“Um, I’m sorry, sir, but I cannot give away any information about our guests.”
The Prince gripped the man by his expensive tie and lifted him bodily off the floor.
The Prince’s gray eyes blazed, staring unblinkingly into the eyes of his victim.
“I am your Master. You will tell me what I wish to know.”
The man choked, his hands trying to slacken the forceful pull of the tie.
The Prince lowered his voice to a threatening, silken whisper. “Tell me where the Emersons are.”
The man stared back into the Prince’s eyes, his mouth falling slack as he stopped struggling.
The Prince placed the man back on his feet and released his tie.
The man continued to stare into the Prince’s eyes with a glazed look on his face, then his fingers moved to the keyboard of his computer.
He looked at the screen and tapped a few keys. “Professor and Mrs. Gabriel Emerson departed yesterday.”
The Prince’s eyes narrowed. “That’s impossible. They were scheduled to leave tomorrow.”
“Master, the computer says they checked out early for personal reasons.”
“Sard,” the Prince cursed, pounding his fist on the counter.
The wood split beneath his hand.
The man seemed unfazed by the destruction of hotel property and simply continued to stare into the Prince’s eyes, his expression and demeanor surprisingly placid.
The Prince growled. “Where is Emerson now?”
The man’s gaze dropped to the computer screen.
“They did not leave a forwarding address.”
“What addresses did they leave?” The Prince’s voice morphed into a bark.
“Three addresses, Master. One in Umbria, at a house near Todi. And two in America—in Cambridge, Massachusetts, and Selinsgrove, Pennsylvania.”
The locations sounded familiar to the Prince, as they matched the intelligence report he’d been given. But he didn’t know which residence the Emersons had departed for upon leaving Florence.
“Give me the addresses.”
The man tapped a few keys and the printer to his left came to life. He withdrew a single sheet of paper from the tray and placed it on top of the counter, where the wood was split.
“Look at me,” the Prince breathed.
The man’s eyes moved to his again.
“You will remember nothing of this exchange. You will go upstairs to the penthouse and enter the room. You will discover that a vandal has broken into the penthouse and destroyed it. You will not call the police. You will have the room repaired immediately and will tell no one about the matter.”
“Yes, Master.”
The Prince held his eyes before storming out of the lobby and through the front door, clutching the paper in his fist.
The Emersons may have escaped him this evening, but they would not escape him for long. He would hunt them until he found them and then they would pay.
The professor would pay with his life and the woman at his side would pay with her heart, by watching her husband die. In killing the professor and the professor’s wife’s happiness, the Prince would have his revenge.
He was a few steps from his motorcycle when a figure emerged from across the street. He scented her before he could see her.
“Niccolò sent me with an urgent message.” Aoibhe stepped into the light that shone from the hotel doorway.
“And?” the Prince clipped.
“Venice is on the move. Our spies inside the city report that Marcus has sent his army by sea. They intend to land at Rimini.”
“Send word to the Princess of Rimini immediately, informing her of the impending invasion. Then summon the Consilium. We’ll amass our army to make ready for their attack.” The Prince shoved the piece of paper he was holding into his jacket pocket.
Aoibhe eyed his pocket curiously.
“Have I interrupted you, my lord?”
“The security of the principality is my primary concern. Now go,” he ordered, ending their conversation.
Aoibhe bowed and disappeared while the Prince returned to his motorcycle.
“You may have escaped for now, Emerson. But you won’t escape me forever.”
The Prince of Florence climbed aboard his machine and sped off into the night.
Fin.
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The Prince’s adventures continue in THE RAVEN, coming in February from Penguin!
Keep reading for a special preview.
A lone figure stood high atop Brunelleschi’s dome, under the shade of the gold globe and cross. His black clothing faded into the encroaching darkness, rendering him invisible to the people below.
Not that they would have seen him.
From his vantage point, they looked like ants. And ants they were to him, an irritating, if necessary, presence in his city.