But before I could entirely shut down the idea, Tristan crawled out of the carriage, stretching and yawning.
“I don’t want to sleep on the ground for two nights,” he whined. “Let’s stay with him.”
I turned on him with a hiss. “And how do you intend to repay his generosity?”
Tristan shrugged. “Sounds like he won’t ask for anything. He wants the company.”
I narrowed my eyes at the count. In my experience, people always wanted something in return for their kindness. No favor was ever truly free.
But the thought of sleeping on the hard ground, listening to Tristan complain the entire time, was somehow even less appealing.
“All right,” I said to Count Montego. “We’ll stay.”
“Excellent! I assure you, it’s no trouble at all.”
Count Montego waited for me to climb back into the driver’s seat and for Tristan to crawl into the carriage before clucking the horses forward.
I sat in brooding silence, my thoughts circling Malik’s absence like vultures over a battlefield. I hadn’t expected this delay. What if something had held him up? Every wasted moment gnashed me—I needed to find the dagger. More than that, I needed to find Olivia.
I missed her more than words could express. The last time I saw her—truly saw her—was the day I rode into battle against the Kiowas. It felt like another lifetime.
Then, like a whisper in my mind, Lee’s voice surfaced.
If something happens, seek out Giovanni Zampa.
Of course. Giovanni Zampa.
A new sense of purpose settled over me, chasing away my frustration.
Half an hour later, we arrived at Count Montego’s villa, an estate as grand as the man himself. As we passed through towering iron gates, the horses quickened, no doubt eager to be freed from their harnesses.
Two groomsmen met us at the entrance, swiftly taking the reins and leading the carriage and horses away.
The count motioned for us to follow. With a silent glance at Tristan, I stepped over the threshold, my senses on high alert.
Inside, the villa was even grander than I’d expected. High ceilings soared above us, their intricate frescoes depicting mythological scenes in vivid color. The polished tile floors gleamed beneath the warm glow of a dozen candelabras, and elaborate paintings lined the walls, each frame dripping with wealth and history.
We followed Count Montego down a long hallway toward the back of the house, where he opened a door and ushered us into a sprawling room filled with dark wood furniture and towering bookshelves.
With a sweeping gesture, the count motioned to the many treasures within. He pointed out a leather-bound edition of Francis Bacon’s Essays nestled among the shelves, then directed our attention to a painting of a woman playing a guitar, her expression serene yet knowing.
“Ah, this one,” he mused, tilting his head toward the portrait. “A distantrelative of mine. She left her native Spain to seek her fortune in Paris. Beautiful, wasn’t she?”
I got caught up in the tale. The story of a woman abandoning home and comfort for the unknown struck a familiar chord—a fitting introduction to the count’s world.
Montego turned to us with a welcoming smile. “Please, feel at home. My estate is yours to enjoy. Whatever your heart desires—whores, exquisite food and wine, wild entertainment—I will provide it all for your pleasure.”
The years seemed to slip from his shoulders as he spoke, his youthful exuberance momentarily revived by the decadent promises he made.
I inclined my head. “Thank you, Count Montego, but I shall require none.” My words were polite but resolute.
Before he could respond, the air shifted. From a doorway at the rear of the house, an elegantly dressed man stepped forward, his gaze sweeping over us as he approached.
“Antonio, please show Signore Alexander’s manservant to the servant’s quarters,” Count Montego instructed, nodding toward Tristan. “And I shall escort Signore Alexander to his room upstairs.”
Antonio inclined his head. “Come,” he said in Italian, gesturing for Tristan to follow.
Tristan’s brow furrowed in confusion.
