“I am hopeful, baby bird.” He reminds me less of a baby bird than a bird of prey with that unnerving, long-nosed mask. “But if it doesn’t work, there are other ways we can get under Lou Clemenza’s skin.”
“And flay him from the inside out?” Finch’s voice is slightly muffled by the curving beak of the mask, so I’m not sure what tone he’s using: lighthearted or murderous.
“Something like that.” I adjust my own mask, put on the traditional three-cornered hat, and hold out my hand. He takes it, and I lift it to my lips. “Let’s go, angel.”
* * *
We’re admittedto the palazzo with no trouble at all, and I’m pleased to see that there are a score of other plague doctors wandering around, many of whom are around the same size as Finch. I stand out in the crowd, much more recognizable. But whatever happens tonight, at least I know Finch’s life is not in danger—only his liberty. The IFF want him for what they think he knows, so they still need him alive.
Me? I was just collateral damage at the townhouse. Now I’m an elimination target. That blond is not going to let me escape again. And tonight, in his mind, must be the perfect environment for it. Killing me—whether by stiletto or gun or other means—would cause the perfect distraction to allow him to grab Finch.
Unfortunately for him, we have plans of our own.
The grand ballroom, once we get into it, offers a crowd of people talking, laughing, accepting Bellini cocktails from passing waiters. Two staircases, one to the east and one to the west, lead up to a mezzanine balcony overlooking the floor, and I can see a number of curtained doorways on that level that suggest private dealings.
La Contessa is nowhere to be seen. I believe she must be in one of those private rooms upstairs, reserved for the most exclusive attendees tonight. I can even tell which room specifically, because every now and then a group of large, costumed men leave one particular room to travel up and down the western staircase. Each time I catch a glimpse of the figure in the midst of them: a cat-masked, androgynous figure dressed in midnight blue velvet with glossy black ringlets. Not La Contessa, but her pet.
As forwhyher pet is going up and down those stairs so often, I’m not sure. Each time he descends, he makes steady and direct eye contact with me, while the bodyguards around him glare.
At least it means La Contessa will be aware of my presence.
While we wait for events to unfold, Finch and I make desultory conversation with other couples. He knows more than one of the American billionaires in the room, and they, judging by the inquisitive looks we get, know him—and me. But half an hour after our arrival, when Finch is deep in debate about the benefits of owning a private fleet versus simply renting a jet when necessary, I become aware that someone is watching me.
Someone new.
I look around the room, turning to take a cocktail from a passing waiter so I can glance behind as well. Over in the corner is a figure that gives me pause. He’s standing too still, his body language too taut for a regular partygoer.
His masked face turns to me, and when he sees me looking his way, he turns away to move behind one of the thick wooden posts holding up the mezzanine balcony.
It’s the IFF agent. I know it. Even disguised by that blank, serenebautamask, I know it’s him. The black silk hood, stark white mask and tricorn hat completely cover his face, but his brisk movements echo how he dived out of the way of Finch’s bullets back in the catacombs.
And then there’s the irony of his outfit: historically,bautacostumes were strictly regulated by the Venetian authorities during carnival because of the opportunity they gave to conceal weapons under the flowing cloak.
Funny guy.
I lean in close to Finch’s ear. “It’s time, baby bird.”
“…and that’s why I always think it makes more sense to hire on an as-need basis,” Finch finishes up in his conversation with the daughter of an ex-President, her tech-giant fiancé, and a French film star. “If you’ll excuse me—I need a refresh.” He tips his still-full glass of sparkling water to the group, and we move away from them.
Finch sets the glass down on the platter of a passing waiter, and then, taking advantage of a lull in the noise and our relatively open position in the middle of the room, I sweep him off his feet in a deep dip, making sure we are seen.
Making sure we arenoticed.
If it weren’t for the mask, I’d kiss my husband right there, but his wild laugh that cuts through the conversation is even better for our purposes. Everyone in the room has looked our way…including thebauta-clad IFF agent, peeking out from behind his pillar.
I set Finch back on his feet and look into his eyes, which are glinting pure green behind his mask. “Off you go,uccellino,” I murmur. “Make sure you stay aware.”
We drift away from each other, but I keep a keen eye on our enemy, reflected in the many gilt mirrors around the room tonight. The next part of my plan now depends onwhichof us our shadow considers a priority. On the other side of the room, Finch’s plague doctor disappears behind a group of people, and the IFF agent cranes his neck to catch sight of him, then moves in that direction.
So he’s after Finch tonight.
Good.
I wait until I have Finch in my view again, and then I make my move.
Chapter Sixty-One
LUCA
