In For the Kill

by Shannon McKenna

  Hazlett came out to greet her, too. She suffered through the ritual, being kissed on both cheeks, her beauty exclaimed over, blah blah blah. Her smile felt stiff, aching. Stapled on.

  “You look pale, Svetlana.” Hazlett cut into Renato’s rhapsodizing, thank God. “Have you eaten anything yet today?”

  “Not yet,” she said. “But I’m not all that hungry.”

  “Well, find an appetite. They’re setting out breakfast on the terrace right now,” Renato said. “Come, let me show you the house.”

  The palace was an exquisitely restored gem. Harmonious, vaulted rooms full of light, glowing with restored frescoes and graceful loggias overlooking the sea. At one point, she was led along a breezeway that bordered a large atrium in the center of the building. A sculpture garden was featured, arrayed around an ancient fountain.

  “My mother told me about this atrium,” she said.

  Both men stopped and turned to look at her. “Did she?” Renato asked. “What did she say?”

  “Just how beautiful it was,” she said. “And that statue of Atlas.”

  “Oh, yes. Atlas. She loved it. I’ll show it to you after breakfast.”

  Sveti had to force herself to eat. There was pastry, fruit, cheeses, prosciutto, and salami. She took black coffee, berries, a small pastry.

  “Your mother and I always breakfasted on the terrace when the weather permitted,” Renato said. His eyes darted to the pastry in her hand. “She had a fondness for those. Ricce con crema. Her favorite.”

  The food in her mouth became a tasteless lump. It dried out her mouth, to think of Mama lounging on this terrace like a pampered, fluffy poodle. Nibbling sweets with this self-important idiot.

  There had to have been a good reason. Some powerful, driving motive, for doing something so out of character. The abstracted, cerebral scholar who Sveti remembered had never cared about luxury. She would not have married Sergei Ardov if she had. Her mother’s early life with her rich father and ex-pat mother in France had been much more luxurious. With her beauty, she could have had her pick of men.

  “I’m so sorry, Svetlana. How clumsy of me, to speak of her,” Renato said gently. “I shouldn’t have.”

  Sveti forced herself to swallow. “Not at all,” she said. “This is why I came, after all. To talk about her.” She put the pastry down uneaten.

  “I’m surprised that your pit bull did not join us,” Hazlett said. “Is he loosening his grip? Or did you slip away when he wasn’t looking?”

  Sveti choked on coffee, clapping the napkin to her lips just in time to save her dress. “Please don’t call him that. His name is Sam Petrie.”

  “I didn’t mean to be disrespectful,” Hazlett said. “But I’m glad we have you to ourselves. Mr. Petrie was, well, overwhelming. I understand his protective attitude, of course. And I applaud it.”

  “I owe him my life,” Sveti said.

  “And I will always be grateful. However, he struck me as controlling. His attitude seemed one of ownership, you might say.”

  Sveti shook her head. Even if it was true, it was none of his goddamn business, and even less so was the fact that Sam felt the same way about Hazlett himself. “That is between myself and him,” she said.

  “I know I’m taking a risk,” Hazlett said. “But you’re young, and all alone in the world. Don’t let your natural gratitude for his heroic rescue cloud your judgment. That’s all I ask.”

  “My judgment is just fine, thank you,” she said.

  “Your mother would never have wanted you to get involved with anyone who might limit your possibilities,” Renato said.

  “Don’t preach to me about what my mother would or would not have wanted,” she retorted.

  Shocked silence followed that reproof.

  Sveti bit her lip. “Sorry,” she said tightly. “That was uncalled for.”

  “Not at all,” Renato said. “I’m the one who should apologize.”

  There was an expectant pause, as if both men were waiting. Renato examined his fingernails. Hazlett sipped coffee.

  Renato cleared his throat. “I guess I should just come out with it. Are you ready to see where your mother is laid to rest?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Thank you. I would love to.”

  “I’ll sit this one out,” Hazlett said. “I know you’d rather be alone.”

  Sveti got up, her belly fluttering. Which seemed silly. What she was about to see was static and eternally unchanging. She followed Renato off the terrace, through a flowering walled garden, then alongside a high hedge. “Is this the maze you spoke of yesterday?”

  “Yes, it is,” Renato said. “I would be delighted to show it to you. Would you like to see it before, or after . . . ?” He paused delicately.

  “After, please.” The tomb scared her more. It made sense to confront the bigger emotional ordeal first.

  The garden gave way to fruit trees and a vineyard and, finally, an ancient marble mausoleum.

  “My family has been buried here since the sixteen hundreds.” Renato unlocked the door and led her into the dim, stifling, narrow marble room. He gestured at a panel on the wall. “She’s here. Next to the place destined for me. Where I would have put my wife, if I had married. A nod toward lost dreams, romantic old fool that I am.”

  Sveti stared at her mother’s name on the gleaming metal plaque affixed to the stone. She put her hand on the marble, trying to visualize her mother’s face. All she could see was the image from her dream. Her mother in the red evening gown, falling backward into the darkness.

  The mute slab of stone infuriated her. She wanted to smash it.

  “Do you want some privacy?” Renato asked. “I can wait outside.”

  She made the decision abruptly. She wanted out of this stifling trap. There was nothing here. No answers or insights, just the maddening silence of death. “I can’t feel her here,” she said. “Could I see the maze? And the atrium? Maybe I’ll get more of a sense of her there.”

  Renato’s smile was sad. “I know just how you feel. Come.”

  He led her back the way they’d come, to the tall wall of topiary they had walked past before. “This maze was planned and planted in the early eighteen hundreds,” he told her. “It’s multicursal, with a central island. There’s a fountain with an ancient Greek statue of Athena in the center, and statuary at the various nodes. The hedges are two meters high, so I dare not leave you alone in it. You might never come out.” He chuckled.

  She could not bring herself to smile back.

  He led her through the entrance. Instantly, the high, narrow corridors made her feel stifled. There was not enough room to walk side by side unless they were uncomfortably close, shoulders touching, but when she tried to edge ahead of him, he just lengthened his stride.

  She pulled the sequence of poets out of her memory and turned right at the first node, not even glancing at the statue.

  “Svetlana?” Renato hurried after her. “Will you let me guide you?”

  She forced herself to smile. “Just let me wander a little,” she said. “Please? I don’t need to solve it. I just want to experience it.”

  He shrugged, looking vaguely troubled. “As you wish.”

  Left, at the rearing horse. Left again, at the lovers. Another right, at a snarling griffin—and then left again, at a plumed soldier.

  And she was facing a blank, impenetrable wall of dense green foliage. Smooth turf beneath her feet. Nowhere to go. Nothing to see.

  It was a blind alley. There could be nothing here to guide or illuminate her. Not unless it was buried in the ground.

  It hit her like a fist in the gut. She should be used to slamming up against blank walls by now. Tears welled up, to her horror. She did not want to blubber like a little girl in front of this man. God, please, no.

  She put her hands to her face. Started silently sobbing. Shit.

  Renato placed his hand on her shoulder. “Oh, my dear.”

  She shook her head. “I’m sorry. What was I thinkin
g? That she would stroll around a corner and meet me here? I feel so silly.”

  “Don’t, please. If only she could.” He passed her a handkerchief.

  “Let’s go,” she said, snuffling into it. “May I see the atrium?”

  “Certainly. Whenever you’re ready.”

  Sobbing in front of him had evidently made Renato feel that he had license to touch her now. He took her arm. Good thing Sam wasn’t there. And even so, she missed him so badly.

  The carved bench in the atrium was made of the same marble the mausoleum was fashioned of, gray with streaks of orange. She sat down. “This is where I’d like to have a moment alone, if you don’t mind.”

  “Of course.” Renato patted her shoulder and then strode away.

  Alone, at last. Sort of. Anyone could stroll by on one of the porticoed walkways that surrounded the garden. The breezeway with the loggia on the second floor also was open to the atrium, and dozens of windows looked out on it from the third floor. She could be seen by anyone looking down. But her heart fluttered, to be at the very place her mother had described. Mama had invited her to sit right here. Had asked Sveti to see something, to understand something. But what?

  What, Mama? What did you want me to see? Her eyes burned with unshed tears. She ached to answer the call. Still longing for approval from someone who was dead six years. Someone who hadn’t cared enough to have her daughter come visit for Christmas. And where did that thought come from? It distorted her perceptions.

  Now was not the time for goddamn hurt feelings.

  It was so hard to think clearly when she had such a complicated emotional agenda. She was behaving as if by solving this mystery, she could somehow regain that intimacy with Mama that had been stolen from her. She could explain, justify what had happened.

  She’d so much rather see Mama as a heroic, self-sacrificing crusader against evil rather than just a pampered mistress. A suicidal failure who didn’t care enough to live, even for her daughter’s sake.

  There might be nothing here at all but her own hopeful fantasies.

  She looked around at the trees. Mama had mentioned the “tree of life,” but there were only palms, orange, and lemon trees here. Atlas stared at the ground, a look of grim endurance on his face. The burden of the world that had been loaded on his back had broken away and been lost hundreds of years ago, but he got no relief. She could see it in the constant, ceaseless effort in his face, in the desperate bulge of muscles in his back. His burden had been lifted, but he hadn’t even noticed. He carried on as if it were still there. It was his whole identity.

  That weight would always crush him. No relief was possible.

  She tore her gaze away. Follow the tree of life. How did one follow a tree? Trees were rooted. By definition, they did not move. She rubbed her face. Was surprised to find it wet. She wiped away mascara sludge. What had possessed her to wear a white dress? It was just asking for trouble. Makeup, coffee, who knew what else. Danger at every turn.

  When she blinked the tears away, the patterned tiles beneath her feet swam into focus. The design looked like a flowchart, or a root system, stylized and intricate. Her eyes followed them up. The lines coalesced into the bole of a tree; a serpent twisted around it, forked red tongue darting.

  She rose to her feet and followed it.

  The tree trunk led straight up the path, then branched three ways. The left-hand branch led straight toward Atlas. The images were scenes from the book of Genesis. Some she recognized, some she did not. Adam and Eve were easy to identify, the fig leaves, the serpent, the apple, the angry angel with the flaming sword. The fountain gurgled faintly in her ear. She heard distant conversations, in other parts of the house. Birds chattered. Parakeets screeched. Bees hummed.

  She stopped when she could see Atlas’s eyes. Look beneath. Look within, the letter had said. She looked down.

  It took a while for the images to come into focus. The first tile was of two men on either side of an altar, one carrying a sheaf of grain, the other carrying a lamb. The next was a man with a sheaf of grain on his back, who appeared to be yelling at a pissed-off looking angel.

  The third image was half-hidden, beneath dried vines and petals of what looked like honeysuckle. She nudged them aside with her foot.

  The angry man from the last image was striking another man down with a sword. Blood pooled beneath the fallen man. The sword was red. The killer’s face was a mask of senseless rage.

  Cain and Abel. It was The Sword of Cain. Her heart galloped.

  She slid her foot from her sandal, touched the tile with her toe. It was loose. She pushed the tile as far in its groove as it would go, wedged her toe beneath, and pried it up. There was a cavity beneath it.

  “Ah, there you are! Communing with your mother, Svetlana?”

  She jerked her foot away, heart jumping up into her throat, and smiled as Hazlett walked toward her. He held two champagne flutes filled with pale, bubbling liquid. She nudged the tile back into place without looking at it and slipped her foot into her sandal. Her heart thundered. Oh, God, the guy’s timing sucked. So very badly.

  Hazlett’s carefully shaped brows furrowed. “Did I startle you?”

  “Oh, no. Just lost in my thoughts.” She tried to shimmy her foot back into her sandal. The last thing she wanted was to fuss with her shoe and pull his gaze down, drawing his attention to that loose tile.

  But why the secrecy? Why was her heart pounding? Hazlett wouldn’t care if she found something connected to her mother. Renato would be over the moon with delight. She could just bend down right now and satisfy her curiosity. Why the hell not?

  She just couldn’t. Her muscles had frozen, and her vocal apparatus, too. There might be nothing hidden under that tile. The place was hundreds of years old, after all. Probably half the tiles were loose.

  But Mama had written her a cryptic letter about it. Things she had not confided to Renato. She might have nibbled pastries with him, and shared her body with him—but she had not shared this.

  Sveti edged away from the tile without looking down, and took the glass. The sling-back strap was still trapped under her heel.

  “Try some Prosecco,” Hazlett urged. “Are you feeling all right?”

  She gulped the fizzy wine. “Sad,” she offered. “I’ll always regret not saying good-bye to her. It just doesn’t get any easier with time.”

  Hazlett’s eyes went soft. He seized her hand. Fingers closed tight. His grip was forceful. Not more so than Sam’s, but it was an entirely different sensation, to have this man seek to impose his will on her physically. A man she did not know, or trust. She disliked it.

  But her presence of mind was trashed from finding the tile. She took another swallow of Prosecco, for lack of anything intelligent to say.

  Hazlett tucked her arm into the crook of his elbow. “Walk with me,” he urged. “I want to show you the chapel. There are frescoes some say were painted by Giotto himself.”

  “I . . . I’d love to see them.” Her loose sandal flapped loudly against the tiles. She contracted her toes to keep it pressed to her heel. Her stomach was roiling. “One moment. Let me just fix my shoe.”

  She bent down, glad for the opportunity to pull free of his arm.

  She rose up and . . . oh, wow. Head rush. A wave of cold, dark. Sweeping upward, washing over her head. She stumbled. Oh, no. No.

  Svetlana? Svetlana, are you all right? Svet . . .

  Hurt. It burned, a fire on the side of her head. The light blinded her when she tried to open her eyes, so she kept them shut as she struggled to figure out what the hell was going on, listening to the voices swirling in and out of focus. Italian. She couldn’t catch a word.

  She fought to orient herself. “Where am I?” she croaked.

  “With us, at the Villa Rosalba. You’re perfectly safe, and you’re going to be fine. Don’t be alarmed,” a male voice responded.

  It all clicked into place moments after. That was Hazlett—but she had asked her question in Ukrai
nian. She forced her eyes open. They watered copiously. “You speak Ukrainian?” she asked in English.

  He patted her hand. “One doesn’t conduct international business deals for decades without picking up a few things.”

  She tried to sit up and fell back, wincing. “What happened?”

  “You fainted.” Renato’s voice. “I’m not surprised. It was an intense morning for you, emotionally.”

  That observation bugged her, obscurely. Her intense emotions were not on display for his entertainment.

  The loose tile, the tree of life, The Sword of Cain all crashed back into her mind. She still had not the slightest desire to say anything to either of these two men about it, but she was bursting to tell Sam.

  She missed him so badly. She put her hand to her head and found a gauze bandage around her forehead. “What’s this?”

  “You hit your head on the bench when you fell,” Renato explained. “Dr. Argillo examined you and bandaged you up. It’s a small wound. Just a little blood to wash out of your hair.”

  A short, middle-aged woman in a white coat leaned over Sveti, peering into her eyes. She shone a bright penlight into both of Sveti’s eyes and spoke in rapid, staccato Italian.

  “She says you don’t have a concussion, but that you should be carefully observed for a while,” Hazlett translated. “Of course, we would be happy to observe you. What could be more pleasurable.”

  Like hell. She wanted Sam. She wanted to soothe his ruffled feathers, tell him what she had seen. She struggled up into a sitting position. The doctor scolded, but she ignored it. A woman hurried in and spoke to Renato. Renato held up his hand for her to wait.

  “It appears your fearsome protector has arrived,” he said. “From what Agata says, he seems very agitated. I’m not surprised.”

  “So you did slip away.” Hazlett chuckled, smugly. “You sly minx.”

  Thank God. Her rush of relief was so intense, tears filled her eyes.

  Hazlett’s gaze narrowed. “I have to ask. Do you want us to let him in? Has he become problematic? We could distance you from him, if you want us to. Now would be the perfect opportunity. Just say the word.”