Her whole life had been focused on what she wanted, and how had that turned out?
Besides, she wasn’t that young. She’d already been a mother. Already held a job. Already traveled halfway around the world to perform. Already experienced more in life than many of the soldiers she performed for. Soldiers who would die at eighteen and nineteen.
And she had already lost Ansel in order to take this mission. It would be a cruel irony if she had done it for nothing because she was too cowardly and selfish to see it through.
The ticking of the clock mocked her. Time was passing. What was she going to do?
She heard footsteps in the hall. Stefano was on his way back, and with him came a return of her resolve.
Drawing a deep breath, she unfastened the rhinestone chain on the back of her dress. She had one chance to save the whole mission, and perhaps herself. Her innate sexuality had always been both a boon and a bane. She had fought it, embraced it, and been ashamed. Tonight, she would recognize her sexuality for what it was: a side of her that was neither good nor evil in and of itself.
What mattered was how she used it.
Stefano appeared in the door, his face like a thundercloud.
One thing she had learned from burlesque was that timing was everything. So she waited until his eyes were locked on her, smiled, and then let the front of her dress fall to her waist.
His stunned reaction was exactly as expected, given she wasn’t wearing a brassiere. Keeping his attention right where she wanted it, she ran her fingertips around her nipples, prompting them to tighten into small buds. Stefano slowly walked farther into the room, his gaze fastened on her breasts like a man starved. He didn’t even look away as he closed the door.
“Now that Enzo is in bed,” she said in a low, suggestive voice, “maybe you can show me where yours is?”
He blinked, and awareness filtered back into his eyes. “My son says you know his mother.”
She shrugged and slunk toward him, the fingers of her left hand making lazy tracings between her breasts. “Perhaps he saw me when I stopped by the clock shop asking about the watch.”
“Ah yes, the watch.” Suspicion darkened his tone. “I would like to know more about this watch.”
She stopped in front of him and pouted, knowing it would plump her lips provocatively. “You would rather hear about the gift to our stage director than kiss me? Perhaps I should go . . .”
She reached for the front of her dress as if to pull it up.
He stopped her. “No. Stay. You are right. We can talk later.”
“As you wish.” She swayed forward, arching her back until his hand grazed her body. His sharp intake of breath told her everything she needed to know. He wanted her. Badly. All she had to do was turn that want into blind desire and the mission was as good as finished.
She captured his hand and held it to her bare breast. “Feel how my heart beats for you?”
His answer was a soft growl.
She stepped back but didn’t release his hand. “Let’s finish our drinks, and then we can find a more comfortable place to . . . talk.”
He hesitated, and for a breathless second she thought he would refuse. Then he let her pull him back to the table. With a flirtatious smile, she picked up his glass and handed it to him. Then she picked up hers and poured as much lust and sexual promise as she could into her gaze as she raised her glass.
“Alla nostra,” she said, remembering a toast Marcie had taught her.
Stefano’s smile turned predatory as he raised his glass and tapped hers. “Sì, ‘to us.’”
Together they tossed back the contents of their glasses and then laughed.
The clock showed just over fifteen minutes left.
Vi’s fingers trembled as she put the glass back on the table. If the knockout drops didn’t work, she was in real trouble. Stefano might be close to forty or even fifty, but that didn’t mean he was harmless. He looked to be a fit man and one who likely had experience in overpowering young women.
Stefano reached out to run his finger down her spine in a long caress. She shuddered and then stiffened as his fingertip hooked on the loose fabric of her dress and began pulling it lower. “You are very beautiful, my little Vi. I would see more of you.”
She swallowed her fear and turned into his arms. “I would like that, too. But not here. Where is your room?”
“Not far.” He brushed her hair aside and kissed her neck. “Come, my little love.”
He placed his hand on the small of her back and guided her toward the door he had previously pointed out as the one leading to his private rooms.
On the way, Vi noted a pair of silver candlesticks. Would it be out of line to grab one and give him the kibosh? True, it would leave a dent in his head, but it would certainly get the job done. And a lot more quickly than those damn drops . . .
Stefano mumbled something in Italian, and his steps slowed, then faltered. Relief rushed through her veins as he swayed on his feet. Then his eyes rolled up in his head, and he dropped to the floor in a slow spiral.
Not bothering with modesty, Vi knelt beside him, her dress pooling around her waist, and began strip-searching the man. Tie, shirt, suspenders, pants, undershirt, underwear, socks . . . nothing was sacred. The sound of the clock echoed through the room, moving her ever closer to failure. Mounting frustration made her fingers clumsy, and she began to curse at herself, the stupid mission, Ansel, Stefano, anyone and anything.
Finally, she sat back on her heels, failure burning in her stomach like acid. She had found nothing that even remotely looked like a map, not even a scribbled note. Damn it all to heck and back. Major Ricca said they thought Stefano had it on him, because it wasn’t in the apartment and it wasn’t in his wallet. But what if the major was wrong?
She squeezed her eyes shut to concentrate. The courier had a map. It was taken from him. Then activity around the bunker had indicated the map was back in Italy, but by this point the information could have become verbal. But even verbal maps were likely noted somewhere. If I heard something I wanted to remember, where would I write it down?
Partisans had checked his pockets. They had checked his apartment. If it existed, it had to be on Sr. Conti’s person.
Come on, Vi, you’re running out of time.
She flipped the body and ran her gaze over his now-bare skin, looking for tattoos or any other marks. Nothing. Tucking a strand of loose hair behind her ear, she glanced back at his clothes. Her gaze landed on Stefano’s tie. It was a beautiful silk one, but the blue-and-red diamond pattern was slightly frayed along the middle edge, where it would have rubbed on a collar, meaning it had been worn often. Which would be odd, given how wealthy Sr. Conti was. He should have dozens of beautiful ties to wear. Why continue wearing this one?
Curiosity piqued, she flipped it over to look at the tag on the back. There, beneath the manufacturer’s name, were three numbers inked in, separated by letters and dashes: 2-R5-C27.
It could be nothing. It could be some kind of code. After all, Riccardo had said the gold was thought to be in a bunker with numerous tunnels and rooms. Maybe this would mean more to someone familiar with the bunker? In any case, it was all she had.
2-R5-C27.
She repeated the sequence several times aloud to embed them in her memory. Just in case.
Someone knocked on the door. Recognizing her cue, Vi pulled up her dress.
“Come in,” she called as she struggled to fasten the rhinestone chain behind her neck.
Minta came in and then closed the door behind her. “Did you find it?”
“I think so.” Vi grabbed the tie and got to her feet. “Will you take care of Sr. Conti? He needs his clothes returned.”
“Certainly. May I see?” Minta held out her hand.
Vi shook her head and started toward the door. “Stefano will wake soon, and I can’t be here when he does.”
Minta moved to block Vi’s steps, her hand still outstretched. “Please. Riccardo will
wait. He wants the map perhaps even more than I do.”
Alarm bells went off in Vi’s head. Minta seemed nervous and was holding something behind her. “I’m not giving the map to him. It’s going to Major Ricca.”
Minta pulled a gun from behind her back and leveled it at Vi. “No, I don’t believe so.”
Outrage at realizing she had been double-crossed briefly overwhelmed her terror. Of all the rotten, low-down, dirty . . . “I thought we were all on the same team! How can you do this to your friends, who have sacrificed so much already?”
“Riccardo will give the money to the partisans in the North, who live like kings compared to the people in the South.” Minta’s expression hardened as her aim steadied. Vi’s heart skipped a beat. There was no doubt in her mind that the woman meant to kill her if she didn’t cooperate.
But damn it all, she was so close to success. So close to making all her sacrifices worth it. “But the partisans in the North are the ones fighting the Nazis,” she said, hoping to reason with the woman.
“The Nazis are already defeated.” A fanatical fire glinted in Minta’s eyes. “Why use the gold for what is already decided by God? Better it is used to build schools and homes.”
Vi edged toward the door, an icy sweat starting to trickle down her back. Letting God decide was all well and good, but she wasn’t above wanting to give fate a little push. “Schools and homes are wonderful, but wouldn’t it be better to save lives? If the Nazis are truly defeated, there should be plenty left over.”
Her fingers tightened around the tie. She was almost close enough to make a break for it.
“Stop moving.” But the gun wavered in Minta’s hand, and Vi began to hope she was making headway.
“Let me go, Minta.” Vi took another small sideways step. “You know it’s better to work together than apart.”
The pain hit before she heard the explosion. It raced up her side and across her middle, like fire. Startled, Vi looked down to where a hole had been torn in the purple silk, just to the right of her stomach. Blood slowly seeped into the fabric, spreading from the wound.
Her vision began to gray as the pain intensified. Minta had actually shot her. And it hurt a lot more than she had expected.
With her only thought of getting to Riccardo, she pressed her hand against the hole to stanch the bleeding and staggered toward the door. Riccardo would help her. She wasn’t going to die.
I will survive. The thought bounced around in her brain, like an unending echo.
Her left leg collapsed under her. Another gunshot exploded. A shriek pierced the ringing in her ears as she dropped to the ground. It was as if someone had cut her leg in half with an ax.
When the shriek became sobbing, she realized the sound was coming from her. Aware she needed to conserve energy, she stopped and focused on breathing, the sound of her heart. Nausea threatened to overwhelm her. Please, God, please let Riccardo have heard the gunshots . . .
“Where is the map?” Minta shouted at her, but she sounded far away.
Vi closed her eyes, trying to focus her strength. Someone kicked her in the ribs, and the slash of pain tore a scream from her throat.
“Porca miseria! Give me the map.”
Vi tried to focus. Where was the tie? Had she dropped it? Then, with a wheezing laugh that faded into a sob, she lifted her hand and held up a blood-soaked rag. She had used the tie to stanch her wound, without thinking, and had utterly ruined it. What had been written on the tag was likely gone forever.
The room began to tilt sickeningly as the pain in her side spiked. She gasped, her thoughts turning fuzzy as the room darkened.
The tie was torn from her fingers. A heartbeat pulsed in her ears. Was that a child weeping? Her eyelids felt too heavy to lift. Another dull pulse, and she thought she heard Ansel calling to her, telling her to hang on. But that couldn’t be right.
Because Ansel was gone, and she was . . . well, dead.
Chapter 35
The tie. Vi awoke with a start, her fingers clutching air. She blinked as a hint of a breeze teased her exposed skin. Yellow leaves from an enormous tree drifted down around her. A dream, then. She had been dreaming again.
Except, as was frequently the case of late, it had been more of a nightmare.
She drew a deep breath and felt her heart slow. The crisp, clean taste of the late fall air lingered on her tongue. She closed her eyes as the awful stench of burned gunpowder and the coppery smell of blood faded back into mere memory. Gone, too, was the harsh tang of carbolic soap and medicinal alcohol that had encased her world for the last month. Maybe longer. Time meant little to her these days. To keep count would mean remembering the day she had lost everything but her life.
No, not everything. She hadn’t lost her integrity. Her reputation was gone, yes, along with her spot in the USO, and her dreams of Broadway. But those things, when weighed against honor, patriotism, friendship, and love, were truly inconsequential. If given the chance to help Ansel and Major Ricca again, even knowing what the cost would be, she knew she would make the same choice.
Some things were just worth it.
A nurse leaned over Vi’s wheeled chair to adjust the blanket over her leg cast and exposed toes. Vi appreciated the gesture and hoped that meant she could stay out here in the courtyard longer, dozing . . . able to pretend she wasn’t still a patient in a hospital in Rome.
Tentatively, she wiggled her toes beneath the blanket, or tried to. There was a slight twitch of her big toe, but otherwise the fabric didn’t move. A familiar despair stole over her. When she had first awakened from the anesthesia, the surgeon had warned her not to expect a fast recovery. The bullet in her side hadn’t hit anything vital, but the one in her leg? He’d shaken his head sadly. Her left femur had been shattered, the bone fragments nearly severing the femoral nerve. He had pinned everything back together, but there were no guarantees.
She gritted her teeth. The surgeon was wrong. Her leg would get better, and she would not only walk but dance again. To think otherwise would be too much.
She already had enough tragedy weighing her down.
Chin up! You’ll survive . . .
But would Marcie and the rest of her friends? The not knowing was driving her mad. That she was unable to finish the tour at Marce’s side was one of her biggest regrets. But what could she do? Her damaged leg and being kicked out of the USO for “behavioral misconduct” had taken that decision right out of her hands. Not even Papa Maggio could expect her to overcome those hurdles.
No, it was the loss of Marcie’s company that dimmed her spirits. She missed her travel buddy. Somewhere along the line the girl had become dear to Vi, and her safety had become personal, not just a means to return to Chicago.
All she could do was hope that Marcie had grown up enough to keep herself out of trouble from now on. Still, if only Vi could get some news, some reassurance that her friends were all okay. But there had been no visits, no calls, no letters. She didn’t even know if Ansel had returned to his unit all right.
It was as if her disgrace had rendered her forgotten, and it hurt. A lot.
The nurse patted Vi’s hand. “You have a visitor, Miss Heart.”
Vi didn’t bother opening her eyes. Likely it was another Red Cross volunteer, hoping to cheer her up.
“Hello, Miss Heart.” A cultured, feminine voice broke into Vi’s thoughts. “Though perhaps I should use your real name?”
Startled, Vi opened her eyes.
A woman in her midthirties, with shrewd, dark eyes and glossy, black hair styled in waves around her face, surveyed her with a detached air. She extended her hand and smiled slightly. “I’m Darla. I’ve come to discuss your recent adventure, if you won’t find it too taxing.”
“Are you with the USO?” Vi reached out and shook the woman’s slender, fine-boned hand. The woman’s grip was firm, professional. “If so, there’s nothing more to discuss. I’ve already been told that I’m to be kicked out due to misconduct.”
&n
bsp; The words made her flinch every time she uttered them. Another unfortunate result of the mission she needed to get used to.
“Yes, I know.” Darla turned to the nurse. “I’ll take over from here. And I promise we’ll only go for a short spin around the gardens. Nothing too exuberant.”
The nurse’s brow furrowed. “I’m not supposed to leave patients alone when they’re outside.”
“I’ll take care of her as if she were my own sister,” Darla assured the woman, gently edging the nurse away and taking hold of the wheelchair handles. “If it makes you feel better, you may remain here and watch.”
Vi stiffened as Darla started to wheel her away. “Wait. What if I don’t want to go with you?”
It was one thing to be around strangers while helpless in her wheelchair as long as the nurse was present. It was quite another to be whisked away by someone she’d never met, unable to even sit properly because of the rigid cast around her pelvis and leg.
“Don’t be a baby,” Darla said as the chair began to move. “You’ll be fine. And besides,” she continued in a low voice when the nurse was left behind, fidgeting like a nervous hen, “Major Ricca gave his word to Miss Daldakis that we would take good care of you. She was quite adamant on that point.”
Vi’s heart skipped a beat. “Sue doesn’t hate me?”
“No. We had to explain your involvement to her, to keep her from contacting the police. Seems she had something of a riot on her hands when the cast learned you were shot inside Sr. Conti’s apartment and that no one was investigating the crime. I believe the words ‘kidnapped’ and ‘conspiracy’ were being tossed around. Major Ricca, naturally, became alarmed by the stink your friends were raising, especially as Sr. Conti was threatening to retaliate by formally complaining to the Allied commanders about the blood you got on his expensive carpet.”
“You’re kidding me.” Vi laughed bitterly. “I nearly lose my leg, thanks to his duplicity, and he’s upset because I stained his rug?”
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