Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 108517 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 543(@200wpm)___ 434(@250wpm)___ 362(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108517 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 543(@200wpm)___ 434(@250wpm)___ 362(@300wpm)
There was silence.
“Is he alive?” he asked.
“In a manner of speaking.”
More silence.
“I want in,” Wahl said.
“You are in. I reached out to you because I trust you. Because he trusted you. I need you to investigate the case, bring me in as a consultant, and take the credit when it’s solved.”
“By solved, do you mean the truth or a cover story the National Assembly finds convenient?”
“It will be a version of the truth we can both live with.”
More silence.
“Fine,” Wahl said. “As long as you understand that I am a fucking FBI agent, and I will not allow myself or the agency to be used to delude the public.”
I could bring up the Warden Network and offer him a dozen examples of the FBI doing just that. But I needed him on my side, and I respected his ethics. They aligned with mine.
“I have every intention of solving this murder and bringing the culprit to justice. We’re not going to frame anyone or let anyone go unpunished. Can you live with that?”
“I’ll take it. I’m going to talk to the Cabera family.”
“Can I meet you there?”
“Yes. I want to get there by five. Don’t be late.” He hung up.
I walked over to Alessandro’s office. He leaned back in his chair, his feet on the table, a phone to his ear. I rapped my knuckles on the doorway. He winked at me.
“Love and kisses to Maya. Ciao!”
He hung up and grinned at me.
“Ciao?”
I had never heard him say that in a professional setting. Ciao was very informal, both a greeting and a goodbye, and it had originated from the Venetian dialect’s s’ciào vostro meaning “I am your slave.” The phrase wasn’t meant literally; it was used more as “I’m at your service” and it was mostly said to younger people and friends and family, those you knew very well.
“What’s the point of stereotypes if you can’t use them to your advantage?”
“I’m so glad to hear that.”
“Why?”
“Wahl called. He wants to interview the family. Kaylee, Luciana’s daughter, is my age. I need the Count.”
Alessandro’s entire persona changed. He took his feet off the table and sat straighter in his chair, throwing one long leg over the other. His pose acquired elegance. His expression turned suave. He looked worldly, slightly jaded, yet breathtakingly handsome.
“Is this the Count you were looking for?” A light Italian accent overlaid his words like a glossy polish.
“Yes. That’s the guy.”
“And what will this humble Count get if he comes with you?” His voice was like velvet.
“The satisfaction of a job well done?”
“I was thinking of something more substantial.”
“Like what?”
“Once this is over, we go away for a weekend to the coast. I don’t care which, as long as there is clear blue water and hot weather. No meetings, no appointments, no phone.”
I knew what he was asking. Whether Linus survived or not, we would do this, because it was about us alone. “Done. Will you take a kiss as a down payment?”
“I’d be a fool not to.”
I walked over and leaned down. My lips touched his. I started tentative and gentle, a tease rather than a promise, just a hint of things to come. His mouth opened. I caught his breath, and my tongue brushed his ever so slightly. His hand slid into my hair, and he kissed me back, hungry but savoring every moment. We kissed while the world stood still and when we finally came up for air, I had to stop myself from reaching for his clothes.
Count Sagredo gave me a dazzling smile. “I am at your service, tesoro mio.”
Luciana Cabera and her daughter lived in River Oaks, less than ten minutes away from Linus on foot, in a seven-million-dollar mansion. The 8,500 square foot home sat in the middle of a manicured acre and was built in what Alessandro started calling Houston European style, meaning it was a pseudo-Mediterranean beige stucco house with a colonnade and an inexplicable round turret of brown stone that matched nothing else.
Alessandro grimaced as we pulled up to the house and parked Rhino behind a stereotypical black SUV with federal license plates. Rhino was Grandma Frida’s special project, a custom armored SUV she built from the ground up. It was the most secure vehicle we had that could still pass for a somewhat civilian car.
“Snob.”
He gave me a pained look. “Why does it have a turret, Catalina? Are they expecting an army of medieval knights and trebuchets?”
“You never know,” I told him.
“It’s a Tuscan colonnade interrupted by a Scottish turret with Tudor windows.”
“You can hold on to my hand. I’ll lead you in while you avert your eyes.”
“No need.”
My phone chimed.
“Cornelius,” I told Alessandro and put the phone on speaker.
“You were right,” Cornelius said. “It’s recent. Less than twenty-four hours.”
Damn it. I had hoped I was wrong.
“Thank you so much.”