In Good Conscience

by Gardiner, Cat

  Iceman was expected to emerge from the water to join the kill-fest after-party at 03:30 and, following his departure, the Spanish National Police (not the local) would respond to Bennet’s anonymous tip around 04:00. A follow up call to the police by his former employer would confirm weapon and drug trafficking aboard one of his vessels. Imagine Iceman’s surprise that someone beat him to the killing. He’d done enough of it to last a lifetime the past few days.

  With a gloved hand, he scratched his chin and toyed with the idea of hanging around for his friend’s arrival. The anger he fought against needed release. Sure, he understood Darcy’s solo Operation Black Ice, but that didn’t mean he liked it, and he had a right hook waiting for him to tell him what he thought. If there was one thing—and only one—that had kept him alive after his son’s death, it was the brotherhood.

  No. He was not happy. They were an effin’ team and Iceman broke protocol. Going it alone to this degree—no matter how noble—was unacceptable.

  He breathed in the salty air mixed with heavy fuel oil. From his position, he could see the dim light coming from the Dock Manager’s office surveying the entire quay. No worries, it’ll be over before he knows what went down.

  With that thought, he left his position and walked between several containers and stacked pallets toward the small feeder cargo ship. For security reasons, the gangway was missing, but the wire rope tethers hung inertly down the side of the vessel.

  Cake.

  Grabbing hold of the rope, he effortlessly climbed up the port side. When his feet touched the deck, he melded into the shadows supplied by the stacked containers. A single light shined in the pilot house, but most likely the captain and crew were asleep. They were not his target, nor would they want to be involved. Perhaps they may even have been alerted by his former employer to stand down and lay low.

  Slowly, he withdrew the Glock from its holster and crept between the four-high cargo containers; he felt that anticipatory high he got when about to go all Dirty Harry. He followed the stench of burning tobacco until the mumbling voices of his targets came into range. Grinning, he stepped out from the shadow, surprising them. “Hello, boys,” he said, firing before they could get off shots.

  Stepping over one of the dead, he continued—one after the other fell as he took sixteen men in total down.

  From the corner of his eye, he caught movement at the starboard railing, panther-like black crawling onto the deck. His pulse increased when he glanced at his watch. Is Darcy early?

  Quickly he pressed his back against the forecastle, blending into the shadow made by the containers and peered around the corner. Naturally hidden by untrained or unaided vision, wet dive boot prints were made visible by his night vision glasses. Darcy had arrived early; the man had huge feet.

  Fuck!

  Trapped between the cargo and the forecastle and a good 25 yards from the gangway tether cables, he had no recourse but to go overboard. Holstering his pistol, he ducked low, making his way to the bow. An effortless climb over the bulwark put him awkwardly onto one of the three mooring lines connecting the ship to the dock.

  Man, he was going to have some serious rope burn tomorrow.

  23

  Ciao, Bella

  September 6

  Venice

  Surprisingly, Janie had come through. They were at the opera in all its bravura splendor … and no doubt, somewhere was a satisfied concierge.

  With Fitzwilliam in mind, Liz felt as beautiful as her psyche would allow; perhaps acceptance and hope for the future was the last stage of grief.

  The black heels and striking black lace cocktail dress delivered to her room this afternoon brought her back to happier times, but she had arranged it that way in honor of him and their upcoming wedding anniversary. The garment box, tied with a red bow, held not only the dress, but chandelier ruby and diamond earrings to complement her snake necklace. He would have purchased them for her eventually, since the ones made exclusively for the set had perished at Pemberley. With each exciting trip they’d taken, he’d always indulged her with a special dress and jewelry; he’d never spared expense when it came to spoiling her. This visit to Venice and a gala premiere at the magnificent Teatro La Fenice opera house shouldn’t be any different. A lover of Puccini and designer apparel draping her body, her husband (late or not) would heartily approve of her choice of performance and ensemble.

  At intermission between the emotional second and third acts of Madama Butterfly, she stood in the lavatory, staring at herself in the mirror after refreshing her lipstick. Stall doors opened and closed behind her and the confining air was filled with the fetid aroma of mixing perfumes. Her stomach turned, yet her thoughts did not sway from her daydream as her fingers toyed with the necklace. Elegant, jeweled women came and went beside her to wash their hands—another noxious whiff accompanied the surge and resistance to vomit. Still, her fingers continued to mindlessly rub the snake’s head resting on the hollow of her neck. We’re having a baby she said to herself, thinking that the Cio-Cio-San (Madama Butterfly) felt the same euphoria only to be heartbroken.

  Yes, her life was a melodrama, only unlike Butterfly and her husband’s little son, their child would remain with her. And unlike her own mother, she’d be there for every happy and sad moment in her child’s life. In that instant, the melancholy she felt had been supplanted by an inner joy that came from that plastic stick thingy’s blue confirmation that she and Fitzwilliam had conceived in the Darcy home. He’d be soooooo over the moon.

  Are you alive, somewhere out there, babe? Will you be coming back to me?

  The lights turned off then on indicating it was time to take her seat for the last and final act and she snapped out of her meditation, unnecessarily fixing her short locks with a brush of her fingers. For sure, he’d hate her hair, but it suited her now and would most likely prove a smart decision when her life began as a single mom.

  Exiting into the crowded foyer, she spotted Jane standing below the grand chandelier between the two staircases while attempting to admire herself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror hanging on one side. Dressed to hip-hop nines wearing a red sequined sheath, her bare legs had no problem going from ballet shoes to spiked sandals. She blended right in with all the cosmopolitan Venetians who found La Fenice’s contemporary production of Puccini’s most famous opera a welcome diversion. Alas, her trendy sister could not appreciate the bel canto, nor had she made an effort to. At five hundred dollars for a seat in a central box, one would think she could have at least tried to respect the magnificence of the diva’s soprano range!

  “Here? Tonight?” She overheard Jane say into her mobile phone as she slowly navigated through the assemblage. Finally, she broke through and tapped her sister’s shoulder.

  “We have to go back to our seats, Jane.”

  “You go ahead. I’ve about had it. I’m sorry, but I did try, sissy.”

  “Who are you talking to?”

  “Um, Charlie.”

  “So you made up?”

  “Maybe,” and just like that she went back to talking, pushing through the crowd toward one of the open doors of a salon.

  I thought she was grieving.

  It was just as well that she quit on Act III. Her sister lacked the finesse and manners to stop huffing or to pull the ear buds from her head. The best Jane could do was to empathize by holding her hand at the close of Act II when Butterfly, dressed in her wedding gown watched the darkening harbor for her lover to come back to her. She nearly lost it when as background music (The Humming Chorus) set to the vigil’s hopeful anticipation Cio-Cio-San felt, filled her heart with a rush of emotions that she had to bite her lip to keep from crying. Surely, Jane’s fingers felt all the loneliness, all the uncertainty and misery channeled through her grip.

  Amidst the crushing herd-like legion shuffling in the small lobby, she took the stairs leading up to their box located at stage right, careful not to teeter in the increasingly uncomfortable four-inch heels. The last time she
’d wore pumps was at the funeral and burned them with the little black dress in the forge back in North Carolina.

  Holding tightly to the banister, she felt a million eyes on her, but was sure it was just her insecurity about everything prickling her skin.

  ***

  Punctuality is one characteristic of military life—and hence, has always been one of Darcy’s many credos: On time is fifteen minutes early. No if, ands or buts … especially when meeting with the underboss of a prominent Mafia “society,” but in this case tardiness couldn’t be helped. His first flight from Cadiz into Venice had been cancelled and then there was the matter of getting appropriately cleaned up once he arrived. One does not simply accept the invitation, made by the “boss of bosses” of one of the most dangerous organizations in Italy without showing respect when discussing business. Old school esteem and reverence were expected no matter how vile the enterprise or subject matter was. And by respect it meant presenting himself as a worldly, educated man unworthy to be in their presence but worthy enough to have been asked. To not do so would cast aspersions on the veracity of his proposition and put his new Mafia friend Vito Cardillo, back in the Italian deli, in bad light. Insult was not taken lightly by these pernicious crime bosses. Favors given, even if paid for, were rare and always came with a payback. He knew that first hand in his own acquisition of sleeper assets around the world, just in case the day ever came. And it had.

  Physically exhausted as he was, he forced himself to stay awake on the flight to Italy from Spain, going over what went down by—or rather not—his hand in Cadiz. Twice now his ops had been usurped by outsiders. Further, he felt uneasy going into this conversation with his next asset given that Bennet couldn’t be reached for any update on chatter from the paired Luis and burner phones. Given the time difference, perhaps, he was at the cancer doctor with Frances. Still, he couldn’t be too angry with him. His father-in-law had come through with the details necessary to make this meeting happen. Not that Traitor Tom was completely off the hook; if he had anything to say about it, Tom never would be. He would never forgive his lies to and emotional abuse of Liz. However, in a small measure (very small) he was making it up to her by keeping them both alive.

  The opera, he thought shaking his head as he crossed the marble courtyard leading to the columned entrance.

  There was no denying that irony sure loved dealing blows to his guilty—as good as it may be—conscience. If he were a man without a conscience, he’d miss the poignant significance of Madama Butterfly: Specifically, his deceit at leaving her alone—but only he knew that he’d be returning, and not after three years of longing as in Butterfly’s case.

  He rushed through the entrance doors, and was met by a cacophony of chatter of the well-dressed attendees and the flashing lights overhead, thankful he’d arrived during intermission so that he could join his hosts in their box (and selfishly enjoy the closing act.) Hastily, he handed over the ticket left for him with the hotel concierge and he joined the shifting crowd with a polite “thank you,” spoken in proper Queen’s English. Taller than most, his trained gaze spanned the heads, settling on the red-carpeted staircases, now filled with opera-goers headed back to their seats.

  His feet stopped dead.

  His heart seized.

  He narrowed his eyes.

  That shapely bottom, those long legs and their well-defined calf muscles, the way the woman’s hand grasped the railing. With each step up, every nuance of the rising beauty spellbound him into thoughts of Liz, so similar she was to his wife.

  You’re imagining things, man. Everyone has a doppelganger. She has short hair and she’s a good 10 pounds thinner.

  Then he recalled Paris, and how similar that exotic stripper was to his wife … and she was. Part of him couldn’t help but want this woman to be her—here and now—with him. The ache he’d suppressed these many days, deliberately smothered by his gelid focus, bubbled to the surface at the sight of that lace encased swaying backside. And that neck … he’d kissed one just like it a thousand times.

  The crowd continued to push around him but he remained inert. Could it be her? Nah. Why would she be here in Venice? She doesn’t have a passport any longer.

  A sea of people separated him from the object of his attention and from afar he gaped at her deliberate steps with his heart racing. His subconscious mind formed words that expelled under his breath with steely persuasion.

  “Look back at me,” he willed. Just a glimpse … is it you?

  He waited.

  “Look back at me,” he repeated; his heart hammered against his chest wall, his breath captured in anticipation, his mind hoped it was her.

  Crestfallen, he swallowed hard when she didn’t turn, and he watched as she disappeared in the assembly once she reached the staircase zenith.

  He would find her when the meeting and opera were over—if only just to satisfy his curiosity, and later tell Liz that a woman in Venice could be her physical twin.

  ***

  Darcy placed the vision of the woman deep down into the recesses of his cold heart and stony demeanor as the bodyguard outside the private box owned by Cazzatto Compagnia Mafia’s don, patted him down and took his mobile phone. Of course, the box just happened to be situated beside the Royal Box.

  He passed through the narrow door and was greeted by a good-looking older man, suave and graying. His smile was pleasant and welcoming, keeping the appearance that the “society” was clean and respectable, which they prided themselves on.

  “Signore Thornton, I presume. Welcome to Venezia.”

  To further ingratiate himself, he continued the conversation in Italian, holding out his hand for a shake. “Thank you for meeting me Signore Perini. Please forgive my tardiness. My business in Cadiz did not go as expected.”

  “Si, I understand and it is this business in which you requested our meeting?”

  “Yes. I’m honored by the opportunity.”

  “The boss has sent me as his emissary at the benevolent request of our respected associate in Washington. While you do not play Scopa, it is a great thing that Vito Cardillo has asked. He was impressed by you.” He chuckled, his mustache spreading wide above his smile.

  “Thank you again, sir.”

  “Come, please, sit. As a dead man, you are no doubt in need of socialization. Tell me, are you a lover of opera, Signore?”

  “Yes, very much so. Since I was a child, and it’s something my wife and I share.”

  “Ah, Signora Thornton. She is always on your mind, yes?”

  “Always.”

  “And this is why you come to us. She is the reason for your business?”

  “She is.”

  “You seek a vendetta for her honor.”

  He simply nodded, feeling as though he was acting out a scene from The Godfather.

  “This I understand. A man must protect his family.”

  “And how do you know this? I did not mention this to Mr. Cardillo.”

  “Signore, our society knows everything. We know that you wish to destroy La Muerta Mundial for the destruction of your family home, the attempted assassination of your wife, and the kidnapping of your cousin.”

  “Yes. But, I wish to specifically destroy Morales and all that he has his finger on.”

  “And that includes the cargo containers that transport his drugs into and his weapons out of Venice.”

  “That is correct, Signore. With your help of course, as I understand that Cazzatto Compagnia controls loading and unloading at the Port of Venice.”

  The lights flicked for a third time and the crowd below them grew silent. Perini leaned closer to him and whispered, “The don has but one question before we enjoy Madama Butterfly. Do you know this El Negro? Be truthful with me because Cazzatto needs to fully understand the situation. Faida or conflitto with our friend Sanchez-Morales is not something we would like to involve ourselves in unless, of course, it is beneficial to us. You understand that when I say that La Muerta Mundial is our fri
end, it is a euphemism for an enemy whom we politely allow to exist because we profit from our business arrangement on the quays.”

  “I understand, and yes, I do know El Negro.”

  “Si?”

  He opened and closed his fist resting on his knee; his jaw flexed. “They are Morales’s sworn enemy.”

  “And that is all?”

  Now he chuckled. “All? No. Similar to your society’s relationship with Morales, and now me … the enemy of my enemy is my friend … Isn’t that how the saying goes, Signore Perini? I have no quarrel with El Negro. In fact, they have advanced my cause greatly by providing me with the perfect scapegoat to my wrath.”

  “And quite a wrath I have heard. You have been very effective. Diablo is quite infuriated.”

  “There is much at stake. My wife’s safety and happiness depend on my success.”

  Damn. He hoped he wasn’t making of mess of this. He was a trigger man, for God’s sake! Rick was the negotiator and the diplomat. His cousin made both seem effortless with that shit-eating grin of his. Alas, he chose to do this on his own. Any mucking up was on him alone, and that’s the way he wanted it.

  “We do not know this El Negro, but we have ears. Okay … we discuss shipping business after the opera.” He handed him a pair of leather and brass opera binoculars and the Italian smiled before sipping his champagne.

  The lights dimmed to black and the only glow came from the orchestra pit as the curtain opened on a lone Butterfly waiting for her lover’s return in the dark night—her hopefulness slowly draining as dawn drew near without his arrival.

  The orchestra’s intermezzo filled his heart. Yes. He was choked up. I will come home, Liz.

  Birdsong on stage signified a new day, springtime as the light grew like sun on the stage. He lifted the glasses to his eyes, scanning the front two seats of each curved central box flanking him in five tiers above, beside, and below him.