We arrive at dusk. The sky over Lake Como is a bruised purple, reflecting on the black, glassy water. The car—a rented Audi sedan we picked up in Munich—crunches over the gravel driveway, winding through a forest of cypress trees that stand like sentinels in the gloom. The iron gates were rusted open, surrendering to the encroaching vines. But the house... the house is magnificent. Three stories of pale stone, terracedgardens cascading down to the water, and tall, arched windows that look like eyes watching us approach.
I stop the car in front of the massive oak doors. The silence is profound. No sirens. No city hum. Just the wind in the trees and the gentle lap of the lake against the private dock below.
"We're here," I whisper.
Alaric stirs beside me. The drive from Germany was a blur of painkillers and fever dreams. He is conscious, but barely. His skin is waxy, translucent, shadows painted deep under his eyes. The infection has spread; I can see the red tendrils creeping up his neck from the collar of his coat. He looks at the house. A flicker of recognition—or perhaps memory—lights up his clouded eyes. "Grandmother's... prison," he murmurs.
"It's not a prison," I say, getting out. "It's a castle."
I open his door. I help him out. He puts his arm around my shoulders, leaning his full weight on me. He is burning up, a furnace wrapped in wool. We stumble to the door. I use the large iron key from the velvet box. It slides into the lock with a heavyclunk. I turn it. The door groans open.
The air inside is stale, cool, and smells of dust and lavender. Sheets cover the furniture like ghosts. A grand staircase sweeps up into the darkness. But my eyes are drawn to the room on the right. The double doors are open. Inside, bathed in the twilight filtering through the dusty windows, is a piano. A Bosendorfer Imperial. Black. Massive. It sits in the center of an empty room overlooking the lake.
"For you," Alaric wheezes, seeing where I am looking.
"Later," I say, turning him toward the stairs. "First, the master bedroom. Then, the doctor."
I get him into the bed. It is a four-poster monster with heavy velvet curtains. The sheets are dusty, but I don't care. I strip him down, covering him with the clean blankets we bought in Germany. He is shivering violently now, teeth chattering.Sepsis.The bacteria is in his blood. I check my watch.19:00.
The doctor should be here. I made the call from a payphone in Switzerland, using a number Kaiser gave me.Dr. Rossi. No questions. Cash only.A knock at the front door echoes through the silent house. Three heavy raps.
I grab the SIG. One bullet. I walk down the stairs. The shadows stretch long and distorted. I open the door.
A man stands there. Short, balding, carrying a leather medical bag. He looks like a grandfather, but his eyes are sharp, assessing. "Signora Graves?" he asks in Italian.
"Yes."
"I was told you have a patient with... complications."
"Gunshot wound. Sepsis. Advanced."
He nods. "I will need hot water. Towels. And light."
I lead him upstairs. He enters the bedroom. He doesn't flinch at the sight of Alaric, or the gun in my waistband. He opens his bag. "I need to debride the wound," he says, putting on gloves. "It will be messy. He will scream."
"He won't scream," I say. "He has a high tolerance."
Dr. Rossi looks at me. "I need to put him under. Propofol. If his heart is weak..."
"His heart is strong," I interrupt. "Just do it."
I stand by the window while he works. I watch the lake. I watch the lights of Bellagio twinkling across the water. Behind me, thesounds of surgery. The snip of scissors. The beep of a portable monitor. The smell of antiseptic and cauterized flesh. Alaric doesn't scream. He groans once, a deep, guttural sound, when the doctor cuts away the dead tissue. Then silence.
An hour later, Dr. Rossi steps back. "It is done," he says, wiping his hands. "I placed a drain. I started a course of IV Vancomycin. It is strong stuff. It should kill the infection." He packs his bag. "He needs rest. Fluids. And luck."
I hand him a stack of Swiss Francs. Ten thousand. "Thank you."
"One more thing," the doctor says, pausing at the door. "This man... his body is a map of scars. Old ones. New ones." He looks at me. "He has lived a hard life. Or a cruel one."
"He survived," I say.
"Survival has a cost," Dr. Rossi says. "Keep the wound clean. I will return in two days."
He leaves. I lock the door. I go back to the bed. Alaric is sleeping deeply now, the sedative doing its work. The lines of pain on his forehead have smoothed out. He looks younger. I sit in the chair beside the bed. I hold his hand—the one with the iron ring. "We're home," I whisper.
I close my eyes. And for the first time in a month, I sleep without a weapon in my hand.
[THREE DAYS LATER]
