The Sword of Fire

CHAPTER TWELVE

Lea Donovan opened her eyes and saw nothing but white. She blinked and noticed an ornate chandelier suspended from the ceiling. The scent of roses and cedar wood drifted over her face. She blinked again and heaved herself up on her elbows.

She was on a large four poster bed covered in white sheets, and beside her was a small table with a glass of water and a bowl of potpourri. Now she smelled the cinnamon and cloves. It was all very comfortable.

But not safe.

She took a deep breath and swung her legs off the bed. Pushing through some silk voiles. She emerged into a large, expensively furnished bedroom and took in her surroundings. Modern, clean lines and abstract art on the walls. Eclectic tastes.

A scream.

“What the hell was that?” she muttered, walking over to the window.

She heard another horrifying, blood-curdling scream. Was it some kind of animal? It sounded almost like a bull in tremendous pain, but there was a human quality to the agony that gave her the jitters.

The room had two large windows each with its own juliet balcony. She went around to the other window and pushed it open. The screams were louder now, and coming from behind the house. She considered climbing over the balcony and lowering herself down to the ground. Leaning over the top rail of the balcony she counted the windows down the ground and realized she was three floors up: no dice on the escape plan.

With the hideous bellowing gradually fading out, she turned back into the room and saw a short man with slicked-back hair and deep, cavernous eyes standing in the doorway. He was leaning on the door jamb with his arms casually crossed over his chest. He stared at her intensely, and she recognized the eyes at once: this was the man who had kidnapped her in Dublin.

“Ciao, bella.”

Lea took a step back, and returned his gaze. She didn’t want to break eye contact and show fear or weakness, but she searched the room with her peripheral vision for anything she could use as a weapon. The only thing that came to mind was the crystal potpourri bowl. She reckoned it was heavy enough to knock the man out if she got a good enough swipe at him, but she had no way of knowing what sort of hand-to-hand combat skills he could bring to bear on her during a struggle.

She took a step toward the small table with the lamp and the potpourri. “Who are you?”

“I am Toscano. I work here.”

“And where is here?”

The man smiled grimly and pushed himself off the door jamb. He moved into the room and pulled a Beretta Neos from a shoulder holster beneath his jacket. “Hands in the air and step away from the table.”

Damn. He had figured her out. It was pretty obvious when you thought about, she considered.

She did as he instructed and raised her hands. The man took a step away from her to increase the distance between them and raised the gun to point at her chest. “We’re going for a little walk.”

He waved the gun in the direction of the door and took another step back so there was at least six feet between them as she stepped out into the corridor. To say Toscano was giving off a bad vibe was the understatement of the century, so Lea was only too happy with the large space he was putting between them.

“So where are we going?” she asked.

“You will see soon enough.”

He ordered her along the corridor and then down a broad, sweeping staircase rendered in polished white marble. “So what was that screaming noise?” she said.

“I heard no screams,” Toscano said quietly. He sounded a little less cocky now.

They came to a set of heavy double doors and Toscano ordered her to stand still. She obeyed and then he stepped forward and knocked three times. A short pause, pregnant with serious tension, was ended when a deep, fat voice told them to come in.

Toscano straightened his tie and pushed open the door to reveal a large dining room. A long wooden table stretched away to the other end of the room. At the far end of the table, a heavy-set man in a suit was fiddling with a large sauce-stained buttonhole napkin which was hanging down from his collar.

With a mouth full of food, he sloppily waved Toscano and Lea into the room, as if he were greeting the oldest of friends. “Come closer.”

Toscano pushed her forward with a light nudge between her shoulders and she made her way toward the other man. As she drew closer to him she noticed that nestling among the elaborate table décor was a matte black pistol with a wooden grip which she recognized at once as a Pardini GT9. Beside it was the golden idol they had found in Maggie Donovan’s things, but no sign of the manuscript.

Closer now she saw he was just about to start eating a large lobster. It was sitting on a broad silver dinner plate surrounded by a lavish avocado and grapefruit salad. A second plate of lobster was at an empty seat beside him.

“Who are you and why have you brought me here?”

The man pulled off one of the lobster’s claws and held it in his hand for a moment. “Don’t you know?”

“I wouldn’t have asked if I knew,” she said defensively.

He picked up some metal crackers and broke open the lower part of the claw. “I am Giancarlo Zito.” He cracked open one of the knuckles and pushed out the meat with a wooden fork before sliding it into his mouth and chewing. He picked up the tail, pushed more meat out and began to peel it with the fork. Speaking with his mouth full of the lobster meat, he said, “Everyone around here knows my name.”

“I’m not from around here.”

He stared at her and nodded sagely. Dipping the tail meat into a bowl of hot water beside his dinner plate, he sighed loudly and then ate some more. This time he waited until he had finished before continuing. “You think I don’t know where you are from? My men took you off the streets of Dublin. I know where you are from. If you were from here, you wouldn’t be so relaxed right now.” He leaned forward in his chair and swigged from a generous glass of Viognier. “Are you not going to eat your lobster?”

Lea pushed the plate away. “I don’t seem to have an appetite. Being kidnapped by a bunch of hoodlums does that to a girl.”

“Such a shame — this is Maine lobster I had flown in just a few hours ago, live. As fresh as it gets.”

“Why am I here Mr Zito?”

Zito stopped eating and set his wine glass down. “You are here because someone wants you to be here.”

“You?”

“Not me, no. I couldn’t care less about you — no offense.”

Lea never broke eye contact. “None taken.”

Zito pushed his chair back and rose to his feet. He raised one of his hands and snapped his fingers. “Toscano — bring Miss Donovan the zabaione.”

“I already told you, I’m not hungry.”

Zito stared out across the sun-drenched Tyrrhenian Sea and admired the view for a few tense moments. “In the mythology of Ancient Greece, it was believed that Aeolus kept the four winds hidden in the cliffs surrounding these water — the Mistral from the north, the Libeccio from the southwest and the Ostro and fierce sirocco from the south. This region is steeped in ancient folklore and myth. It is why I choose to live here.”

“Who ordered you to steal the manuscript and kidnap me?”

Zito was still studying the rise and fall of the sea. “This is a very big question, and I am not sure you will like the answer.”

“Try me.”

“Both the manuscript and you are to be delivered tomorrow.” He turned and faced her. He offered a sympathetic smile. “Then, you will have your answer.”