear, your exit was characteristically dramatic.”
“Everything I do is dramatic, Reginald,” she answered crisply, “including getting snatched off the street and taken against my will to hilltop mansions.”
“And here you are again, like a bad penny.” He sniffed the sherry and then slurped some into his mouth, making a rather disgusting noise as he aerated it on his tongue.
Margo narrowed her eyes as she picked up the other glass, seized with the urge to fling its contents into his face. “I feel like you’re trying to piss me off, and I don’t like it. I went to Italy because I thought it was the best way to keep myself alive, but three men tried to kill me anyway, so I came back. If I’m going to have a short life of looking over my shoulder, I’d rather live it on my own terms.”
His smirk dissolved. “Should I assume I’m being recruited to help turn the tables on your enemies?”
“I know this isn’t your fight,” Margo began restlessly, “but the information you gave me about Brand and Petrenko’s dealings is the closest thing I’ve got to a weapon right now.” The sherry was redolent of hazelnuts and citrus; dense, tangy, and sweet on her tongue. She fought the urge to fan herself. “You told me the communiqués you found were incomplete, but I’m betting there’s more. I don’t think you told me everything you knew.”
“Suppose that’s true.” The man didn’t even blink. “If I kept something from you—even after, as you say, ‘taking you against your will to my hilltop mansion’ so we could speak on the matter—why would I consider sharing it now?”
“Lots of reasons.” She’d had plenty of time to consider. “You’re former intelligence; you had a career built on stockpiling information and using it as currency.” Taking another sip of sherry, Margo tried not to groan out loud. Holy shit, it was good. “I’m a teenager, a socialite … not a great risk, on paper.”
“To be honest,” Castor said bluntly, “I assumed you’d be dead by now.”
“You don’t trust people, by occupation, and if you were planning a move of your own, there’s not a chance in hell you’d share valuable information with someone like me. You told me just enough to see what I’d do with it, and I failed the test.”
“You were grieving—”
“I’m still grieving.” She set her glass down with a click. “Addison Brand killed my father. Dad and I didn’t always get along, but I’ll move heaven and earth to see that Brand gets what’s coming to him.”
“Justice?”
“Fuck justice. I want revenge.”
“You know,” Castor said contemplatively, “if you’re trying to convince me not to see you as an impulsive risk—”
“If you had a strong move, you’d have made it.” Margo’s assessment was direct. “But you’re not as invested in this as I am. You won’t gamble what you can’t afford to lose on an uncertain hand.” She showed him her palms, fingers wiggling. “I’ve got no hand, Castor, no cards—but I’ve got nothing to lose, either.” Slugging back the rest of her sherry, she met his gaze. “So give me what you’ve got. Maybe I can use it. If I fail, you’re no worse off than you are now, and if I succeed … things improve for both of us.”
“You might have a point.” Castor crossed his legs, staring thoughtfully into the fire. “You’re right, of course. I found more than I shared—a chain of emails between Brand and Petrenko discussing how to get those guns into the hands of General Tembo’s rebels—”
“And that wasn’t enough ammo for you?” Just like that, Margo forgot she was trying to sweet-talk the man. “All this time, you’ve been sitting on clear evidence of an arms deal?”
Calmly, Castor replied, “I’ve been sitting on evidence that any good lawyer—and they would have the very best—would be able to exclude from the record with hardly any effort at all.” He shifted in his chair. “Contrary to what you might think, Margo, I’m not indifferent about this; I did endeavor to collect the proof necessary for decisive action.”
“Such as?”
“Did you know that a copy of your father’s will—his real, original will—survives?”
She sat up straight in her chair. “How? Where?”
“When your father’s attorney was killed, his files were ransacked, and everything with a capacity for electronic storage was taken from the office.” Castor poured more sherry into their glasses. “What the police have kept quiet is that, on the same night, burglars broke into Winchester’s home with an identical objective.” He pushed the glass her way, amber wine and delicate bevels catching the firelight. “Addison destroyed it all, naturally, but not before every bit of information was uploaded to his private server.”
“But why?” Margo frowned. “If the whole point was to eliminate all traces of the will, why copy it? Why save it? He could have dissolved those drives in acid or thrown them off the boat to Catalina or something!”
“You’re asking why Addison Brand would want the private files of an attorney to some of LA’s most powerful citizens?” Castor cocked a brow. “It will take the man months to itemize all the valuable secrets he now has at his fingertips.” With a shrug, he added, “In any event, he did eliminate every trace of the real will once he had the data copied over.”
“Can we stop playing rhetorical keep-away?” Margo demanded impatiently. “You said there’s still a copy of it, so tell me where!”
“On a server at Manning.” Castor’s eyes were hooded and shrewd, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Addison did his best, but email is quite tricky. Once you’ve sent a file, it’s not in your computer anymore—or in the computer of the now-deceased client who was the intended recipient.”
Margo’s mouth fell open. “You mean—”
“I mean that even by deleting Winchester’s outbox and having your father’s account scrubbed, he still didn’t wholly erase their communication. In the weeks before Harland died, he and his attorney exchanged many emails hammering out the details of his legacy.” Fingeri
ng the cuffs of his shirt, Castor smiled. “Any file sent through a Manning email address is backed up on a company server; and if you’re an ex-intelligence officer who has come to suspect something is rotten in the state of Denmark, maybe you find that server and clone its contents.”
Margo didn’t know whether to hug him or shove him through one of the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out on his pool and magnificent view. “So you have evidence of an arms deal and a tampered will … what were you waiting for? A signed confession?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes. At the risk of sounding like a broken record, the emails won’t prove that your father didn’t change his mind at the last minute. It’s still circumstantial, which isn’t good enough when the stakes are this high.”
“Damn it, I came to you for help.” Margo slammed her glass down again, hard enough to send an echo ringing through the spacious room. “You keep baiting me and then telling me what you’ve got is useless; if you can’t help me, just fucking say so!”
“My apologies,” the man said with a contrite smile. “It’s rare that I have company, and sometimes I like to make the most of it.”
“I am literally going to take this glass of delicious sherry and make you eat every last shard of it if you don’t get to the fucking point right now,” Margo said as politely as she possibly could.
“I told you I used to work counterintelligence. Well, the second the will was read and I smelled a rat, I’m afraid I decided a little espionage was called for,” the man revealed smugly. “I bugged Addison’s office, and there are recordings of him more or less admitting to having the will forged. Additionally, there is still an existing sample of the poison he used to kill Harland, secured in his office safe, along with some bearer’s bonds and assorted blackmail material.” He swirled his drink, eyes glinting. “And last, I created an echo for his email account, so every message he has sent or received since your father died has been copied to a hidden location.”
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