Falcon's Angel (14 page)

The brown robes dropped his arms as Margaux screamed, the dragon roared, and they were one.

* * * *

Fire consumed him, as in the dreams.

This time, Margaux was not running away from him, down the open pathway on weathered cobblestones. She was soothing him.

He should be burning, but Margaux’s arms were wrapped around him, and he felt only love.

“Remember,” Margaux said.

Carlo lifted his head from her chest. “No, I am going with you. I can’t live after … this.” He looked around them at the flames. Beyond them, Baldoni’s lips curled in rage, his words lost in the crackling inferno that rose to the cavern ceiling.

“The fire dragon will not harm you now.”

He turned back to Margaux. She touched his lips with her fingertip. “You will be unharmed by
il Dragone
.” Her lips repeated the caress, punctuating each word. “Unscarred. Perfect. Until we both remember.”

His eyes had closed with her sensual touch, but her last words intrigued him. Made him hope that her witch’s magic would not fail them as this life had. He opened his eyes. “Remember what?”

With her satisfied smile, she was his mischievous Margaux again, and he knew she would not tell him. She glanced behind him, and her smile faltered. “They will remember, my love, because of who they serve. You must remember.”

That last word turned into a roar that blasted him with burning flames. The fire dragon had taken over.

Margaux let go of him, and he fell into the flames.

Chapter Nine

Down, through the flames, screaming, he fell.

Carlo landed on his back, not in the fiery pit, but on the ledge. He stopped screaming and jumped up.

His hands were red … no, they were glowing.

“He has taken the demon’s power!” someone shouted. The words coursed through the crowd in waves.

The brown robes that had once held him prisoner, backed away.

Baldoni came forward.

Carlo could only imagine what his face must look like as Baldoni stared in silent rage. Carlo’s hands tingled, and he lifted them.

Baldoni took a step closer as Carlo’s golden hands turned darker and darker still until they were a familiar sun-warmed olive.

Baldoni’s eyes wandered from his hair to his boots. “What has she done to you?”

Carlo did not know, never wanted to know. He forced his fear down and summoned contempt in its place. “More than your fire dragon ever will.”

Baldoni looked past him over the ledge. The fire was just a fire now, and the only shadows were that of the flickering flames. Margaux was gone.

“Enough!”

Carlo jerked his head up. His father’s features transformed in outrage as he advanced towards the pit of fire with no regard for the worshippers he brushed past.

There must have been one hundred members of King Vittorio’s Guard filing into the ceremonial hall behind his father. One guard stood tall and immovable behind a stone-faced Brother Conti by the entrance to the cavern.

“What the hell are you doing?” His father stopped in front of the flames, before the silent menace of
il Dragone
, glaring at anyone bold enough to meet his eyes.

Several of the guards hurried to surround the duke as he stared at the sacrificial chamber, the brown robes and the golden idol.

The worshippers fell silent.

Disbelief mingled with the flames reflecting in his father’s eyes. He looked up in disgust at Baldoni on the platform. “You have lost your soul.”

Carlo would forever remember that moment as the moment he began to live again.

“How did you get in here?” Baldoni’s lips tightened in disapproval. He was not intimidated by the duke’s presence or the silent threat of the guards in this secret cavern. He was truly mad.

“When we did not meet Dagio Regiotto at the appointed hour, we went to the
Villa Merona
.” Carlo’s father looked at him.

Carlo looked down at his hands, and slumped with relief.
Still bronze.

“Signorina Livia guided us through the tunnels,” his father said, eyes still on him.

The wall of guards parted.

The pretty, dark-skinned girl with the generous hips came to stand in front of them. Her hair was not braided as it had been this morning, but fell in a dark waterfall over her shoulders as it had the night Luciano carried her home to the
Villa Merona
.

The smile that broke over Carlo’s face felt foreign. He hadn’t attempted such a genuine smile in a year. But Signorina Livia had saved their lives, and now he knew what a precious gift life was.

Signorina Livia turned warily towards the crowd as one of the brown robes started running towards her.

Members of
il Dragone
roared encouragement as the man grabbed her by the neck, dragging her to the ground.

Guards grabbed the brown robe, her father, the innkeeper.

The cavern erupted into a melee of swords and fists.

Carlo ran toward the alcove. Luciano plowed into him with a guttural snarl, pushing him to the edge of the platform.

He dropped down and went for Luciano’s legs. Luciano thrashed about to strike him and lost his balance. He grabbed Carlo’s leg as he fell over the side of the platform towards the fiery pit.

Carlo grabbed at the rough edge of the limestone in his descent. His hands found grooves in the stone on the platform and he held on, but couldn’t drag himself up. The heavier Luciano was pulling him down.

Luciano screamed up at him, his smashed nose making him look like the devil’s spawn as they hovered over the heat and flames.

Carlo couldn’t hear what Luciano was screaming, fear took his hearing. The man’s fleshy lips curled back in crazed horror. He concentrated on keeping his grip on the stone.

Luciano’s hand slipped down his leg.

Carlo stared as Luciano’s grip loosened, unable to push himself up or shake the brown robe off.

Luciano howled and Carlo looked down to see flames licking up the poor man’s legs. And over his own ankle.

The flames travelled higher over Luciano as if he were an oiled wick and still Carlo felt nothing but the man’s hand slipping down on his ankle. Then he felt nothing as Luciano flailed his arms and fell into the fiery pit.

Carlo clung to the stones as the flames reared up and over his legs. Still, no pain, just a warm breath over his legs. With his burden gone, he struggled to climb up onto platform.

Above the din of the crowd below, he heard his father’s shouts.

Carlo had managed to hook an arm over the ledge when he saw brown robes move forward with their two captives. They were going to throw Tarcisio and Dagio into the flames.

He cursed fluently. “Fight!” But he knew they wouldn’t.

Tarcisio’s eyes flickered with a farewell.

What had Dagio been given to subdue him so?
The brown robes wouldn’t have to push Dagio. He walked leadenly towards the platform, not even looking where his steps fell.

“I will see you in Hell, Marchese Falco!” Above him, Baldoni dug a booted heel into the back of his hand.

Carlo’s grip on the ledge slipped. “You bastard!” With his hand pinned under Baldoni’s foot, he swung his other hand up and caught hold of Baldoni’s long, brown robe.

With Baldoni’s boot putting pressure on his hand, Carlo used the man’s robe to leverage himself up. He pulled the lunatic over further, and off balance.

Baldoni screamed as he toppled over the side, freefalling into the inferno below.

Hands were pulling Carlo up from the edge of Hell, dragging him onto the platform and everything went black…

Someone had thrown a cloak over him. Hands pounded over his body, stamping out flames.

When they lifted the cloak, Carlo lay there panting heavily.

Carlo’s father produced a blade and cut up one leg of his breeches. He pulled and ripped, then started on the other leg, and finally stopped.

Carlo knew what he should tell them, but he could not find his voice. He was not burned.

He was, as Margaux had promised, unscarred. Perfect.

By the guarded look on his father’s face, those impossible words were not necessary.

Instead, Carlo leaned up on his elbows.

Swords and fists were a doomed match. The guards battled methodically and cut down the frenzied mob.

Dagio was against the wall with his eyes closed while a guard examined him. The caretaker gurgled and Tarcisio moved towards him.

Carlo slumped back down against the stone platform.
They are safe
.

“Your legs.” His father’s words trailed off.

Carlo lifted his head. They stared at each other and in that moment, Carlo understood one thing clearly. His father did love him. Would protect him and the family. Protect this secret, whatever it was.

In keeping with the miracles of the last few days, a weight fell from Carlo’s shoulders so that he slumped again. His father’s arms steadied him before his head hit the platform.

“Margaux was here,” he said.

His father nodded as if he spoke of a living person. A night such as this would do that to a man whose world was precise, rational.

Carlo remembered why he’d tried to leave the platform. “Signorina Livia?”

His father smiled down at him. “What of Signorina Livia?”

He held his father’s gaze. “Her family holds no titles. You want a match with the Queen’s niece.”

“Signorina Livia risked her life for a man she does not know. She has a pure heart and refuses to live in fear anymore. What will you do?”

“I will make her a good husband.”

His father nodded. “You are ready to live again.”

Margaux’s name hung in the air between them, but this time, Carlo felt no guilt. He felt only that he must have the life he should have lived with her while he waited for her return.

“I will honor the vows. I will open my heart to Livia, and love will come in time.”

Part III

Return to Me

Falcon and Angelina

Chapter One

Naples Present Day

Margaux, it is time…

Falcon’s thought woke him. He noticed the light first. Even through his closed eyelids, the unnatural brightness gave him a headache.

He frowned. The inn is unusually bright today.

He squeezed his eyes shut but it hurt to do that, so he relaxed and kept his eyes closed. He heard a reassuring voice, but it was not Signor Tarcisio’s soft timbre.

“It sounded like he said something.” It was Granger, talking in a low tone to someone about a concussion.

But Falcon didn’t have a concussion. He was fine when he shouldn’t be. He opened his eyes now and started to sit up to tell Granger that.

“Hey buddy, good morning.” Granger, looking like a civilian in jeans, a polo shirt and a cocky smile, followed the doctor to the bedside.

The doctor and nurse each caught one of Falcon’s arms before he fell back against the bed.

Maybe I do have a concussion
.

But he had to go after Angelina. He tried to sit up again because he was no longer in the Inn of San Mercuriale with its soft glow of candelabra. Signor Tarcisio had been dead now for over two hundred years. Angelina was Margaux, and Marchese Falco had found his love again.

It never occurred to his analytical mind to doubt the fantasies a healing brain could conjure. What he’d experienced was real and he was armed with essential pieces of a puzzle he could never have solved without the help of the past.

Carlo was all too aware of the time he’d wasted lying unconscious in a hospital bed.

The nurse placed a pillow at his back, giving him a firm push into it.

“Easy now, what have I ever done to you?” He gave her a look. She smiled.

“I am Dr. Colacarro, young man, and you are in the
Ospedale Santobono
. Can you tell me your name?”

“His name is Tony,” Granger said. When the doctor glanced in Granger’s direction, he looked away.

“My name is Antonio Russo,” Falcon said to the doctor. Granger nodded his encouragement.

“Good. Where do you live, Tony?” Dr. Colacarro shot Granger a look that kept him quiet.

Falcon suppressed a sudden urge to jump out of bed and get moving. He resigned himself to supplying the physician with answers to all his questions.

“That is an impressive laceration you have, young man. You have twelve stitches to show for it. The wound is healing remarkably well.” Dr. Colacarro frowned.

“Oh, he’s always been that way,” Granger nodded sagely.

“Yes. Yes, I have.” Falcon touched the back of his head and winced. “But how long will that last?” he murmured to himself.

Until we both remember…

“What did you say?” Dr. Colacarro’s frown turned into a condescending smile.

He probably thinks I’m delusional
… Falcon couldn’t tell the doctor how the black fog had surrounded him when he had lain on the street. It had entered his throat, trying to choke him to death. Instead, he had gone back in time.

Did Margaux’s spell save me from death by black fog?

The doctor would never understand that Margaux had made him immune to
il Dragone
, that he never burned in the sun, and that he never used sunblock, never had to. He was tanned even in a New York winter. Women were always touching his skin.

He almost told the doctor these things, but fortunately, the Falcon in him was waking up.

“How long have I been out?”

“You’ve been here for twenty-four hours. You’re going to be fine. You’re in great shape. I wish all my concussed patients were in your condition. Are you in the service?”

“He’s a runner,” Granger supplied.

The doctor gave Granger another quelling glance. Granger gave the doctor a beneficent smile.

“I was out running when I slipped and fell.” Falcon smiled at the doctor and then winced in pain again. “I should have worn my shoes.”

“The paramedics said there were tire tracks on the curb. You did come in barefoot and shirtless.” The doctor frowned again. “When they brought you in, you were wearing pajama bottoms.”

He nodded and then grimaced with the pain. “I like to run at night.”

Granger mouthed ‘shut up’. Falcon did.

Only the guilty feel the need to explain themselves.

“I’d like to keep you under observation today. Tomorrow you can go home.”

“I need to go home today.” Falcon glanced at Granger, but his partner’s expression was unreadable.

“Tony, as your doctor, I have to advise against that. You are…”

“It’s an emergency. I’m leaving now.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll watch him, Dr. Colacarro.”

This time the doctor glared at Granger, who showed the physician his teeth again.

“You will have to sign a release.” The doctor left the room, promising to return shortly.

Granger’s smile disappeared. “Two nights ago, I held the line open for an hour waiting on you. I checked with the local polizia, found a John Doe at the Naples hospital. When I got here, the doctor wouldn’t let me see you, said come back in the morning. So, I spent the night in your apartment, on the phone with Rome and New York. I watched the monitors focused on your girlfriend’s apartment, but it looks like she made a clean getaway. I’ve been here all day, waiting for you to wake up.” Granger shook his head, watching him put on his clothes. “Are you up to this?”

“It was the blue Fiat…”

“It’s a fake plate.” Granger cut him off. “And Angelina Natale is a fake name. When were you going to tell me about that?”

Falcon grabbed his shirt.

“Listen,” Granger said, “Darien’s bringing a couple of guys, you rest until you’re a hundred percent…”

“No,” Falcon said. Along with an impressive conviction record, Darien came with an ironclad code of honor as he worked those legal processes to send the bad guys away.

Falcon had always appreciated that about Darien, until now. There was no gray area with Darien. With a stellar background in law and a heart full of righteous wrath, Darien wouldn’t hesitate to send Angelina away. That’s why he had to tread carefully around Darien and Granger.

“Did you get the violin?”

“It’s in the trunk. Falcon, we still don’t know if anyone’s ‘got’ her. This could have been staged.”

“It’s one of Giovanni Natale’s brothers of the order
il Dragone
. I’m going to Forlì.” He turned to Granger.

The computer genius looked angry, tired and relieved all at once. His blue eyes were red now and his thin lips were set in a line of frustration.

“I’m fine, Grange. I just sat up too fast. It’s the drugs they gave me. When did you get the buzz cut?”

“Don’t try to change the subject. Now, hold on a minute, will you? Darien and I think you should go back to New York. Let a team handle this.”

“No. No team.” Falcon put on a sneaker.

“You have a personal interest in the suspect.”

Falcon let the other sneaker drop. Yes, he was defending a woman whose name he didn’t know, but she was his past. He knew her then, he remembered. He hadn’t been able to save her from the blaze that killed her entire family, but he would save her now.

“Angelina is no longer a suspect. She was kidnapped.”

“We don’t know that for sure, do we?” Granger held up a hand when Falcon started to protest. “She could be in on this.”

“She is not part of it…”

“What if this is a trap? She goes with her people, makes it look like she’s in trouble so you follow her. They take you out and she gets away with the Strad.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying.” Falcon finished putting on his shoes.

“
I
don’t know what
I’m
saying? Listen to yourself, man. You’re in love with her!” Granger accused.

“I am!” he shouted back. “But I’m right about her. Don’t ask me to explain because I can’t. You just have to trust me on this.”

Granger cursed, shaking his head in disgust. “All right.” He raised his hands in surrender. “All right. But if you’re going after her, you’re going to be wired so I know where you are every minute. And I’m coming with you.”

* * * *

When Falcon opened Angelina’s apartment door, there was a plain white envelope lying on the floor.

The name Tony Russo was typed in caps across the front. Dated today, a simple directive inside…
‘The Stradivarius for your girlfriend in seventy-two hours. Come alone.’

An address in Forlì was written below that.

“Today’s already gone. Two days left. Whoever sent the note knows I was in the hospital and they’re not getting the Strad without my help.”

“You were right. We are dealing with religious fanatics,” Granger said. “Unpredictable, but thorough. They didn’t even try to get into the apartment for the violin.”

“They want me to come to them,” Falcon said. “They don’t just want Angelina. They want me, too.” He turned away before Granger voiced the questions in his eyes. “Let’s get to it.”

They sifted through the Maestro’s things for some clue of who they were looking for in Forlì.

There were boxes of sheet music and files and he was frustrated knowing that he had only forty-eight hours to find Angelina. The only clue they had was a grainy aerial map.

“I can’t find Paolo Ignacio’s land like this.”

Granger looked up from a box full memorabilia from the Maestro’s heyday. “Whose land?”

“Buono’s—I mean—Natale’s land. I can’t find it like this. I need more to go on. This could be anyone’s land.” He waved a hand in disgust at the black and white aerial photo. “Those fields all look the same out there. There are miles and miles of olives and corn…” Falcon stopped. Granger was looking at him intently.

You really should shut your mouth
.

“You sound like you know the place,” Granger said. “You been there before?”

“I read about it in that book on the Arians.”

Granger continued to stare at him. “Uh-huh.”

Falcon started rummaging through a brown leather satchel. He was stressed and agitated. And the thought of how frightened Angelina must be now that she knew the truth made his eye twitch so that he kept blinking.

She’d better be all right…

But he wasn’t sure that was going to do it for him. He felt like killing somebody.

Better keep quiet about that, too.

Darien, the conscience of the Organization, frowned on killing for killing’s sake. But Falcon had never seen the sense in that policy. He brought them in, dead or alive. He was already thinking of ways to make whatever happened in Forlì look as necessary as self-defense.

When he found a black leather case the hair on his neck prickled.

Granger, whose radar was all over him, was already making his way over to see what he’d found.

Falcon opened the case the size of a notebook and an identification card slipped out.

“Beady, black eyes,” he murmured, staring at the man in the photo ID.

Giovanni Natale was bald and he’d let himself go. But the eyes were the same.

Baldoni.

“What?” Granger asked.

The enormity of the situation was stunning. Falcon couldn’t immediately respond.

Il Dragone
had been around Angel all this time, watching, waiting, and mentoring her.

This is a game to them.
This entire journey had been inevitable.

Falcon covered by opening the record book in his hand. A record book for the
Banca Nazionale del Lavoro
.

He whistled. “Natale left Angelina over two million euros. Some gift.”

Granger picked up a little black leather key chain with the bank’s emblem on it. “Safe deposit box.”

“What would Natale be doing with that kind of money stashed in Italy when he fled the country, presumed dead ten years ago?” He started rifling through papers in the case. He found a yellow carbon copy of a wire transfer. “Bingo.”

Falcon deciphered the faded numbers by rubbing the side of a pencil over the carbon and a piece of paper.

Granger dug into the satchel. With a grim smile, he pulled out a business card for the world-famous winery
Uva Dolce
. “Alfonso Ruggiero, Proprietor. With an address in Forlì.”

Falcon took the card. On the back was a date and time ten years ago, the same date the wire transfer of two million euros had been made to Giovanni Natale’s account in the
Banca Nazionale del Lavoro
.

“We’ve got our man,” Granger said, holding up a glossy eight-by-ten photo of the Stradivarius.

After packing up, they headed over to his apartment. It was time to do some digging on the computers and piece together the story of the Stradivarius.