Blue Bloods: Keys to the Repository

Schuyler felt her mood lift as they pulled into the bay at Vernazza. The view could bring a smile to anyone’s face, and even Jack brightened. The rock ledges were spectacular, and the houses that clung to them looked as ancient as the stones themselves. They docked the boat, and the foursome hiked up the cliffside toward the trail.

The five towns that formed the Cinque Terre were connected by a series of stony paths—some almost impossible to climb, Iggy explained as they walked past a succession of tiny stucco homes. The Venator was in a jubilant mood, telling them the history of every house they walked past. “And this one, my auntie Clara sold in 1977 to a nice family from Parma; and this right here was where the most beautiful girl in Italy lived (kissing noise), but . . . Red Blood lady, you know how they are . . . picky . . . oh, and this is where . . .” Iggy called out to farmers they came across as they walked through the backyards and fields, patting animals as they snuck through their pastures. The trail wound back and forth from grassland to homes to the very edge of the sea cliffs. Schuyler watched tiny rocks tumble over the side of the hill as they made their way forward.

Iggy kept the conversation flowing, while Drago nodded and laughed to himself, as if he had taken the tour one time too many and was merely humoring his friend as Iggy’s long-winded tales took most of the morning. The climb was hard work, but Schuyler was glad for the chance to stretch her muscles, and she was certain Jack was too. They had spent too much time on the boat, and while they had been allowed to swim in the ocean, it wasn’t the same as a good hike in the open air. In a few hours they had worked their way from Vernazza to Corniglia, and then Manarolla. Schuyler noticed that they passed the day without seeing a single car or truck, not a phone line or power cable.

This is it, Jack sent. Over there.

Schuyler knew he meant he had judged their distance to be nearly halfway between the two towns. It was time. Schuyler tapped Iggy on the shoulder, and gestured toward a craggy outcropping that hung over the cliffside. “Lunch?” she twinkled.

Iggy smiled. “Of course! In all my exuberance, I forgot to let us stop to eat!”

The spot to which Schuyler had led them was in a peculiar location. The trail stretched out toward a promontory, so that there were cliffs on either side of the narrow path. The two Venators spread one of the Countess’s spotless white tablecloths over a grassy plateau between the rough stones, and the four of them crammed in the small space. Schuyler tried not to gaze down as she snuggled up as close to the edge as possible.

Jack sat across from her, gazing over her shoulder at the shoreline below. He kept his eye on the beach as Schuyler helped unpack the basket. She brought out salamis and prosciutto di Parma, finocchiona, mortadella, and air-cured beef. The meat came in long rolls, or cut into small discs wrapped in wax paper. There was a loaf of rosemary cake, along with a brown paper bag full of almond tarts and jam crostata. It was a pity it was all going to go to waste. Drago pulled out several plastic containers filled with Italian cheese: pecorino and fresh burrata wrapped in green asphodel leaves. Schuyler cut into the burrata and took a bite. It was buttery and milky, rivaling the view in splendor.

She caught Jack’s eye briefly. Get ready, he sent. She continued to smile and eat, even as her stomach clenched. She turned briefly to see what Jack had seen. A small motorboat had pulled up to the beach below. Who would have known a former North African pirate from the Somali coast would prove to be such a reliable contact? Schuyler thought. Even from far above, she could see that he had brought them what they had asked for: one of their fastest speedboats, jerry-rigged with a grossly oversized engine.

Iggy popped open a bottle of Prosecco, and the four of them toasted the sun-drenched coastline with friendly smiles. He lifted his hand in a wide gesture as he gazed down at the midday feast. “Shall we begin?”

That was the moment she had been waiting for. Schuyler sprang into action. She leaned back and appeared to lose her balance for a moment, then bent forward and tossed the full contents of her wineglass into Drago’s face. The alcohol stung his eyes and he looked baffled; but before he could react, Iggy slapped him on the back and guffawed heartily, as if Schuyler had made a particularly funny joke.

With Drago momentarily blinded and Iggy’s eyes closed in laughter, Jack moved to strike. He slid a shank out from his shirtsleeve and into his palm, flipped it around, and drove the knife deep into Drago’s chest, sending the Italian sprawling to the ground, bleeding from the hole in his torso. Schuyler had helped Jack make the blade from one of the deck boards; he had hollowed out the back of a loose stair tread and whittled it against a stone she’d found on a dive. The plank was made from ironwood, and it served as a dangerous and deadly little dagger.