Last Kiss

by Jessica Clare

  I follow the maze of cobblestone roads until I reach Accademia di Belle Arti. Several tiny blocks down, I turn left and find my destination marked by a large green iron door that is as wide as my arm span and twice as tall.

  I text my contact and the door clicks, signaling that it is open.

  The moonlight spills into the open-air atrium, illuminating the broken pavers in need of repair, but the stairs leading up are almost completely shrouded in darkness. I know from past visits that there is a tiny elevator that Guillaume had installed for his tenants, but I eschew the metal cage for the dark recesses of the stairs. The limestone steps are smooth from the centuries of use. At the top of the fifth flight, I peer out of an arrow slit in the wall. To most, the courtyard, this fourteenth-century building and its crumbling fresco walls would be romantic, but not to Naomi. I suspect she would explain to me how the first floor isn’t really a first floor at all, but merely the entry level where light and water were initially collected and then where trade and commerce took place. All the living was done on the upper levels with the kitchen on the topmost floor so that the smells and noise of the workers would not intrude upon the peacefulness demanded by the moneyed inhabitants.

  On the fifth floor, the doors are secured by more than a simple lock. A small blinking red light to the right indicates an electronic protection, and there are three keyholes. Choosing the wrong keyhole will likely result in some painful warning. Idly I wonder if Naomi could break into these security systems. As I watch, however, the red light turns green, and the door’s locks release allowing it to fall open.

  A narrow hallway leads into a large living space, where Guillaume sits in front of a huge bank of monitors. One shows the courtyard, another the exterior door, another the hallway I just walked down. The engines of his machines hum as his fingers fly across the keyboard—the middle one. There are four others. Naomi would squeal in delight at this show of computing power. It is better that I did not bring her. She may not want to leave.

  If I lost Naomi to anyone, it would not be to a man with superior looks or money. It would be to someone who challenged her mind more, perhaps someone like Guillaume. He was a French national but got into some trouble after hacking into Interpol to clean the record of a handsome American thief. Others might flee to the beaches of Croatia or perhaps some island in the Maldives depending on the thickness of their pocketbook, but Guillaume came to Florence for no other reason than he said if he was to live in exile from his beloved France, he would do it in a place of civilization, and that there is no other place that would suit him better than Italy.

  Like Naomi he will talk only when he is done with his task. Most of the time I do not mind, but I find I am anxious to return to Naomi.

  “Buona sera, Guillaume. Sorry to interrupt, but I have come to retrieve the items we had discussed.”

  “Buona sera. Un momento, per favore.” He holds up one finger while continuing to type with the other hand. He is so much like Naomi, they could be twins. A thought occurs to me and I blurt out my question before I can stop myself.

  “Guillaume are you a—” What does Naomi say? “Aspie?”

  “Aspie? Non capisco.”

  “Avete la sindrome di Asperger?”

  His eyebrows shoot upward. “How did you know?”

  “You remind me of someone.” I hesitate, not wanting to reveal Naomi to Guillaume, who trades in information. “The Aspie I know is very difficult to distract from tasks.”

  “American, eh? They shorten everything. But I am done and yours now.” With a flourish, he takes his raised finger and slams it down on the enter key. Those French, always so exuberant. Unlike Naomi, he looks me in the eye at least for a few seconds before sliding away to land on a shopping bag with Uomo on the side. He slides the bag toward me.

  Rifling through the bag reveals all the items I requested from Guillaume, and a thick cardboard envelope. I pop it open and take out the documents. There are the passports with our new identities as well as the invitation. This time I am from Georgia and Naomi is from England. She stares at me, red haired and lovely. The digital manipulation of the camera-phone still I took earlier is remarkable.

  “It’s all in there. I wouldn’t cheat you.”

  “Of course not,” I say soothingly, remembering Naomi grumble that Aspies had feelings, too. “I am but curious about this invitation.”

  I pull the thick linen paper out and wave it at him.

  “I am curious as well. I don’t suppose you would tell me what you want it for. I’ve never heard that you were interested in that type of thing.”

  “You would be surprised by what interests me,” I murmur, thinking of the marks on my skin.

  “Still, this place? The man you seek is reviled by even those whose depravities are unspeakable. You know he collects paintings that depict women and animals together.”

  “Is that right?” I coolly raise an eyebrow, hoping that I do not betray the quickening of my heart rate over the knowledge that we are close to our prey.

  He leans close and his eyes glitter with excitement. “It is said he has Leonardo’s Leda and the Swan and that last year he acquired a Caravaggio from a Frenchman—”

  At my cold look, he shuts up and proceeds to straighten items on his desk—his keyboards, both of them, his mouse, a USB hub, a wireless speaker. Taking pity on him and satisfied that he has provided all the items Naomi and I will need for our visit in Venice, I hand him a pack of cigarettes. He opens the top and nods. “This . . . friend of yours. What makes you say that he is Asperger’s?”

  “My friend admitted it. There’s no shame in the condition,” I reply, making no movement toward the bag. Guillaume taps out a cigarette and lights it. The smell of tobacco fills the room immediately.

  “You don’t think he’s too odd with his fits and weird questions and tendency to forget you are even there?”

  These sound like complaints Guillaume has been subjected to. Complaints that Naomi has heard. “Nyet. We all have our . . . quirks, da?” He nods. “My friend is interesting, talented.” I think back to the slap across my face and the scratches in my chest. Very talented. “Those things you speak of bother me not at all.”

  “And in public your friend doesn’t embarrass you?”

  I recall the incident with the customs official. “I am not embarrassed, although sometimes the behavior of my friend in public can cause problems. But those problems are minor and do not devalue the person in my opinion.”

  “Then you are different than most, Vasily. Many do not enjoy being associated with us.”

  “I do not find you weird or odd, Guillaume. No more so than anyone else. My sister, for example, likes things very orderly. And those calcio players have their idiosyncrasies, which everyone finds entertaining rather than off-putting.” And me, I think, I like to be hurt during intercourse. “We are all strange in our own way.”

  “This is true.” He takes another deep draw and blows out a long stream of smoke. He’s becoming entranced by it. I recognize this focus as I’ve seen it before in Naomi’s eyes as she is distracted by something she finds fascinating. I prefer it to be me, but it can be something as ephemeral as the trail of smoke. “I love the flavor of these but so hard to obtain when I am not allowed into France anymore.”

  “You but need to ask and more will be sent to you.”

  He jiggles the pack, listening as the three diamonds inside clink together gently. “I am almost sad that you removed four to make room for these baubles.”

  I give him a half smile. “I will send you a carton if you but ask.”

  He doesn’t, though. To ask is to owe me a favor. “They say that the Petrovich Bratva is in tumult and that its hold in Russia and abroad may be faltering.”

  I bare my teeth. “Those who say that are full of envy and will soon regret it.”

  “Do you think you can hold that old family together? You are not a Petrovich,” Guillaume says, blowing out another long stream of smoke.

&n
bsp; “No. I am better, and those that oppose me will feel my fist and heel on not just their person, but every person in their family.”

  “But it is called the Petrovich Bratva so then you must be a Petrovich, no?”

  “Every papal prince changes his name, but the Vatican built on St. Peter’s bones remains constant. So, too, is a Bratva. The prince who rules formulates his own rules, adorning the walls with his triumphs and writing his victories into the tomes on the shelves of the libraries. But he also preserves the papacy for the next ruler. I am merely ensuring that the Bratva is healthy for the next prince.”

  I leave Guillaume studying his smoke stream. And all around us people are doubting the necessity of the Bratva, doubting both its friendly hand and the sting of its sword. But if I . . . we . . . could generate the belief within the Bratva, that would radiate outward until the entirety of our community would rise up against our enemies if necessary, ensuring that only the threat of retribution could keep people safe.

  I need peace for those that I love, not just my sister but . . . others. One other. The silly painting is becoming a symbol to me as well. If I can retrieve it, well then, I can rid myself of Elena Petrovich and ensure that Katya and Naomi are able to live a regular life, without fear.

  When I arrive back at our little room, Naomi is sitting in a chair that is draped with her clothes and mine.

  “Where did you go?” She scowls.

  “To get our entrée into Ponte delle Tette. It is an invitation-only fetish club in Venice. Guillaume Beaulieu is a man who can procure many things such as these.”

  “The Bridge of—”

  “Tits,” I supply as she struggles for the tette translation. “Everything in Venice involves water.”

  “How come Guillaume can’t find your painting?”

  “He trades in favors and small gems. He does not take on tasks that would endanger him . . . not anymore, at least.”

  She makes no attempt to look inside the bag, perhaps afraid of germs, so I open the package for her. The invitations are on heavy vellum and tucked inside a large linen handcrafted envelope stamped with the letters PdT in large script. There are two masks, made by Ca’ Macana, along with one other thing. Perhaps the most important thing.

  “This club is somewhat different. Everyone will wear a mask. Our costumes are thoroughly checked for electronics, particularly cameras or recording devices as well as weapons. Sex clubs in Venice are rare. There is no obvious prostitution nor any red-light district. Only private clubs exist, and this is one of the most discreet. In the club there is every kind of perversion you can imagine. Every kind. Our goal, Naomi, is to find and to place this on our mark.” I lay a tag on the table between us. It is a two-inch-by-two-inch square that is made of gold filament.

  “Is this an NFC tag?” She grabs it and holds it up to the light.

  “It is of the same design, yes, but while a near field communication tag can only be read up to four feet, this can be tracked from a distance. But it is powered by nearby electronics. If our mark goes near any type of Bluetooth or radio signal, it will emit a signal, like a homing device. Because it is made of gold filament, it will register as part of the costuming rather than a banned metal.”

  “How do we know who our mark is?”

  “We look for the right perversion.”

  “Which is?”

  I stare at her. “The Madonna and the Volk is the painting he has acquired. Another of his favorites is Leda and the Swan.”

  “Ohhhh,” she says with growing understanding. And then, “Ewww.”

  I smother a laugh. “And this is yours, not part of a costume, but because I promised. And I always deliver my promises.”

  She stares wide-eyed at the baseball cap in my hands.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  NAOMI

  I can’t stop gazing at the baseball cap in his hands. It’s a soft, distressed gray like my old one. There’s no fraying on the edges like the one I abandoned, but it’s similar, right down to the lack of a logo and the Velcro fitting strap across the back of the head.

  He’s so thoughtful. Always, always thoughtful.

  He holds it out to me, this volk, this monster who claims to have no soul. Who says he will destroy my family if they stand in his way. Who says he feels nothing for anyone and does not like to be touched.

  But he likes my touch. And he remembered my baseball cap and how miserable I was to lose it.

  I reach out and take it from him with shaking fingers.

  “I regret we will have to experience another sex club, Naomi. I trust that you will be able to conduct yourself as you did last time? Because you did very well. I have brought earplugs in case you will require them again.”

  He’s talking, but I’m not listening. I finger the Velcro strap. It’s so clean, no lint stuck in the tiny plastic hooks. I adore it already. “Has this been laundered?”

  “It was factory sealed when I purchased it. I made the vendor remove it from a plastic bag.”

  Oooh, factory sealed. Germ free. I shiver. Those are magical words for me.

  Vasily continues to talk about the club. Something about depravities and masks and historical figures in Venice who have visited the club. I’m not paying attention. I squeeze the bill to give it a little shape, and then adjust the strap to what will fit my head, and then put it on. It’s perfect. It’s not quite the one I lost, but it’s so close and I know he picked this out especially for me.

  My heart is doing more of those funny little flips. My volk. My monster. I’m not even mad about the mattress anymore.

  “I regret we cannot blindfold you this time,” he continues in that deep voice, looking at me. “Will you be able to function?”

  “I think this cap is made from denim and not the normal acrylics,” I tell him, smoothing my fingers along the bill. It’s so soft that it’s arousing me. And it’s not just the cap. It’s that feeling I have when I look at Vasily, who’s going on and on about some sex club, and who showed me my G-spot earlier.

  I know he’s a sociopath. I don’t care. We all have our issues. But he’s my sociopath, and as long as he doesn’t hurt me or my family, or make me feel like less, he’ll be mine and I’ll be his. I’ll tell him my conditions and then we can have crazy, slapping sex again.

  I liked being wild with him.

  “Naomi?” he says.

  I look up from my blissful contemplation of my cap and pull it off my head, lovingly placing it on the clothing-covered arm of the chair. I want to wear the cap, but I also want to kiss Vasily’s hard mouth at the moment, and it will get in the way. “What is it?”

  “You are not listening to me, are you?” His words are words that I have learned are angry ones, but he’s smiling at me like I have done something cute. This man is difficult to read. I don’t know if he’s happy or mad, so I decide that I will distract him.

  I get up from the chair and approach him, then straighten his collar a moment before I grab it and mash my mouth against his.

  My volk.

  He groans and his mouth moves against mine, his tongue delving into my mouth, and I meet it with my own. I’m no longer afraid of Vasily’s germs—I welcome them. They’re mine and I’m his and we’re sharing everything, right down to microbes. My anger from earlier has vanished at the sight of the cap. I was seething not an hour ago—from that nasty trick about the mattress to the fact that he’d dyed my hair, again, while I was passed out and left me in a strange city.

  But the cap has forgiven all. I’m filled with lust and a peculiar affection for this man. He confuses me, he doesn’t always listen to me, but sometimes I think he understands me better than anyone I know.

  So I kiss the hell out of him, so fierce that my teeth scrape along his tongue and nip at his lip, and I can feel the shudder that wracks his body in response. I think of the earlier sex, the toe-curling intensity of it, and I want it again. I’m a cat with a new toy, an Aspie with a fixation, and I want more sex.

  “N
aomi,” he murmurs as I release his mouth and bite at the faint blond beard stubble on his chin. It looks ludicrous with his dark hair but I don’t care. The texture of it is fascinating, and the taste of it is Vasily, which means it is mine, too.

  “Hush,” I tell him. “I’m seducing you. I want more sex.”

  He chuckles, the sound reverberating low in his chest, and my fingers undo the buttons at his collar and shove clothing aside. I want to see him bare, to press my mouth to more of his hot skin. And I want to bite him. I’m not sure if that’s appropriate, but if it’s not, he’ll tell me.

  When my questing fingers reveal his chest, though, I pause. Raised red welts cover his chest, along with small reddish-purple bruises and scratches. I vaguely remember losing control during our last encounter. “Was this me?”

  “Da,” he says, and his voice has dropped to a low, husky note.

  I’m momentarily stymied. “Was this . . . inappropriate? Did I go too far? You have to tell me these things.” I smooth a hand over his chest, chagrined. “I can’t read facial expressions so I don’t know—”

  His hand closes over mine. Squeezes it. “I liked it,” he tells me in a rough voice. “Naomi, in case I have not said it obvious enough, I enjoy being hurt during sex. It makes me very aroused.”

  Curious, I decide to test this with a little experiment. I dig my nails into one of the scratches and watch his face. Sure enough, his pupils dilate and his breathing becomes quicker the harder I dig. Fascinating. I pull my hand from his and drag my nails roughly across the hard planes of his chest. “Is this a compulsion formed in childhood or is it the result of trauma? Or is this something you were born with?”

  “Are you disturbed by my needs?”

  That’s not an answer, but I let it slide anyhow because I’m more fascinated by the thought of playing with him. “I want to bite you,” I tell him. “Hard. Really hard.” My hand smooths over his chest again. “On all these muscles—”