by Monica Burns
A sickening feeling clutched at her gut as images of those happy faces danced through her head. Her throat tightened at the thought of Isabella. Deus, she’d been a tiny little thing. So small and beautiful—no, she wasn’t going to do this. Not now.
“I was acquitted,” the man gasped. “I did nothing wrong.”
“You were acquitted because of missing evidence.”
As the precinct’s chief arson investigator, Salvatore had been the first officer called to the scene of the fire. He’d found evidence linking Angotti to the crime, but the Praetorians weren’t about to let one of their biggest henchmen go down. They’d helped the slimy bastardo wiggle his way out of a conviction by stealing evidence. As a member of the Vigilavi, Salvatore had informed the Order of the man’s acquittal and asked for justice. Her friend was going to get his wish.
With the tip of her blade ready to puncture Angotti’s neck, she reached into the pocket of her leather jacket. Her hand gripped the plastic sleeve containing two black-and-white photographs and a slip of paper. Cleo dropped the plastic-encased evidence down on the ground in front of the man.
“See those? That’s you in those pictures. You and Romano,” Cleo said as a deadly calm settled over her. “The man cut a deal and pointed you out in the trial, but it was his word against yours without these pictures.”
“The photos are fake. You can do anything with software these days.” Panic echoed in the man’s voice.
“You’re right. The photos are fake. But the information on that piece of paper is the real deal.”
“Re . . . receipts?”
“There are two transactions detailed on that piece of paper. One is the money in Romano’s bank account that the police couldn’t trace back to its source. The other transaction details are for a wire transfer from your bank account in the Cayman Islands directly into Romano’s account. The monies match up exactly and are dated the day after the fire.”
“How did you . . . ? You can’t trace that sort of thing.”
“But I did.”
“All right, I paid Romano to burn the building. But I didn’t tell him to do it when there were people inside, the stupid prick,” Angotti snapped. His cockiness was back. She glanced toward one end of the alley and then the other. Nothing moved in the shadows.
“Five innocent children died in that fire.” Cleo tugged the man’s head back so he could look up at her. “You have children, don’t you, Angotti?”
“Yes.” The man’s eyes widened with horror. “My God, don’t hurt them. Don’t hurt my bambinos.”
“Don’t insult me, you bastardo.” Cleo released a harsh breath of disgust. Deus, she so didn’t want to ask the Rogare Donavi of this sorry son of a bitch. “Now, unfortunately, I must ask your forgiveness.”
“I don’t understand.” His fear was back.
“You are to be executed for the murders of five innocent children. As your executioner, I seek your forgiveness.”
“You can’t!” Angotti’s voice grew louder as he screamed in terror.
“I didn’t think you’d forgive me,” Cleo said harshly.
The man’s scream ended on an abrupt high note as she slit his throat. The second Angotti slumped to the ground she heard a grunt behind her. She whirled around to see first one and then another man drop from the roof of the three-story building she’d rappelled from earlier. Praetorians. Didn’t these guys ever go off duty? Behind her, the sound of running feet said Angotti’s bodyguards were heading toward her. Damnit, even if she’d been a coward and wanted to run, there wasn’t anywhere to go.
“Do you really think we’re going to let you run, Unmentionable?” one of the Praetorians sneered.
The comment infuriated her, but she quickly suppressed her anger as she remembered Mario’s words of wisdom last week. She could kick these bastardi to Tartarus and back as long as she kept her cool. She could feel the Praetorians’ thoughts pounding against the mental shield she’d erected as she watched the two of them slowly advancing toward her. At least they weren’t as big as some she’d fought in the past.
Behind her, the racing footsteps slowed, and she darted a quick glance backward in time to see a burly arm reaching out to grab her shoulder. In a move that was second nature to her, she turned and caught the man’s arm under hers and drove her stiletto into the back of his neck. The man went rigid and didn’t make a sound. The minute she released him, he dropped to the filthy street like a large sack of flour.
One down, three to go. A laugh from one of the Praetorians behind her made her roll her eyes. Fine, let them think she couldn’t take them out. She quickly deflected the second bodyguard’s punch and slammed her hand into his throat, crushing his trachea. The man crashed to the ground clutching at his neck as his air supply slowly vanished. Cleo ignored him and turned to face the Praetorians.
“Okay, boys. How do you want to do this?” She glared at the two men in front of her.
“You do realize, Unmentionable, that we’re not going to kill you.” Just the way the Praetorian said the words made Cleo stiffen.
“Well, you’d be a fool not to, because you can’t breed me.” She didn’t hide her bitterness.
“But think of the pleasure you’ll bring the Praetorian who tries.”
“No, you stupid asshole, I can’t have children.” Saying the words out loud made her body hurt as though she’d been sliced open again. Without realizing it, her hand reached for the spot where a Praetorian blade had skewered her three years ago. The Praetorian closest to her chuckled.
“Then I’ll finish what one of my brothers failed to do the night he sliced you open.”
The man’s amusement made Cleo clench her teeth with fury. She’d let her mental shield slip, allowing the bastardo to know what she was thinking. She couldn’t afford that kind of mistake or she’d wind up dead. Rolling her shoulders in an effort to loosen up her suddenly tight muscles, she sent the gloating Praetorian a cold look.
“For someone who keeps telling me what he’s going to do, I don’t see you doing much of anything,” she drawled with more than a hint of sarcasm.
With a dark look of anger on his face, the Praetorian drew his sword in a flash of movement and lunged toward her. His friend followed close behind. Cleo visualized a defensive move to use on the Praetorian, which made him laugh.
“Your mind is easy to read, bitch.” The Praetorian’s confident laughter died away as Cleo used her palm to push the man’s sword arm upward while driving her fist into the fighter’s groin.
“It’s always easy to read my mind when I want someone to, you dumb fuck.” As the Praetorian sank to his knees, she jerked her own knee upward into his face. “They really need to train you assholes better. That was a rookie move.”
Despite his obvious pain, the Praetorian’s large hand suddenly wrapped around her calf and jerked her off her feet. She hit the ground hard, the air sailing out of her lungs as her back slammed into the cobblestone pavement. Christus, that move had come from out of nowhere. The sooner she dealt with this asshole, the better.
Her gaze met that of the Praetorian who was still on his knees beside her. The fighter’s expression was one of cold calculation, and she saw him raise his sword upward in preparation to drive it through her. She didn’t think. She simply reacted. Shooting upright, she slammed her forearm into the side of the Praetorian’s face. The man’s cheekbone snapped loudly beneath the blow.
Nerve endings in her forearm triggered pain sensors in her head from the blow she’d landed on the Praetorian’s cheek, and as his grip on her leg eased up, she jerked free of his hold. A shadow billowed over her, and she saw the second Praetorian with his sword poised to plummet its way down into her chest.
She immediately rolled away and heard the sword clang against stone where she’d been just seconds ago. She was on her feet in a flash, and as the Praetorian rushed her, she planted a hard kick into her attacker’s knee. A loud pop echoed in the alley as the man staggered to one side. The first Pra
etorian was coming to his feet, and in two quick steps she was standing behind him with the tip of her blade against the back of his neck.
“I ask your forgiveness, Praetorian,” she said.
She wasn’t really sure why she asked. The Order didn’t require the Rogare Donavi when killing a Praetorian. The fighter growled, but she didn’t hesitate before she jammed the stiletto into the man’s neck. The death rattle in his throat said he’d be dead in seconds, which left only one Praetorian. She tugged her blade free and turned to face her last opponent.
The remaining fighter was limping but definitely still in the game. The Praetorian feinted to the right, and she easily countered as his sword came at her from the left. When his blade followed through and swung back again, she didn’t see the fighter’s foot kicking outward. The blow to her knee threw her off balance, and she stumbled. Although her recovery was quick, her slight hesitation was enough for the Praetorian to strike. As the blade sliced into the back of her calf, she fell to the ground with a sharp cry.
“Fuck. Sweet Vesta. Mother of Juno,” she rasped at the pain knifing through her leg.
“That, Unmentionable, was for my brother.”
Fire streaked its way up Cleo’s side as she struggled to her feet. She needed to be standing to fight this bastardo. Knuckles scraping against the rough stone alleyway, she grunted with pain as she stood upright with all of her weight on her good leg. The movement only increased the amount of nausea washing over her.
Deus, she hurt. The Praetorian’s lips curled back in a feral smile of triumph as he moved toward her. The son of a bitch was already planning her demise. And if she didn’t do something quick, the man would succeed. The problem was, all she wanted to do was sit down and put her head between her legs, if only to make the nausea go away. Not a good idea with a Praetorian ready to take her out.
Cleo’s hand tightened on the hilt of her stiletto. All she had to do was get in close. She hopped to one side, dragging her injured leg with her in an effort to prepare herself for his attack. The Praetorian charged her, his sword straight out in front of him with the clear intent to run her through. At the last second, she twisted her hips sharply and arched her back so her upper body was parallel with the Praetorian’s sword.
Despite her defensive move, the blade still managed to cut through her shirt and into the flesh of one breast. Once more, fire seared her skin, but it didn’t stop her from trying to slash the man’s throat. She missed, and her stiletto cut into the Praetorian’s shoulder instead.
The man’s snarl of pain didn’t make her feel any better. He was still alive. Cleo hopped around to face her attacker only to see the Praetorian’s blade flashing her way. Self-preservation forced her to launch herself backward to avoid the sword. She stumbled in the process and found herself on the ground one more time.
“I’m going to enjoy killing you, whore.” A cruel smile curving his lips, the Praetorian moved forward to viciously cut into the flesh of her upper arm.
Cleo cried out in pain. Her vision blurred for a moment as the nausea she’d barely had under control renewed its harsh assault. She was out of options. Focus. If she wanted to live, she needed to focus. She forced herself to shut out everything but her determination to kill the man in front of her. He chuckled as she envisioned hitting his brachia and crushing it.
The image she projected didn’t prepare him for the stiletto that whistled through the air and slammed into his throat. The Praetorian stood there for several seconds before he toppled forward in slow motion. Cleo didn’t wait for him to land on top of her. She forced herself to ignore the nausea and pain as she rolled away from the spot where the Praetorian eventually landed.
She lay still for a long moment, staring up at the sky. With all the city lights illuminating the night, it was impossible to see anything but the brightest stars. Suddenly she longed to be in a lounge chair looking out at the sea at Palazzo al Mare, the Order’s stronghold just south of Genova. She closed her eyes, trying hard to muster up the strength to get to her feet.
Violetta. She needed to get to Violetta. The woman’s abilities weren’t very strong, but Violetta could at least heal her leg wound. The cuts on her breast and arm could be stitched up. Cleo threw herself up into a sitting position with an agonized grunt. Jupiter’s Stone, she hadn’t hurt this bad in a long time. This is what she got for going out without a partner. She dismissed the thought.
The risk had been worth it. When she added the information Angotti had given her to the other knowledge she had about the convent, it reinforced her belief that she could rescue Marta. There were still a few pieces of the puzzle missing, but a year’s worth of investigative work had just paid off in a big way. Well worth her injuries tonight. An alarm suddenly went off in her head, breaking through her self-congratulatory thoughts.
It wasn’t a noise that threw her senses on alert. It was something else. A powerful frisson that scraped across her neck with unbelievable speed. Without thought, she launched herself toward the dead Praetorian in an effort to reach her stiletto. She wasn’t fast enough.
The dark shadow that brushed past her tugged a cry of surprise from her lips, and she watched as the large figure knelt to pull her blade from the dead man’s throat. Goddamnit. After all that effort, her life was forfeit. There wasn’t anywhere to run, and she didn’t have the strength to do so.
Resigned to her fate, Cleo clenched her jaw. She didn’t like to admit it, but she was afraid. She particularly didn’t like the way this stranger was toying with her. Praetorians were never silent. They liked to taunt their prey. This silence was making her damned uncomfortable. She watched as a gloved hand used the Praetorian’s shirt to wipe the blood off the stiletto.
“Well, what the fuck are you waiting for? Just get it over with,” Cleo snapped.
“I believe this is yours.”
The deep richness of his voice had an immediate impact on her senses. It made her body tighten with awareness, which exacerbated the stress on her wounds, and she drew in a sharp breath as her nerve endings pounded a new message to her brain.
The stiletto clean, the shadowy figure flipped it so the hilt pointed in her direction and offered it to her. She didn’t hesitate to take the weapon and kept it pointed in the stranger’s direction. He didn’t move from the side of the Praetorian she’d killed moments ago. Although she couldn’t see his face behind the darkness of the hooded cloak he wore, she was certain he was studying her. She eyed him warily.
He was dressed in the same manner as the Sicari Lord and the Praetorian Dominus who’d fought each other in the Pantheon when Lysander had led them to the Tyet of Isis. The long flowing hooded cape he wore was so reminiscent of assassins from medieval times. The problem was Sicari Lords and Praetorian Dominuses looked the same to her.
And just because he’d not killed her yet wasn’t necessarily something to bet on at this point. The bastardo hadn’t said he was Sicari. Although the return of her stiletto was a good sign, but then again, Praetorians enjoyed their work. They’d find it amusing to make their prey think they had a chance. She waited for that odd sensation of someone probing her mind, but nothing happened.
“Who are you?” she rasped, almost afraid to hear his answer.
He didn’t respond. Instead, he moved to examine the men lying dead all around her. There was a lethal, masculine elegance in his movements that sent a tingling vibration across her skin unlike anything she’d ever experienced before. She didn’t want to enjoy the sensation, but she did. She liked it a lot. Fuck, what in Jupiter’s name was wrong with her?
But when he reached Angotti’s body, the quiet sound of fury he released made her uneasy enough to forget her nausea. He didn’t move. He just stood there staring down at the dead man, and for the second time that night she experienced fear.
Chapter 4
DANTE stared down at Angotti’s limp form with an anger he’d not experienced in a long time. Four months’ work tracking the son of a bitch only to see it all w
ashed away in one stroke of Cleopatra Vorenus’s hand. He released an expletive of fury and immediately regretted his loss of control. What was done was done. If there was anything he’d learned in his progression through the nine levels of the Novem Conformavi it was that true power lay in the ability to let go of that which one couldn’t control.
He closed his eyes for a brief second. It was one of the core values of the ancient philosophy and a basic lesson he’d learned early. But there were times when he still sought to master the teaching. This was one of those moments. He’d passed the second and fifth Tabulati of the Novem Conformavi years ago, but at the moment, control and tranquility seemed just out of reach.
He stared down at the dead man. If he’d gotten here fifteen minutes sooner, he would have gotten the information for developing a reasonable plan to rescue Beatrice. He suppressed a sigh. Pointless to dwell on what might have been. Angotti was dead, and with him the key to the Convent of the Sacred Mother. It wasn’t Vorenus’s fault he’d gotten here too late. She’d just been doing her job. And she’d gotten hurt in the process. He’d just have to find another information source, despite the fact that it meant more delays.
Dante clenched his jaw then grew still as his gaze swept the scene. Where was her partner? Jupiter’s Stone. The woman had come here alone. Why? Rome was one of the most dangerous places in the world for a Sicari. It was why the Order had a strict rule that Sicari were to travel in pairs while in the city. Cleopatra had deliberately broken that edict. In the distance, he heard the sound of a siren. It might not be headed this way, but it was best not to wait and find out.
“Cornelia, there’s a mess here,” he murmured into the surveillance mike he wore. “Our guest ran into more than just Angotti’s bodyguards. Have Vincenzo and Lucius clean it up before company arrives.”
“Yes, Tribune.” Despite the quiet respect in the woman’s voice, he could still hear the question.