Luca gripped with his legs and grabbed fistfuls of dark mane. A dog barked somewhere nearby. The horse got even more agitated. It worked itself into a frenzy of panic, prancing and neighing. Luca held on with all his strength, trying to bring the horse back under control.
Suddenly, there was a man in front of him. The horse bucked and reared, pawing the air, rising up. Luca fell to the ground with a thud, smashing his shoulder painfully. Now the horse was standing over him. He looked up at the underbelly of the thousand-pound animal as the hoofs danced close to his head.
As Luca lay on the ground, Mondragone cowered from the rearing horse, his hands up as if to keep it away. He had no experience with animals, having been raised in the streets of Naples. This charging beast looked enormous and wild.
The horse was in distress, bucking and rearing in the bewildering fog. The rider lost his grip and slid off to the ground, lying there for a moment, in great danger of being crushed under the hoofs. But then the horse reared up and galloped away down the lane.
Mondragone turned back to the elm trees. In that short moment, while he had been avoiding the horse, the girl with the rifle had fled. The spot where she had lain was outlined by ash.
Mondragone shouted in frustration. He couldn’t allow any witnesses. Now he had to go back to the house and find her. And there was also the boy on the ground. He would have to be eliminated, too. It was a teenage boy—dark hair, eyes enormous, cursing in fluent Italian.
Luca saw the man approach wearing green Cliffmere overalls and signaled for him to help.
“I lost the horse,” he said. “Something scared it.”
“It was the mist,” Mondragone said, fingering the pistol in his pocket. “Are you OK? Let me walk you back to the house.”
“Who are you?” Luca asked.
“Oh, I work here,” Mondragone said. “I’m Sal.”
“I’m Luca Brindisi,” Luca smiled at him. “Thanks for the help.”
“Luca Brindisi?” Mondragone asked, smiling pleasantly. “Isn’t your mother here on the estate also?”
“Yeah,” Luca said. “But please don’t tell her what happened with the horse. If she finds out, she’ll absolutely kill me.”
Victoria ran back to the house, sobbing. She had killed the man, and now she had to warn everyone. Running across the drive, her knees trembled. She almost slipped on the gravel.
The baby! She had to be careful. Slowing her pace, she climbed the steps to the front door. There was no bell, and the latch was locked. She banged on the solid oak with the flat of her hand.
“Let me in. Please!”
CLIFFMERE LIBRARY
Jude tucked another blanket around Charles. He was getting weaker by the moment. Cordelia sat by his side, holding his hand, talking softly, but his responses were faint.
Marian had arrived and was making every effort to reassure Clothilde that her brother would live. The girl was frantic, sobbing uncontrollably. Cordelia was also fighting tears, grasping Charles’s hand and begging him to hold on a bit longer.
Jude paced, tortured by the women’s grief. There was no sound of activity outside the house. It was clear the police were not coming. With nothing to occupy his time, he made another very insistent call to the local precinct and another to Scotland Yard. No promises were made. Apparently, Chief Inspector Fenton was not able to travel from London. The highways were clogged with traffic accidents.
This was going from bad to worse. Charles was bleeding to death. Victoria was still missing, Sinclair had not returned from his search, and Luca was still out on his horse. Too many people were still at risk.
Suddenly, he heard a thumping at the front hall. He sprinted out of the library to investigate. At the front door a female voice was yelling, muffled by the thick wood. Jude unbolted the latch and yanked it open.
Victoria was standing on the doorsill, covered in ash. She was holding a rifle, her face streaked with tears.
Charles felt his life draining away. Cordelia was talking to him, squeezing his hand, telling him all about Capri and Victoria, tears flowing down her face. He knew what she was doing. Trying to keep him conscious and alive.
He desperately wanted to live. There was Victoria and the baby. His mother and Clothilde. Cordelia and Sinclair. So many people to love.
He wanted to try. It was just that he was so cold. He’d read somewhere just how much blood you could lose before you died. It was quite a lot, but the blanket around him was soaked now, and time was running out.
He heard a noise and saw Jude walking into the library with his arm around Victoria. She was a real mess: her clothes caked in mud, her hair coated by ash. But she looked alive and well. Unconsciously he glanced at her waist. It was impossible to tell yet.
She was talking to Jude, but when she entered the room, she called out to Charles and raced to his side. He was too weak to speak, but he smiled as best he could. Cordelia stood up to make room for Victoria on the couch and gently relinquished his limp hand.
“I shot him,” she said woodenly.
“Him?”
“One of the Camorra.”
“You did?” he whispered, astonished.
“Yes, his body is lying in the driveway.” Victoria started to cry, her forehead wrinkling, mouth trembling. Big tears rolled down her cheeks, making tracks through the dust.
“Oh my God! I killed him,” she sobbed.
Cordelia knelt down to speak to her. “Was it Mondragone?”
She shook her head, trying to speak.
“No … an accomplice … Mondragone got away. I feel just awful. He was lying there … his head …”
She started to weep again, bending over in anguish. Cordelia patted her back.
“Don’t cry, Victoria. You did what was necessary to protect everyone. It was very brave.”
She sobbed even harder, wiping her eyes, her face blotchy from crying.
“I can’t believe I killed him.”
“V, don’t,” Charles soothed. “It’s over now.”
“But Charles it was horrible. I shot him in the head. You have no idea.”
Cordelia looked at her soberly.
“I know exactly what you are going through, Victoria. I just killed someone in the fountain out back.”
Victoria looked up, eyelashes wet.
“You did?”
“I had to. He was going to drown me.”
Jude stood over them, bewildered.
“How many of them are there!” he exclaimed. “Cordelia, lock this door when I leave! I have to go out and find Sinclair and Luca.”
Sinclair heard the galloping hooves coming at him from out of the mist. A rider-less horse was charging, its nostrils flared, eyes rolled white in terror. There was only a second to react and fling himself out of the way.
This was the horse that Luca had been riding. The saddle was still on, stirrups dangling. Luca must have been thrown. Sinclair started down the lane again. The line of tree trunks stood like sentries, and everything was quiet. The ashfall had created whiteout conditions, and he could only see a few feet ahead. Through the gloom he saw two figures, a man and a tall slim boy.
His heart stopped in terror.
Luca Brindisi was walking along, chatting merrily to Salvatore Mondragone.
Sinclair stepped behind a tree, almost certain no one had seen him. Mondragone strolled along with the boy, listening to his prattle, nodding from time to time. Suddenly the mobster bent down as if to tie his shoe. Luca continued a few steps ahead, then waited for the man. Sinclair could see Mondragone’s hand reach slowly for his pocket.
Sinclair didn’t wait. He lurched out of the trees and tackled Mondragone, sending him sprawling. His pistol clattered to the dirt, as Sinclair put his hands around the massive neck and squeezed. Enormously strong, Mondragone hurled him off easily and stood up. They were very unevenly matched when it came to physical strength.
Sinclair lurched at him again, catching him in the chest with his shoulder, bringing him do
wn. They locked together in a wrestling match on the ground, muscle against muscle.
Sinclair had never engaged in any close combat before; all his battles had been in the fencing lane, governed by rules. This was a primitive fight: elbows and knees, fingers gouging, teeth grinding, each trying to get an advantage.
In some kind of buried memory, Sinclair recalled the marble carvings of gladiators straining against one another in the coliseum. Taking that image as a cue, he locked his arms around Mondragone to imprison him, and then went by instinct. They rolled and grappled, sweating and groaning.
Sinclair realized he was outmatched. The man was an animal, his face contorted by rage. This thug had spent his childhood fighting in the streets of Naples. Cyclops had survived all these years by brute force. He was not going to lose now. Not when his life was at stake.
Jude ran down the line of elms looking frantically for the others. The familiar scent of sulfur caught him in the back of his throat, but he ignored it. For him, conditions like this were normal, and the stench of volcanic ash didn’t bother him.
Up ahead in the mist, he saw two men grappling on the ground.
Before he could react, he was caught around the waist. Someone was clinging to him, crying out in terror.
“Mr. Blackwell, help!”
Jude peeled Luca’s arms away from his waist and took him by the shoulders.
“Luca! Run back to the house. Now! Go to the library and stay there!”
As the boy set off, Jude approached the combatants. Sinclair was pinned into the earth, struggling for his life. Mondragone was on him like a wild beast, his thumb reaching out to gouge an eye.
Jude grabbed the man by the shoulders and tore him off. Mondragone fell, skidding along the ground. Sinclair leapt up, recognized Jude, and together they advanced toward Cyclops.
Mondragone was on his feet again, feet planted wide, waiting to take them on. His face was mottled with exertion, and the large powerful arms were spread wide, ready to swing. Sinclair saw the glint of a stiletto knife in his hand.
“I’ll go low,” Jude said.
“I’ll get the knife,” Sinclair murmured.
Sinclair flung himself forward and grabbed for Mondragone’s right arm. Jude tackled the knees. The blade sliced at Jude, grazing him on the forearm, and Jude rolled away. Sinclair seized Mondragone’s wrist, twisting it savagely, but the gangster held on to the knife, flailing and thrashing to shake him off. Mondragone’s foot lashed out, and he kicked Jude in the head, knocking him down in the dirt.
Sinclair kept hold of the knife, forcing it up above their heads. He was taller than Mondragone by about four inches, and that gave him some advantage. But the other man was much stronger. They stood locked together, scuffling, every sinew straining. Mondragone’s sweaty face was inches from his, grunting with effort.
“Va al diavolo!” the gangster cursed, wishing Sinclair to hell, and began to forcefully pull the blade lower. Sinclair resisted fiercely, calling up every ounce of strength. But slowly the knife moved toward his face. The sharp tip came closer and closer. A thrust to the eye would be all it would take.
Sinclair strained as he pulled on Mondragone’s arm, but it was as unmovable as steel. He was nearly out of strength. This man was a brute.
He desperately needed help. Jude was near, but Sinclair couldn’t take his concentration off the knife. Suddenly, he felt Mondragone buckle and fall sideways. Sinclair turned. Jude was kicking straight into Mondragone’s leg, with the precise jab of a martial arts expert. There was an audible crunch as the ankle splintered. Mondragone collapsed and went down, loosening his grip.
Sinclair wrestled the blade out of Mondragone’s hand and pounced on him. Mondragone was now flat on his back, Sinclair straddling his body. For a split second Sinclair hesitated, the knife poised. This monster deserved to die. But how could he do something so savage?
Sinclair gritted his teeth and then drove the knife sharply into Mondragone’s neck with one clean thrust all the way up to the hilt. He forced it down and rooted the blade around in the thick neck until he was sure he had pierced the jugular. Mondragone let out the roar of a wounded lion. His eyes went wild with anger. His rage was savage, primitive. He bucked like a wild horse, trying to throw Sinclair off of him. But the damage was done.
Sinclair pulled the blade out, then stood up and tossed it away. Mondragone was on the ground, mortally wounded. Blood flowed slowly and then spurted out of his neck like a drinking fountain, the crimson stream pumping high with each heartbeat. Horrified and revolted, Sinclair stood there, his chest heaving.
Mondragone struggled to get up, but then fell back weakly, propping himself up on one elbow, still not willing to concede that he had suffered a deathblow. Now blood was pouring out of the gash in his neck in a steady rush, forming a lake on the ground. He opened his mouth to curse, but his throat was filled with blood. He gargled, choked, and spat, but the blood kept coming.
Jude came over to stand with Sinclair.
“Are you OK?” Sinclair asked.
“Yeah, fine,” Jude said, nursing the cut on his forearm.
They waited silently, side-by-side, watching the beast die. Mondragone stared at them with dark hatred. Finally his eyes dimmed and his body went limp. He fell back on the ground. All life had left him.
In death, his face was vulgar and lumpy, the eyes half open, the mouth still parted as if to hurl a final curse. All veneer of sophistication was gone. This was a dead animal.
Sinclair spoke, his voice raspy from inhaling the tainted air.
“I know there was no real choice. But it’s still hard to kill a man.”
“With evil like that, the only option is to try to stop it,” Jude agreed. “We did what we had to do.”
Sinclair turned to him. “Thank you. I needed to hear that.”
Through the fog, a red-and-blue strobe light moved steadily closer. An emergency vehicle had entered the long drive and was coming toward them—finally taking shape. It was an ambulance. Sinclair and Jude watched it approach.
The tires of the vehicle pulled right up alongside the corpse on the roadway. A window rolled down, but before the paramedic could speak, Sinclair pointed toward the house.
“Keep going. Your patient is in the library. This one is gone.”
AUGUST, ONE YEAR LATER RUE DE VAUGIRARD, PARIS
Rock music blared in the fourth-floor photo studio, and a young Russian model swirled with the grace of a ballerina. The drapery of a red chiffon dress wafted in the breeze created by a floor fan.
“That looks great,” Clothilde observed from the back of the studio.
“I think we can do better,” Jude said.
Leaving his camera, he walked toward the girl and adjusted the angle of the fan, turning her thirty degrees away from the blast. The pure silk chiffon rippled in the breeze.
“This dress, it reminds me of the color of molten lava,” Clothilde told him.
“It’s beautiful,” Jude agreed.
“I think it would look great on Victoria. She needs a new wardrobe again.”
Jude surveyed the model, finally satisfied.
“That should be better,” he mumbled.
Clothilde laughed. “You are so picky about every little thing. And to think you used to photograph volcanoes blowing up.”
Jude walked back to the camera and bent down to refocus the shot.
He spoke to Clothilde without taking his eye away from the viewfinder.
“Volcanoes don’t blow up, my love. They erupt.”
VILLA SAN ANGELO, ANACAPRI
The housekeeper, Mrs. Jaccorsi, came out on the terrace at the Villa San Angelo carrying four glasses of iced tea with fresh mint. She walked slowly and set the tray down on the patio table in between the two lounge chairs.
It was lovely working for Mr. Bonnard. She was here in Capri during the summer as she had always been. But now she could spend the winter in Naples, living with her son. Detective Jaccorsi had been promoted and now
had a safe desk job with the Guardia di Finanza, relieved to no longer be a target for the Camorra.
She looked around the terrace to see if the guests needed something more.
Charles and Princess Victoria were in the pool holding Princess Sophie, dipping the baby’s toes in the water to make her laugh. They were such a lovely couple—so happy and beautiful.
This was a house of great blessings and always had been. And that child was a gift from heaven; the Villa San Angelo had finally found its little angel.
There was a solid knock on the outside door. Mrs. Jaccorsi turned and went to answer. When she opened it, Sinclair and Cordelia stood in the sunlight, with Luca Brindisi behind them. The boy shoved past Cordelia and hugged Mrs. Jaccorsi, letting loose a stream of endearments in Italian.
She stepped back, eyes shining with tears. He had grown so much during the past year in London and had put on some weight. His mother should see him now; he was so healthy and strong and turning out just like her—a beautiful Brindisi. She crossed herself and kissed his hair, calling on all her saints to protect him.
LATE AFTERNOON VILLA SAN ANGELO
Cordelia and Victoria were stretched out on the terrace in lounge chairs. Princess Sophie was in her bassinet taking a nap. The conversation between the two women was intimate and friendly.
Victoria was going on about her new foundation to promote sustainable farming techniques. She was hoping to develop organic farms in extreme climates in northern Norway.
Cordelia had her mind on more immediate matters. She and Sinclair would be married at the Cliffmere estate next month.
Sinclair and Charles were not listening to the conversation. They stood at the balustrade of the terrace, looking out at the Bay of Naples. The water was bright cerulean blue. It was a pleasantly cool afternoon. Everyone agreed that the ashfall from last year had lowered median temperatures by at least a couple of degrees.
Sinclair took a small gold ring out of his pocket and looked at it.
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