“I’ll tell you what I find out.” That sounded promising enough to keep her satisfied. He was only going to tell her what he thought she needed to know. He had a feeling that this was a much bigger deal than a fucking ugly statue. He’d protect her every way he could, and if that meant keeping her in the dark, so be it.
He turned and walked down the hall to his office, feeling moderately good about keeping a straight face when he lied to Kathleen. He’d always been good at that. He just had to remind himself that she excelled at reading people. She wouldn’t have survived the years in witness protection without that skill. He would have to be careful around her.
Reaching his office, he dropped the backpack onto the visitor’s chair. It landed with athunk, but the sound was off. Enzo reached for the backpack, unzipped it fully, and pulled it open. The statue was in pieces. It must have shattered when it hit the ground after the biker had flung it into the air.
This put a new spin on things. What happened if the statue wasn’t in one piece anymore? Did anybody still want it? Was there even a way to advertise that fact? He stared at the broken pieces, contemplating that thought, when the glimmer of something caught his attention.
The statue wasn’t the only thing in the bag.
He nudged the fragments aside and plucked up a piece of expensive-looking, tightly-folded cloth. Slowly, he unwrapped the scrap and spread it on top of his desk.
It was a map.
A treasure map.
With an X and everything.
Enzo started to laugh. How ridiculous. A real, honest-to-God treasure map with fucking X marking the spot. Somebody clearly had a sense of humor. But suddenly, it all made much more sense. People weren’t after the statue; they were after the treasure. Whatever that might be.
There was no indication of what the X marked, just that there was an X. The map itself looked old, but he couldn’t tell if it was genuinely old or if someone had deliberately aged it by artificial means. He thought it was the latter. Someone created a fake, old-looking treasure map.
Why?
He stared at it. There were no place names or labels, but a shape in the center looked slightly familiar. The outline of something tugged at his memory. It was nagging at him, like something he’d seen before, somewhere he’d been.
A treasure map explained everything. It explained why this ugly little statue was suddenly drawing so much attention, and why someone was willing to kill for it.
The real questions were: If, in fact, there was a treasure, whose treasure was it? What exactly was the treasure? And why did everyone else seem to know about it but him? Well, not everyone. But at least two groups. Maybe three. The guy from the alley and his people had started it all by dropping the statue in Kathleen’s bag in the first place. The guys on the motorcycle, and the guys who had tried to run them off the road. They could be from the same group. Hard to tell at this stage. Although… the suspects on the motorcycle had started out on a bicycle and triedto take the backpack without hurting anyone. It wasn’t until he and Kathleen took off that they started shooting. Kill everyone and grab the treasure appeared to be their backup plan.
The third group had been heavy-handed from the beginning, and it had quite possibly cost them their lives. They had tried to kill Enzo and Kathleen right out of the gate; no conversation, no attempt at getting the backpack peacefully. Or at least semi-peacefully. No, they were definitely a different group. Which meant at least three groups were after the map. But there could be more, and who knew which approach they would take.
The more Enzo stared at the map, the more convinced he became of one thing: this was going to get ugly. People went crazy for treasure. Did outlandish, stupid things to get it. That did not bode well. He leaned back in his chair. He should tell Kathleen about the map, but he really didn’t know anything else. Just that they now had an ugly, broken statue and a map marked with an X.
Enzo grabbed his cell, scrolled through his contacts, and grimaced before hitting the number.
“I was wondering if you’d call,” a familiar voice drawled down the line.
“As always, Sylvester, you’re the one who knows everything going on in Milano, or so you’ve always said.”
Sylvester Blankenship, Blanks to everyone who knew him, was a scum-sucking maggot. Unfortunately, he was the scum-sucking maggot who knew everything that happened in Milan.
“So… They’re shooting at you again? Just like old times.”
Enzo frowned. “I don’t recall ever being shot at in Milano. I think you’ve got your facts wrong there, Sylvester.” He used the man’s first name deliberately, knowing how much he hated it.
“No, but you’ve been shot at plenty in the rest of Italy. And a few other countries, if I remember right.”
Time to get down to it. “What do you know, Sylvester?”
“It’s Blanks, if you don’t mind,” the man replied, apparently relishing the fact that Enzo was asking for help. He knew Enzo didn’t have a choice. And Enzo knew it too. There was no way he was leaving any stone unturned when it came to Kathleen’s safety.
“Blanks,”—Enzo’s tone was mildly derisive about the man’s demand that he use the fucking stupid nickname—“what do you know?” Enzo prompted.
“What are you going to give me in exchange?”
Enzo paused. “Wait, you don’t know who was shooting at me? Sylvester, are you losing your touch?” He couldn’t resist needling the man. It would rankle Blanks, and Enzo wanted him uncomfortable. “You’re losing your edge. I thought you were the guy who always knew what was going on in Milano.”
“I am,” Blanks snapped. “I’m working on it.”
