The rest of the men waited for me, and then it seemed each man had a hand in shoving me in the boat.
“Are you hurt,piccola colomba?” Uncle Tito paused his assessment of Brando, spread out on the floor, to ask me.
Romeo covered my shoulders with a towel, rubbing his hands up and down my arms. I had started to tremble. My teeth chattered.
I shook my head and then nodded toward Brando.
“Ah,” Uncle Tito said, shoving his glasses further on his face. “Let us see.” He poked and prodded, and more of those low noises came from Brando. He tried to fight when Uncle Tito gave him a shot. Then after a few minutes, on the count of three, he set his arm. Brando didn’t move a muscle or flinch.
I stepped forward, ignoring Romeo’s attempts to hold me back, and collapsed next to my husband. The boat had started to move, and apart from the roar of the motor and the spraying of sea, it went silent, except for Uncle Tito murmuring to Rocco about the medical care Brando would need.
With the assessment over, Uncle Tito squeezed my hand and went to attend to Lev. Dario had been plugging his shoulder with a bandage, holding pressure.
“What is it, Sissy?” Romeo said, staring down at me in concern.
“It’s—Nemours. The boat he was in. It’s gone.”
“He got away,” Lev said as Uncle Tito bandaged the wound.
“Do not worry, Sissy,” Romeo said. “You are safe now. So is your husband.”
As if these words provoked the devil to prove us wrong, Romeo lifted his gun and fired two off. I turned just in time to see Galina— Lev’s other half in the Russian assassin world, or as I was prone to calling her, the ice princess—take a backward dive off the boat, a gun still in her hand. I had no idea where she came from, but I thought it was straight from hell.
“She was going to shoot my brother,” Romeo said, nodding toward Brando. “Her gun was aimed at his chest.”
No one said anything for a beat, only stared at the spot Galina had occupied and then didn’t. After a minute, I took Romeo’s hand and pulled him down, giving him an excuse to sit and absorb what had happened.
Lev had his eyes open, staring up at the stars. Feeling the weight of my stare, his gaze met mine, and he nodded. Yes, he confirmed, she was the traitor in his camp. Yes, she saw Nemours to safety. Yes, she was the reason Lev agreed to the rescue in the first place. Among other things.
I sighed, looking down. My hand rested close to Brando’s, so strong and able even after all he had been through. He stirred in his deep stupor, making noises that continued to rip my heart to shreds. Then he took my little finger with his own, held on, and I started to cry.
Chapter Thirty-One
Scarlett
My warm hand, pressed up against the cold glass, made an imprint. Even when I removed my palm, the ghost of the living still lingered for a second.
In the rose room at the castle, I stood with my back turned to the bed, watching as flurries of snow coated the land white. The golden light of warmer months had surrendered to the blue cold of winter.
Somehow—a miracle—a few roses were still blooming in the freeze. The red roses were coated in white, some of them frosted over, as if they lived in their own space and time, protected from the ravages of winter’s sharpness. I couldn’t tell whether the encapsulated blooms longed to break free or enjoyed the protection.
The pale reflection staring back at me, cheeks turned rosy by the wintry air, reflected the same dilemma—did I enjoy the stifling constraints of the castle, or was I ready to break free?
Only one person could answer the riddle. That person had no idea whether she was coming or going.
A drop of crystal water slid down one of the encapsulated roses’ stems, bursting on contact with its sharp thorn. The dagger-like appendage seemed to gleam silver in the wan light.
“Let us take a walk,” Vincenzo said, coming to stand in the middle of the doorframe. “You need air.”
I need something.
“Besides,” he added, leaning against the frame, “you are already dressed for it.”
He nodded to the thick fur cape that my mother had given to me. The hood covered my hair and kept me warm enough to stand the chill of the stone rooms. Though candles, heaters, and fireplaces blazed, the castle always held a chill.
Even after months, I could sometimes still taste the bitter shadow of sickness that had plagued me while under Giovi’s thumb. “All right,” I said softly, finally. I removed my hand from the glass, watching as the print faded into nothing but a palm-print, a brief imprint on time.
I pulled the cape around me tighter. Vincenzo had bundled up as well, his all-black ensemble stark against the glaring white of the world. His long hair was slicked back tight into a ponytail that rested at the nape of his neck.
