* * *
The ride to thecastellowas silent. Mia looked out of the window, absorbing her surroundings, as Brando took his time around the lanes, still finding his way around.
We were deeper into the property than I’d assumed the night before.
One thing I had gotten right—it was vast, a city amongst a city.
Rolling hills, valleys, peaks, fringes of wild forests, and beyond, a river, or some sort of body of water. Even if the gates were breached, which I highly doubted, there were cameras attached to trees and men swarming with fully loaded weapons.
We passed other villas, complete with their own gates, standing guards, and long, winding driveways that would take a minute or two to reach by car.
“Did you know it was like this? Back here?” I turned to Brando, setting my Ray-Bans on the tip of my nose to see him better. “It’s—” I waved a hand, encompassing all that we were passing. “This isn’t some sort of cult, is it?”
“Don’t drink the orange juice, if it’s offered,” he said seriously.
“Or the chianti?”
“No alcohol at all.” His tone brooked no argument. He took my hand in his, bringing it to his mouth, kissing my knuckles. “Yeah, I knew it was like this. Marzio had invited us to stay—gave us an open invitation.”
My eyes narrowed because he was being too vague. Before I could call him out on it, Mia picked up on the one word that had interested her.
Juice, she wanted juice.
She started to sing from the back seat, rocking her head back and forth. “Uice, uice, uice. Ia uice.” Her voice was soft, almost breathed out, but sometimes she could hit a high pitch.
Catching her own reflection in the window, she gave herself a smile, showing all four teeth.
Brando laughed, smiling at her through the mirror. She did too, parroting his laugh. “Ha ha ha.”
“I have to tell you something, Brando,” I said in Italian. I had wanted to tell him earlier, but with all that had happened, it had slipped my mind. Since the castle was in close distance, I wanted to get it out.
Always assuming the worst—that it had to do with me specifically—he gave me a hard look from underneath his own Ray-Bans.
“Tell me.” His tone was cold.
There was no easing into this.
“Ettore is dying. I think.”
“You felt that.”
I shook my head. “Not exactly.”
I explained what I’d seen, the blood on the handkerchief, and then told him what he had said to me in the car, accusing me of cursing him with my thorns. I also brought up Eva.
Eva Roberts was a peculiar soul like me, except she had visions and they came to her in dreams. A while back, while we were over at her and her husband’s place on the bank of Bayou Teche in Louisiana, she had met Ettore and told me of a premonition she had.
“He’s not going to kill your husband,” she’d said. “Your husband is going to kill him.”
She went on, describing the dream, but it was hard for me to concentrate. I didn’t want Brando to kill Ettore, just as much as I didn’t want Ettore to kill my husband.
Eva had continued to talk through my disquiet.
“Wait,” I’d interrupted. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”
“His chest turned black. It stemmed from his heart.”
I had quelled the urge to put my hand over my mouth. Brando was going to…follow in Marzio’s footsteps, and what? Steal his uncle’s heart?
