Page 35 of Fastest Kill

"Basta," he scolded himself.

Dario said he wouldn't chase or beg, but he had been close. Hell, if Frederica had asked him to, he would have thrown all of those consequences to the wind, bent her over the railing, and fucked her right there under the stars.

He poured more coffee and drank it down, hoping that it would jolt him out of this hell spiral he was in.

The files were already spread across the kitchen table—Tore's records, the intel Altun and Serapis had worked through the night to compile, and a hand-drawn floor plan that Tore had produced in twenty minutes because he had stolen from so many churches and museums in his time he considered sketching detailed maps a marketable skill.

Dario pulled the nearest chair out and sat down to look over the first thing on their list of things to steal.

The Tears of Theotokos. A Byzantine reliquary, ninth century, cataloged but rarely examined, currently in the basement archive of a small museum attached to the Church of Saint John in the valley outside Selçuk.

The church sat on land that had once been sacred to Artemis. The original great temple to her had been one of the Seven Wonders of the World, and even after it was gone, the ground remembered their goddess.

In 431 AD, the Council of Ephesus gathered there and officially declared Mary the Theotokos, the God-bearer, and the same sacred ground absorbed that history, too, because it wasn't going to part with its goddess, no matter what face she wore. Protective power layered on protective power, generation after generation, pagan and Christian, and something older than both.

The reliquary was said to contain the magical tears Mother Mary shed on Golgotha as she watched her son die. Grief for the death of one god was apparently good fuel to help birth another, and Agrippa needed the power it had to fuel his ascension.

Dario was still reading about it when Frederica came in through the back door. He finished the paragraph he was on, and he looked up, because he wasn't going to look away. He had a feeling that too many people did that to her. Besides, he liked looking at her.

Frederica was in training clothes. Dark, close-fitting tights and a T-shirt, her hair up in a ponytail that swished enticingly as she walked. She had already been outside for a walk or a run because there was a faint flush in her cheeks and sweat across her brow.

"Tell me there's some of that coffee left," she said, by way of good morning.

"Behind you. I made extra."

She poured a cup, turned, and surveyed the table. "You've been up for a while, too?"

"Tore and the others left notes, and I wanted to read them before we talked."

She pulled out the chair across from him and sat before picking up the floor plan and studying it. "You ever been to Ephesus?"

"Once, with my father when I was twelve. He liked ruins and history in general. Amazing place."

Frederica turned the floor plan ninety degrees, reorienting something in her head. "Basement access to the museum is the issue. There are two stairwells—one from the main gallery, one from a service corridor that runs behind the restoration office. The service corridor connects to the back of the building."

"Which isn't accessible during regular hours."

"The charity dinner in two days changes that. Catering, event staff, and additional people moving through the service areas." She set the floor plan down. "Someone with a catering uniform and a reason to be near the restoration office wouldn't get a second look."

"Until she disappeared into the basement for fifteen minutes," he pointed out.

"Which is where you come in," she said simply.

Something settled in Dario's chest that had been restless since the night before. He could do this. This had rules he understood.

"Tell me about the event," he said, leaning forward to rest his arms on the table.

"Annual fundraiser for the church restoration project. A mix of local academics, Turkish cultural foundation donors, and a few international collectors who give money to look respectable. Black tie, open bar, speeches about Byzantine heritage." Her eyes moved to him. "It will be your kind of room."

"Very much my kind of room," he agreed. "The collector crowd is useful. People who buy and sell old religious artifacts don't ask careful questions about where the artifacts come from. That's common ground."

"The museum director will be there. His name is Polat. According to Tore's contact, he responds well to flattery about the collection and poorly to anyone who questions its documentation or authenticity."

"So I should question the documentation if we get in a tight spot?"

"Why would you⁠—"

"Because if he's defensive, he's distracted. A defensive man watches the person annoying him, not the rest of the room." He picked up his coffee. "What's the guard rotation like on the basement level?"