There was no doubt in my mind that Brando wasn’t far behind. If he didn’t know where we were headed, he soon would. What would he do once he found us? Better question. What did these people plan to do with us?
“Oh.” I opened my eyes. “Are you going to use me as bait? To draw Giulio Cesare out?”
“If only it were that simple,” Ettore mumbled to himself.
Vincenzo gave me a hard look through the mirror. “Sleep, Scarlett.”
Sleep wasn’t possible, but I closed my eyes, attempting to escape the predicament we were in.
Fifteen minutes out, I heard Vincenzo mutter to Ettore, “Call him,” in Italian.
My ears perked, but I kept my eyes shut.
There was some shuffling before I heard Ettore say, “The woman and child will be at the estate.” He had called Rocco, not Brando. I could hear his voice on the other line.
A few minutes of conversation went back and forth in Italian.
“No, no, she is not hurt. Neither of them. I—no, nephew. Yes. Vincenzo will stay with her until her husband arrives. Yes. You found the keys, what is the issue?”
Oh, so this was not about us but about Brando. Someone—I refused to dwell on who I suspected—wanted my husband to come to the estate. The only way to get him there was to use bait.
My theory was close—just the wrong players.
Judging from the conversation, Vincenzo must have taken all of the keys and hidden them, so the men had to get the spares. It gave them more time for a head start.
If they were drawing Brando out, then that meant whoever waited wanted him to come to him.
I crossed myself. I wasn’t sure if I was ready for the rising sun to shed light on all the waiting secrets.
* * *
It was still dark when we made it to our destination. Men with guns waited by an ornate gate, and at Vincenzo’s signal, they let us through.
Though I couldn’t see all the minute details of the place, it was easy enough to see that the central place was grand. Acastello. But we only stopped long enough to deliver Ettore to the front doors.
Vincenzo drove on, and the place seemed like a city in and of itself. I wasn’t sure how many hectares the castle sat on, butvastandsprawlingcame to mind—perhaps endless. It was its own kingdom. Different routes seemed to go to different places.
Glancing back, I saw that there was a labyrinth made out of tall shrubs fading in the distance. It sat behind the castle. Probably a focal point from the medieval looking windows.
My driver didn’t seem to have a problem navigating the place. He must’ve noticed the look on my face as he took turns, left and right, because he offered up some information. Our conversation took place in Italian.
“I grew up here,” he said.
“You must be so proud.” I couldn’t hide the sarcasm in my voice.
He slowed the car to a crawl to meet my challenging stare.
“I will keep you and Mia safe,” he said.
“My husband does a fine job of that already.”
He lifted his hands, as if to say,I can’t win here, and then let them fall to the steering wheel in defeat.
He proceeded forward, through another gate armed with men. What met us next was a Tuscan-style cottage. It was something out of an Italian fairytale with its blazing torches out front, rounded front door, apricot-colored stucco, and exposed stone façade. Each window was outlined by traditional wooden shutters.
“Is this where you lived?” I asked.
“No.” He shook his head. “This place was meant for your husband.”
