There’s still enough daylight left for me to see the long stretch of lawn leading down to the pool, the formal garden with its rosebushes and fountains, and the pool house off in the distance.
And the fast-moving line of men dressed in black combat gear making their way toward the main house, snaking in and out between the trunks of the trees, tactical rifles held at the ready.
I also see four men lying facedown on the lawn, scattered around like discarded dolls.
Gianni’s guards.
“We’ve got company,” I tell Mrs. Caruso.
She chuckles. “Thank you, Captain Obvious.”
I turn and glare at her. “Will you get under the bloody table, please?”
“I can get shot there as easily as I can right here. And you should be worrying about Lili, not me. She’s up in her bedroom, in case you were wondering. Turn left at the top of the staircase, last room at the end of the hall.”
Shaking my head, I pull the revolver from my ankle holster and set it on the table in front of her. Then I switch off the lights in the kitchen and leave Mrs. Caruso with her wine.
I head swiftly down the corridor outside, where I encounter Gianni coming out of his study with a shotgun in his hands.
“I counted six,” I tell him. “There may be more.”
“Where?”
“North side of the yard. Headed in fast. How many armed guards are on property?”
“A dozen.”
“You’re down to eight. You have a safe room in the house?”
He nods. “In the basement.”
“Lili’s in her room. Get her and take her to the basement. I’ll deal with our visitors.”
“I’ve already put everything into lockdown mode,” he protests. “The doors and windows are bulletproof and the walls are reinforced. There’s no way they can get in the house.”
“There’s always a way.”
As if proving my point, an explosion somewhere nearby rips through the house, setting the chandeliers swinging and plaster tumbling down in chunks from the frescos on the walls.
“Any idea who your friends might be?” I ask Gianni, eyeing the marble statue of Apollo teetering dangerously atop a column nearby.
“Maybe they’re your friends,” he retorts. “We’ve all got targets on our backs.”
“Fair enough. Where’s Reyna?”
Glancing around, he mutters, “Probably off somewhere sharpening her claws and boiling the skulls of her enemies.”
If we weren’t in the current situation, I might actually laugh at that.
“Get Lili and get to the basement. Don’t open the door for anyone but me.”
Without waiting for his response, I head toward the explosion, moving swiftly and staying away from the windows. After turning down several corridors, I find the one with smoke drifting in the air and rubble scattered over the travertine.
I back up a few steps, crouch low against the wall, and listen.
It’s silent for several seconds. Then I hear the crunch of broken glass under a boot.
I lean around the corner and open fire.
A hail of bullets screams past my face, missing my nose by inches. Jerking back to safety, I’m gratified to hear the heavy thud of a body dropping against the floor.
There’s a low groan, a wet gurgle, then silence.
Another quick peek around the corner reveals one of the intruders lying flat on his back, staring with sightless eyes at the ceiling.
Other than him, the hallway is empty.
They split up.
I run to the corpse, crouch beside him, and do a quick search of his jacket and tactical pants. He has no ID, phone, or wallet. The only things I come up with are spare cartridges of ammo for the rifle.
I pull off his gloves and shove up his coat sleeves, looking for tattoos, but his skin is bare. So is his stomach and chest when I yank up his T-shirt.
Interesting.
All made men have tattoos that declare their family affiliation. The only lads who don’t wear ink are those who don’t want anyone to know who they are.
In other words, they’re hired help.
Mercenaries.
Gunfire erupts at the front of the house, outside in the courtyard. Most likely it’s Gianni’s other guards putting up a fight to the newcomers in black. I’ll worry about them as soon as I deal with whoever else is inside.
Heading down the corridor again, I come to a ragged hole blown through the exterior wall. The floor all around is littered with debris.
It’s about a six-by-six opening. A substantial size, which means substantial firepower. This mess was made by something with much more oomph than a hand grenade, especially considering the walls are reinforced.
The echo of heavy footsteps catches my attention.
I duck into a niche in the wall and listen as the footsteps move farther away. I can tell there’s more than one man, but not more than three. Holding my handgun at low ready and keeping my footfalls as light as possible, I walk farther down the corridor until I come to a break in the wall, beyond which is an enormous sitting room with a glossy black grand piano in the corner.
Two men with rifles move swiftly among the clusters of sofas and chairs. The scopes of their weapons are held to their masked faces, the muzzles pointed at a figure standing still on the other side of the room.
It’s Reyna.
Her hands hang loosely at her sides. Her expression is impassive. She watches the men approach with an eerie detachment in her eyes, as if the scene unfolding in front of her is happening to someone else.
She’s in shock. Fuck. Reyna, run!
I raise my weapon, take aim, and fire.
Brains splatter the wallpaper in a chunky vivid patchwork of red. The intruder the brain belonged to drops heavily to his knees. He falls face-first onto the carpet.
The other one spins on his heel and jerks the muzzle of his rifle in my direction.
Before he can get off his shot, Reyna pulls a knife from a pocket in her dress and embeds it in his neck.
He screams, staggering sideways and dropping his rifle. As he grapples with the blade jutting out from the side of his neck, desperately trying to dislodge it, I put a bullet between his eyes.
He jerks and falls, landing backward on a velvet sofa. Blood squirts erratically from the wound in his neck. Then he slides slowly to the floor and remains still, his mouth hanging open.
Reyna looks at me with undisguised irritation.
“I had it handled, Quinn.”
This woman. Jesus, God, you really broke the mold when you made this one.
“You were about to get your bloody head shot off! And you’re welcome!”
Rolling her eyes as if she thinks I’m being ridiculous, she kneels down next to the body in front of the sofa. She yanks the knife from his neck, wipes the blade on his jacket, and stashes it back into the hidden pocket in the skirt of her dress. She picks up his rifle, checks to make sure there’s a round in the chamber, and stands.
“You know these guys?”
Impressed by her utter calm, I say, “No. You?”
She shakes her head. “Where’s Lili?”
“Gianni’s taken her to the safe room.”
“And Mamma?”
“In the kitchen alone, drinking wine in the dark.”
She nods, as if what I’ve just told her is entirely normal. When more gunfire erupts outside, she says, “Any idea how many of them there are?”
“I counted six. Killed one in the hallway. Plus these two, that leaves three left.”
“Two.”
“How do you figure?”
“I killed another one on my way in here.”
“Of course you did.”
With a toss of her head, she flips her hair over her shoulder. “Flashed my tits at him. He froze like a deer in headlights.”
Funny how I can be insanely jealous of a dead man I’ve never met.
“How creative.”
“Men are annoyingly predictable.”
“Tits are our Achilles’ heel. Now get down to the basement with your brother and Lili. I’ll clear the rest of—”
“Oh, shut up, Quinn,” she interrupts crossly, then spins around and strides out of the room.
I have to take a moment to press a hand over my heart, which is having a seizure.
No matter how long I live, I’ll never forget the image of Reyna Caruso in a black dress and stilettos, carrying a high-caliber rifle at the ready as she heads off to hunt armed intruders, her full hips swaying and her long dark hair flaring out behind her like a flag.
I leap into action again when I hear the staccato pulse of shots fired.
Weaving around the velvet chairs and tufted divans, I head out of the room. I search five more rooms on the ground floor, each bigger than the last and seemingly used for nothing more than display of hideous furniture and frightening, religious-themed art.
All are empty.
Near the staircase in the foyer, a man clad in black combat gear lies facedown in a pool of blood. His weapon is missing. The front door stands wide open. I see three of Gianni’s guards sprint past outside, in pursuit of someone running on foot.
Several seconds later, there’s more gunfire, then some shouting in Italian that sounds celebratory.