The first thing I hear is opera music. Muted and beautiful, it plays over hidden speakers and instantly makes my stomach curdle. I force back memories of the last time I heard opera and try to remain calm.
I fail. Every part of my body that has sweat glands is working overtime.
The interior of the yacht is decorated in muted earth tones of sand, brown and gray, with ultramodern furnishings and a lot of polished wood. Colorful, contemporary art adorns the walls. We head toward a glass staircase in the center of a lobby-like area, and I follow the manservant as he mutely motions me on.
Why doesn’t he speak?
“Loose lips sink ships,” one of the men behind me says with a low, sinister chuckle. I realize he’s read my mind at the same time I realize the probable meaning of those words. The manservant is missing his tongue.
Breathe, Mari. Just breathe. One foot in front of the other.
We walk for what feels like a lifetime, navigating through a warren of rooms—each more spectacular and luxurious than the last—until we arrive at a pair of mahogany doors flanked by marble statues of roaring lions, fangs bared, crouched to pounce. The manservant raps twice on the doors, waits until he hears a murmur from within, then pushes open the doors and stands aside.
The suite is vast, maybe five thousand square feet from glass wall to glass wall, with a private outside deck at the opposite end. It’s tall, too, three stories capped with the brilliance of a modern, sculpture-like chandelier suspended from clear cables so it appears to float in midair.
The floor is white marble, the view is of sparkling ocean, and the man looking out the windows across from me with his hands in his trouser pockets and his back turned in my direction is Vincent Moreno.
My heart stutters. For one long, breathless moment, I’m transported back in time to that fateful night, the last time I saw my sister alive, when I was so near death and a dragonfly saved me.
Reynard saved me. I owe him my life. That’s why I’m here.
The thought gives me strength as Capo turns around and meets my eyes.
Our gazes lock.
I’m certain one of us isn’t leaving this room alive.
He’s wearing a crisp white linen suit, which sets off his dark tan. The collar of his shirt is open, revealing a strong neck. A small gold medallion nestles in the hollow of his throat. He’s calm and spotless, and I hate him so fiercely, it’s like I’ve swallowed fire.
His lips curve upward. “Mari. You made it.”
His gaze flicks over me, taking in my tangled hair, rumpled clothing, and bare feet. “Though worse for wear, it would appear.” His gaze slices to the three assassins, who’ve taken up positions against the wall to my left and stand with hands clasped behind their backs, faces impassive.
He wanders across the room, in no particular hurry, stopping midway to inspect a bowl of green grapes set out on a glass coffee table. He selects a few, then continues toward me, popping a grape into his mouth.
My hands shake so hard with the urge to curl around his throat that I have to flex them open to get them to stop.
When Capo’s within arm’s reach, he pauses. He lifts his chin at the manservant, who bows and silently backs from the room, closing the doors behind him. Then he stands looking at me for a while, obviously relishing the moment.
“Were you treated well by my men?”
“What difference does it make?”
A fleeting frown crosses his face. I can’t decide if it’s irritation or something else.
“I asked you a question, Mariana. Answer it.”
It serves no point to bicker or refuse, so I do as he instructs and glance at the row of assassins behind me. I point at the one closest. “That one called me a bitch and hurt my arm.” I point at the one on the other end. “And that one said he wanted first dibs on me.”
In the middle of bringing a grape to his mouth, Capo pauses. He looks at the men. “Santino. Fabrizio. Is this true?”
Neither man hesitates to answer. In unison, they say, “Si, Capo.”
In the next instant, Capo pulls a silver handgun from under his jacket and fires off two rounds, one in each of the assassin’s foreheads. Blood and brain matter splatter the wall in a lurid, chunky pattern of red.
I jump and scream as the assassins crumple to the ground.
“What about Salvatore?” Capo calmly asks, casually waving the gun at the assassin who’s still standing. “Did he behave?”
Salvatore hasn’t moved, not even to look at the bodies of his compatriots on the floor. Blood—not his own—drips down his cheek.
“H-he didn’t do anything,” I whisper, my stomach violently churning.
“Good.” Capo slides the pistol back into its holster inside his jacket and pops the grape into his mouth.
I manage to make it to a wastebasket near the potted palm to my right before I vomit.
In between heaves, I catch a glimpse of a small, round object at the bottom of the trash can, glinting metallically among the putrid yellow bile.
Thirty
Mariana
“All right now,” Capo says in a soothing voice, gently patting my shoulder. “Take it easy. Just breathe.”
I rock back to my heels, wipe the back of my hand across my mouth. “Don’t touch me!” I say hoarsely.
His sigh sounds disappointed. “Oh, Mari. You always were a bleeding heart. So easy to hurt. So quick to love.” His voice changes, hardens somehow. “That was your downfall, you know.”
My downfall? What’s he talking about? I stagger to my feet, shrugging off his hand in disgust and contempt, and turn to look at him, keeping my gaze off the floor and the widening pools of red around the lifeless bodies. “I’ve brought the diamond. Where’s Reynard?”
Capo gazes at me for a long time, a strange, probing expression in his eyes that’s especially unnerving because it’s a look I don’t recognize. Without glancing away from me, he instructs Salvatore to leave us alone.
“Si, Capo.” Salvatore ignores the bodies on the floor and exits through the mahogany doors as if nothing is amiss.
Maybe it isn’t. Maybe this is situation normal and bodies aboard the Sea Fox drop like flies.
Something about the name of the yacht bothers me, but I’ve got bigger problems to think about. When Capo just stands there staring at me, I ask again. “Where is he?” A touch of hysteria raises my voice.
Capo wordlessly holds out his hand and makes a “give me” gesture. I pull the Hope from the pocket of my hoodie where I’ve been carrying it and set it into his open palm.
He looks down at it. “What’s on it?” he asks with a curled lip.
“Dried milk.”
He cocks one dark brow at me and waits for more of an explanation. When it doesn’t come, he shrugs, removes a jeweler’s loupe from under his coat, then holds the diamond up to the light and peers at it through the magnifier. Satisfied, he makes a low sound in his throat.
He pulls a silk handkerchief from another pocket, wraps the diamond in it, and returns it to his pocket. “Have you ever wondered, Mariana,” he asks thoughtfully, “what stayed my hand all these years?”
His eyes are dark brown, like mine, only his reflect no glimmer of light or mercy.
“Stayed your hand?” I repeat in confusion, resisting a primal urge to back up.
Haltingly, as if he can’t help himself, he reaches out and touches my hair. I notice his hand is slightly trembling. Now there is a light in his eyes, but it’s got nothing to do with mercy.
“From what I’ve always wanted,” he whispers. “From what I’ve always really wanted from you.” His fingers tighten around a strand and pull.
My swallow is a loud gulp. The taste of vomit is sharp in my mouth, stinging the back of my throat. There’s a rancid stench in my nose I can’t get rid of. I jerk my head to free my hair, but he doesn’t let go, and so several strands are torn from the root. He stands there gazing at them in a weird kind of fascination while I curse and press a hand to my stinging scalp.
“Where is Reynard?” I say loudly, hanging on to my control by the slimmest of threads.
“Where I’ve always been, my darling,” says a familiar voice to my right. “Wherever you needed me.”
I whip my head around. There he stands in his typical blue suit, smiling his typical warm smile, healthy and whole, not a mark on him.
“Reynard!” I sob in relief and fly into his outstretched arms, slamming into him so hard, he staggers back a few steps.
Chuckling, he holds me tight against his chest, rocking me and reassuring me he’s all right, everything is all right, everything is going to be so much better from now on.
Only his words are wrong, all wrong, so wrong that my sweet relief quickly turns to bitter, choking ashes in my mouth.
Because the words he speaks are in Italian.
A language Reynard doesn’t know.
I pull away abruptly and stare at his face. His smiling, uninjured face.
The Sea Fox.
Reynard, who borrowed his name from the trickster fox from medieval fables.
Reynard…the fox.
“No,” I whisper in blossoming horror.
Reynard cradles my face in his hands. “What was the most valuable lesson I taught you, my darling?” he asks gently. “The one lesson you never could have eluded your enemies without?”
The answer burbles up from inside me on a wave of dizziness that almost makes me fall. “Disguise.”