The Florentine Cypher: Kate Benedict Paranormal Mystery #3 (The Kate Benedict Series) (25 page)

When Aldo’s mobile rang, Claire bolted upright. I sat up too. This had to be the call from Santini. The one where he told Aldo and Renata to kill us. I tried to imagine how this would play out. Would they shoot us in the house? Too messy, probably. They’d do it outside. Would we be buried somewhere in the grounds, or dumped somewhere far away? I had no doubt these people had killed before. They were sure to have a good plan in place, but I hoped the police would discover our bodies quickly. It would be easier on my dad if he could bury me in the local church cemetery.

I don’t cry much. Usually, I keep my emotions under wraps, but now tears burned my eyes and blurred the room around me. I blinked until my vision cleared. All I could see was Claire’s aura, which churned like a whirlpool in a river. Heartsick, I slumped back against the lumpy pillow.

Aldo finished the call and told us to stand up. As I clambered to my feet, my legs cramped up from lying on the cement-like mattress. My back felt like an ironing board. Claire stood up beside me. She grabbed hold of my hand.

“Come with me,” Aldo ordered.

“I have to use the loo,” I said, in Italian this time. He frowned, but led us along the corridor and pushed the door open to a tiny, windowless room. The toilet was the old-fashioned kind with the water tank high up on the wall and a pull chain. I thought of using the chain as a weapon but after fumbling with it for a minute, I realized I couldn’t detach it. Aldo banged on the door and told me to hurry.

Defeated, I joined Claire in the hallway and we trailed Aldo down the stone staircase and into the warm kitchen, which smelled of coffee. Renata plunked a mug down in front of each of us, together with a plate holding a pastry wrapped in plastic. So much for the prisoner’s last meal, I thought. Still, I was hungry and I ripped away the wrapping. The croissant inside was stale but it tasted better when I dipped it in the coffee. Claire pushed her mug and plate away untouched.

Just as I finished the last drop of coffee, I heard the crunch of tires on the drive. Claire and I looked at each other. Apparently Aldo now had reinforcements to help him in his work.

A minute later, another man in a dark suit came into the kitchen and exchanged greetings with Renata. He accepted a cup of coffee, which he carried with him out into the hallway. Aldo followed him. A murmur of voices followed, but it was impossible to make out what they were saying over the noise of Renata slamming dishes around in the old stone sink.

No one seemed to be in a hurry, which made me want to scream with frustration. Maybe another few minutes should matter to me, but being stuck here with the grim nun and a posse of Italian hit men wasn’t an experience I wanted to extend.

Finally, Aldo returned. “Let’s go,” he said.

My legs turned to rubber when I stood up, but somehow I managed to stay on my feet. Renata threw evil looks at us as Aldo and the newbie led us out of the kitchen and towards the front door. I glanced at the urn as we passed, but there was no time to retrieve the diagram I’d dropped in there last night. There was no point anyway.

Outside, the world had shrunk. We moved through thick grey fog, seeing only a few meters ahead of us. Sounds were muffled and indistinct apart from a steady drip of water from the trees. An amorphous shape that loomed on the driveway gradually materialized as a large black car. I thought it was the same Alfa Romeo that had tailed us from Valeria’s place on Sunday afternoon. Aldo told us to get in the back seat and made sure we put on our seat belts, which I found amusing under the circumstances. Then he tied blindfolds around our eyes. I couldn’t understand why. It wasn’t as though we were going to be alive long enough to tell anyone anything. I heard him rustling into the passenger seat.

“Where are we going?” I asked, as the driver turned on the engine and put the car in gear.

“You’ll find out,” Aldo said.

We left the gravel drive and zigzagged down the hill. At the bottom, we turned, and the car continued to drive slowly on a road with lots of bends. My stomach did flips. Were we heading to a remote place in the country? A place where they could shoot us and bury us with no one in earshot and no witnesses? My dad would never know what happened to me. Claire grabbed my hand and squeezed so hard the blood stopped flowing to it.

After a while, the driver went faster, speeding through bends and accelerating on straight stretches. Not being able to see anything was horrible. Was it still foggy? Ridiculous as it was to worry about being killed in a car crash on the way to being shot, I sat rigidly in my seat. Josh always told me I was an impossible passenger, pressing imaginary brakes with my foot, flinching when we went over the speed limit. I tried not to think about Josh. It was too painful to imagine that I’d never see him again.

My thoughts were diverted by an explosion of curse words from the driver. We were all thrown forward as he braked hard and the car slowed down to a crawl. I held my breath.

Suddenly, our driver started yelling and I heard the loud click of gun safety catches being released.

“Heads down,” Aldo told us.

As I curled up next to Claire, keeping as low as possible, the windscreen cracked loudly. The driver groaned and Aldo swore. A few seconds passed before someone banged insistently on the window above our heads. The door locks clicked open and then someone shouted at us to get up.

I eased into a sitting position, only to be yanked out of my seat. A man in jeans and a leather jacket peeled off my blindfold and then did the same for Claire.

“Walk to the Mercedes and get in.” Our new captor had a gun in his hand, so we began walking. I heard shouts behind us and turned to peer through the fog. The second man, a massive brute with no neck, was fastening zip ties around Aldo’s wrists and yelling at our driver, who was leaning on the car, holding his head. There was blood on his hand, but he was conscious and upright. I watched as the neckless man gestured to them both to follow him into the trees that bordered the road.

“Is he going to kill them?” Claire asked.

“I don’t think so. Neither of them had auras.”

The man in the leather jacket pointed his gun at the Alfa Romeo and shot out the tires, one by one. The sound of the shots startled a flock of crows that flew up, cawing, their black wings flailing in the swirling grey mist.

“Get in the Mercedes,” he told us again.

There really wasn’t any choice, so we climbed into the back seat.

“Who are these people? What are they going to do with us?” Claire looked terrified when the two men got into the car, the man in the leather jacket in the driver’s seat. The bigger thug sat on the passenger side, his shoulders wider than the seat back. The fabric of his suit jacket strained over his upper arms.

So quietly I hadn’t even noticed the engine start, the car pulled away.

“Who are you?” Claire asked, but neither of the men responded. I looked out to see that we were joining the A1, heading north, back towards Florence. My mind raced. These men couldn’t be working for the cardinal. But, apart from Santini, no one knew where we were.

We left the autostrada at the Impruneta exit, moving through slow commuter traffic. After passing the Porta Romana, we headed towards the city center, and soon entered the
zona a traffico limitato
, where most cars were prohibited. Obviously this car had a resident pass or they just didn’t care about paying the penalties.

As we turned on to Via dei Pescioni, close to the Palazzo Strozzi, Claire nudged me and leaned over to whisper. “This is the road Dante lives on.”

We stopped outside a four-story villa with pedimented windows and a massive arched front door in the center. The wall of the ground floor was rusticated, covered with heavy stone blocks that gave the impression of a solid, indestructible foundation, while the walls of the upper floors were finished in smooth rose-colored stucco. A beautifully sculpted cornice crowned the building. It was a breathtakingly perfect piece of architecture. I looked at my watch. It was nine, an hour ahead of London. Laura would be at work, preparing for the big meeting with the Randall Group tomorrow. And waiting for me to show up.

While I was musing about architecture and my job, Claire had visibly perked up. She sat up straight and checked that the buttons on her shirt were all fastened. I noticed her biting her lips to bring the blood to them as she patted her hair into place.

“This is Dante’s place?” I hazarded a guess. She nodded.

“So he’s kidnapped us? Taken us away from Santini?”

“Of course not. He saved us. It was a rescue.”

I wasn’t sure about that, but there was no time to argue. The men disembarked and opened the back doors for Claire and me. They’d hidden their guns under their jackets, but they still had a menacing look about them as they led us into a large entry hall, softly lit by crystal chandeliers, with several oil paintings in heavy gilt frames hung on the walls. A porter sat at a walnut desk reading a newspaper. He jumped to his feet when he saw our merry crew.

To one side of the lobby, a creamy marble staircase with a wrought iron banister curved upwards, but the porter led us to a small elevator and ushered us in. I shivered, my claustrophobia rearing its head. A sign indicated that the maximum capacity was six people, but it was crowded with the four of us. Mirrors lined the tiny cubicle, creating reflections of us all. The two men were multiplied, producing a small army. Were they assassins? Kidnappers? They certainly weren’t very friendly.

When the elevator slid smoothly to a stop, the doors opened into a spacious living room. It was opulently decorated with thick rugs in deep red and green hues that softened the burnished wooden floor. A fire crackled in the fireplace under a carved limestone mantel. Dark wood paneling glowed in the light of the blaze, a rosy backdrop for works of art in heavy golden frames. “Please wait here,” the big man said in Italian before he left, closing the door behind him.

A couple of minutes later, another man entered. Tall, handsome, with thick black hair that waved away from his face, he wore a dark grey suit and a pristine white shirt. I had no doubt this was Dante. At once, he held his arms out to Claire, and she moved into his embrace. They made a good-looking couple.

“Did you organize that rescue?” she asked as she pulled away from him.

He smiled. “I did. Rocco must have done a good job.”

My head was spinning. “I’m Kate. Thank you for saving us.” I said. “Is Rocco the big guy?”

Dante laughed. “Yes. He looks a lot meaner than he really is.” He shook my hand. “It’s good to meet you,” he said. “I want you both to tell me everything that’s happened, but first please sit down and rest. Coffee?”

“Yes, please.” I sank into a luxuriously soft sofa and felt my back relax for the first time that morning. Claire and Dante sat together on the sofa facing me.

“So?” Claire said, looking at Dante. “How did you know that the cardinal had captured us? How did your men know where we were?”

Dante held up a hand. “I’ll tell you everything. First, are you all right? Did Santini or his men hurt you?”

“No, we’re both fine,” Claire said. “We tried to escape and got shot at.” Her skin blanched. “Is that Santini’s villa we were held in? Have you been there?”

“My family has owned the place for a long time, but I haven’t been in it for years. My brother and I don’t get along well.” He echoed what Santini had told us the night before.

He paused as a middle-aged woman in a tailored blue dress came into the room. She and Claire greeted each other politely and Dante introduced her to me as Patrizia, his assistant. She set down a tray of gold-rimmed porcelain espresso cups and a plate of tiny fruit tartlets. I wolfed down a couple, thinking wistfully of a full English breakfast.

When she’d gone, Dante answered Claire’s questions. “When I stopped hearing from you, I was concerned. I had people out looking for you, but they lost you after you got off the train at Bologna. I keep an eye on Santini, and we eventually realized that he’d kidnapped you. Fortunately, we were able to work out where he’d taken you in time to arrange that interception this morning.”

Dante had people out looking for us? Men to watch his brother? Was he paranoid or was it just the result of a life spent conducting secretive business with discreet customers? Claire must have felt the same. “Why do you have people watching your brother?” she asked. “And why do you even have someone like Rocco working for you?”

“It’s a little complicated. Rocco’s on staff because of the nature of my business. I deal with very wealthy people, and I need to protect the artworks, and sometimes myself, too. There are times when a buyer or seller is using a piece of art to launder money or for some other illicit purpose. I’ve worked with the police to prevent a few crimes, and made some enemies along the way. As for Santini, well, he’s not to be trusted.”

“Definitely not,” Claire said. “He threatened to kill us.”

Dante sipped his coffee. “What did he want from you?”

“A key,” Claire answered.

He nodded. “Of course. The key to the vault.”

“You know about the vault?” I asked.

“It is an obsession of my brother’s. Personally, I doubt the vault still exists. He, however, is convinced it holds priceless artworks.”

He put his cup and saucer down on a beautiful inlaid end table.

“So you know about the Custodians and their art collection?” I asked.

He nodded. “It has been part of our family lore for generations. We grew up hearing stories of the fabulous treasures the Custodians once curated. But it was old history, a romantic notion of a bygone era. My brother just chose to believe it all.”

Perhaps noticing the expression of disappointment on Claire’s face, he smiled at her. “It is true that the Custodians existed in the fifteenth century and probably for several hundred years after that. But the group struggled through Italy’s invasion by Napoleon, and its interminable civil wars. Any surviving members were either killed or exiled during the early years of Mussolini’s Fascist movement, as were hundreds of officials and city elders who found themselves on the wrong side of the political divide. That was the end of the Custodians.”