“Vitali’s the only one who knows where we are right now, so I guess we’ll find out fast if itishim. But do you really believe he’d betray us? Or, perhaps more importantly, that he’d betray that priest friend of yours? The fallout from something like that would destroy his relationship, and he would know it, too.”
Finch swallows and rubs a hand across his eyes. “So you’re saying it’s Tara?”
“I’m saying there are ways to intercept electronic communications, and that becoming suspicious of our closest allies will only lead to paranoia and poor decisions.” I drain my espresso and set the cup down. “Trust me,” I add with feeling. “I’ve been there.”
Finch laughs at that. It’s only a shadow of his usual loud, carefree laugh, the one I love to hear, but given the night we’ve had, it still fills me with gladness. “Okay,” he says. “Good point.” He yawns before adding, “And Aidan’snota priest, and you damn well know it.”
I get a confirmation text from Vitali, and pat Finch’s hand. “Come on, sleepyhead. Let’s get you into bed.”
“Mm. You know I’m always up for it.”
“Sleep,” I tell him, pulling him up from his seat, “not sex. You had a big adventure last night, baby bird. You deserve to rest.”
But after we pick up the key and reach our Venetian accommodation, Finch gets a second wind. “Holy shit,” he breathes, after I wave him into the palazzo before me. “Are you serious? I thought we were keeping our heads down.”
“We can keep our heads downandenjoy what Venice has to offer. Besides, this is a Morelli property. It has everything we need as far as protection and security, as well as being beautiful.”
Before Finch, I could put up with a lot. I used to live in a shitty one-room on the outskirts of Manhattan, with only occasionally-working AC and a never-working elevator. Finch was the one who started to show me what luxury really meant—and Tino, through his gift of our honeymoon on his yacht, and then later the townhouse.
Spending even a short amount of time in that first Roman hotel room showed me that I’ve changed since those days. I’m not as bad as Finch, who acts like he might die if he doesn’t get enough legroom on a plane, but I’m not willing to suffer when I don’t have to, either.
Palazzo delle Vigne used to belong to an old and wealthy Venetian family. They sold it quietly to Tino Morelli five decades ago, and it stands unoccupied, though weekly cleaners and a housekeeper have been kept in permanent employ. Walking through its lavish rooms, I feel as though it has been waiting for us all these years, impatient for our arrival. Now that we’re here, it unfurls its pleasures to us without shame.
The baroque style of the interior design would be overwhelming anywhere in America, but here in Venice, in a side waterway just off the Grand Canal, it is exquisite. The walls and plasterwork showcase trailing vines and clusters of plump purple grapes, and the original eighteenth-century frescoed ceilings were painted by renowned Venetian artists. The antique furniture is elegant, opulent; the master bedroom is dominated by a sumptuous royal-blue and gold canopied bed that immediately makes me want to see Finch naked in its sheets.
But both of us are too tired, I decide. I do put Finch to bed in those silken sheets after his shower, kissing his forehead carefully as he closes his eyes, and then I take a long, indulgent bath, and I consider the last twenty-four hours and the next twenty-four to come. Once the water is growing tepid, I drag myself to bed as well, wrap my arms around my husband, and let myself give in to slumber.
* * *
We wake together latein the afternoon, and, without the need for words, Finch asks for what he needs. We’re both too lazy for anything gymnastic, and settle for unhurried, dreamy, simultaneous hand-jobs. Mine ends in a throbbing, sweet orgasm that leaves me floating blissfully as it reverberates through me.
“Nice,” I sigh as it ebbs away, leaving pure relaxation in its wake.
“Nice?” Finch snorts, and then yawns. “Normally I would take that as an insult…or a challenge. But yeah. Itwasnice. I guess sex doesn’t always have to be, you know. Soul-shaking.”
“Wow,” I snort. “Insult? Or challenge?”
We both start chuckling, and Finch flops around on the bed, puts his arms around me. He’s sweaty and sticky with cum. I shuffle a little to get my arms around him, too, and we lie there slowly gluing together, too spent to care.
“What next?” Finch mumbles. “I mean, food, first,obviously. Then what?”
“We’ll dine somewhere close by, then come back here to enjoy each other again. Tomorrow, Vitali should send through any intel he has on La Contessa’s movements for the next few days.”
“You think you can convince her to do business with the Morellis?”
“I can only try. If she disagrees…well, we have other options open to us.” The photographs from Tino’s cache of La Contessa in conversation with a Clemenza Family member would be of great interest to the Italian anti-Mafia agencies. I’ve taken them, and the negatives, along with us to Italy. But I’d rather not resort to blackmail if it can be avoided.
Finch asks no more about it that night—and normally, in deference to our sharply demarcated roles, I would make my own plans for contacting her and leave Finch out of it altogether. But since she’s a woman who occupies a class several rungs above my own, and I’ll need Finch’s help with at least part of my plan.
And after the courage and cleverness he showed last night, I find myself willing to give into his demands. He’s a D’Amato by marriage and a Donovan by birth, but he also has a Morelli inheritance, and I can’t stand in the way of that. It would be foolish to try, because Finch always gets what he wants—one way or the other.
But my plans for La Contessa and the IFF could mean putting Finch in danger…and I’m not sure if I’m ready for that.
Chapter Fifty-Six
FINCH
Four Days Later
