Falcon's Angel (15 page)

Chapter Two

This must be Hell.

Angelina rocked back and forth on the bed, her breathing exercises keeping her sane.

When she woke from the drug they had given her in the car, she was in this huge cavern. A fire roared up to the stone ceiling and for a moment, she thought she was still trapped in the nightmare that woke her. But she was not in the blazing mansion of her dreams. She was underground.

Without the fire, the air whipping through the cavern would be frigid.

The blaze warmed even the far corner where she sat on a huge bed covered in red velvet.

The mute had shown her a small pit in one of the alcoves in the cavern where she could relieve herself. She’d hardly ventured that far from the bed on the dais, a luxurious island in this stone prison.

Angelina felt as if she had stepped into another time. Somewhere ancient and mysterious, a long ago age of runes and soothsayers.

In her weakened state, she could imagine a demonic priestess stood before the roaring blaze across the cavern, with arms upraised casting spells on doomed villagers in some forgotten language.

Without natural light to distinguish between night and day, she could not tell how long she had been locked in this subterranean room. It seemed like forever.

She stared across the cavern at the great pit of fire. She had stopped screaming at her captors hours ago. It did no good. If they heard her through these stone walls, they chose to ignore her.

Now that she’d woken, her old fears of entrapment surged, threatening to suffocate her. Though somewhat dulled by hunger, her fears took shape in the flickering reflections of the fire on the cave walls. There was no escape from the twenty-foot high specters that she imagined to inch along the wall toward her. Or from the fire itself that seemed to lash out at her with orange claws.

But in the midst of terror, her survival instinct remained strong. The only way to live through this was to stay calm. She concentrated on taking slow, deep breaths and closed her eyes tight against the shadows on the walls. She kept them closed until she fell asleep.

Margaux…

Angelina opened her eyes. Someone had called that name again.

The fire was larger now. Shadows loomed over the bed on the cavern walls.

“Who’s there?”

No answer. Must be the blaze shifting the way the shadows moved off towards the fire.

But she felt as if someone had been watching her.

Angelina jumped as the bolt on the heavy, wooden double doors was thrown.

A hooded man came through the stone archway carrying a tray.

She gathered the velvet bedspread around her as he shut the doors behind him.

The man crossed the cavern in silence in a curious brown robe. It was tied with a length of rope around his waist and skimmed the flagstones.

The man carried a basin of water and a garment hung over his arm. He placed the tray on the nightstand. Small pastel-colored crescents were laid out on linen. The scent of sweet-smelling soap swirled in the air.

The man shrugged off his hood. “You will feel much better once you are out of those clothes,” Detective Luciano Biagi said.

She backed against the pillows as if the tray was full of snakes, and he was the devil. He may as well have been, for he was no detective, but part of this medieval nightmare she was trapped in. His hair was much longer than she’d thought, loose about his shoulders.

How had I ever thought this Neanderthal was a detective?

The slow smile that spread across his face was as disturbing and intimate as his words. “I meant you will be more comfortable in these.” He held out a red satin nightgown and wrapper.

Angelina looked down at her dirty sweatpants and flimsy tank top, and pulled the bedspread around her shoulders. When she didn’t respond, but stared past him into the flames, he nodded and placed the clothes on the foot of the bed. Instead of leaving, he sat down on the edge of the bed.

She went rigid.

“It doesn’t have to be this way, Angelina.”

“Leave me alone.”

“I can’t do that, but I can save your life.”

“You won’t kill me. You want the Stradivarius.”

Luciano reached out to wrap a lock of her hair around his hairy finger. “Bellezza, you have no idea what I want.”

She moved across the bed, and her hair slipped from his hand.

He chuckled, a rumble in his chest, terrifying in depth. She never wanted to hear that sound again.

“Well, maybe you do.” His hand smoothed the bedspread. “And maybe you will be more willing to give me what I want once you meet the man you and your father have stolen from.”

“I have stolen nothing. I don’t know what you’re talking about! And who is Margaux?” She was breathing hard. He was too close, too big and the cave was getting smaller.

Luciano’s fingers stopped inches from her leg. He shook his head. “I have upset you.” Sheets of dark hair slapped against his tree-trunk neck. He slipped a hand in the folds of the brown robe.

“No, please!”

Angelina lowered her eyes, because it wasn’t helping her anxiety to see what was in his. For all the compassion in his eyes, there was dominance in equal measure. His civility in this was frightening.

Luciano took his hand out of the pocket. “As you wish, but I think it would help you sleep.” His eyes traveled over the velvet bedspread Angelina held against herself. It was as if she were sitting naked before him.

I will never sleep in this cavern again
.

“Get cleaned up,” was his gruff command. “You must be hungry. You’ve slept an entire day.”

That she’d been unconscious for so long wasn’t as disturbing as the thought of him in here, watching her. She didn’t want to think what he may have been doing on his visits to the cavern.

“I’ll return with food,” he said.

She winced when the heavy bolt on the other side of those wooden doors slammed into place with such finality.

It was some time before she stopped trembling. Only then, did she bathe herself and change into the nightgown. It was best for her comfort. She had no idea how long she would remain a prisoner and her own clothes held the stench of fear mingled with her ripe scent. They only served as a reminder of her dire circumstances, for which she had only herself to blame.

The next time the heavy doors opened, she feigned sleep.

Heavy footsteps came closer until they stopped by the bed.

It was all Angelina could do to keep her eyes closed.

Silverware jangled her nerves as a tray was set down on the nightstand.

A tantalizing aroma wafted on the air.
Steak for lunch? Dinner?

She didn’t know what time of day it was. Her stomach growled, but she kept her eyes closed.

A hand as big as her forehead brushed bangs off her face, and then cupped her chin. “Do not fear me, Angelina. I will be gentle with you. But now, you must eat.”

You make my skin crawl.
She lay still until he moved away. Once again, her appetite was gone along with Luciano Biagi.

She stared into the fire with its red-orange talons, wishing she could rewind these last days of her life to before she ran from Tony.

* * * *

Falcon might never know how Giovanni Natale acquired the violin in the first place, but one thing was clear. The virtuoso had made a deal to sell it to Alfonso Ruggiero for two million euro.

Ruggiero had held up his end of the bargain. For some reason Natale scammed him, supposedly dying in a blaze that he’d probably set himself. Why Natale didn’t take the money to England with him was a mystery.

From what Granger came up with in an extensive search of financial and civil records, it would seem that Natale was not poor. He hadn’t exactly lived a life of luxury over the past ten years, either.

Although Natale had done very well for himself with his career earnings and professor’s salary, he’d led a spartan existence. The money he’d earned seemed to have disappeared into charities over the years. Granger was still digging to find out where.

The maestro had a twisted sense of honor. He could steal a valuable Strad that he had no right to and keep the money from a sale that never happened, but spending it would have weighed on his conscience.

Or maybe the money was marked and Ruggiero would have been waiting for it to show up somewhere that would identify Natale’s whereabouts. In that case, why didn’t he just give the money back?

Natale’s reasons may never be known, he wasn’t talking.

Falcon figured the old man had lost his mind in the end. Leaving the money to Angelina was a double-edged inheritance, and a ticking time bomb as
il Dragone
sought their revenge.

Standing in front of the
Banca Nazionale del Lavoro
in Naples this blazing first day of October, he thought, if Natale weren’t already dead, the man would be now, for involving Angel in this.

Falcon walked through the revolving doors, taking off his sunglasses. He was summoned to the private banker’s desk.

He checked the nameplate. “Buongiorno, Signor Tavali. I am Francesco Natale. I have come about my late grandfather’s account, Giovanni Natale.”

“Buongiorno, Signor Natale. Please sit down. Do you have the account number?”

Falcon rattled off the account number and took out the photo ID he had made for himself the night before using Natale’s address in Forlì.

Signor Tavali checked the identification and punched in the account number on his computer. “Ah. There is a notation that Giovanni Natale died ten years ago. I see why there has not been any activity on this account.” Signor Tavali’s assessing eyes moved up his dark tailored suit. “Why has no one in the family come forward to claim the money?”

“I am my grandfather’s only surviving relative and I was in the service when he died. I recently returned home and was only just able to get his things in order.”

Signor Tavali’s smile was sympathetic. “I am sorry for your loss, Signor Natale. I see also that you are named the beneficiary.”

“Grazie.” Granger had cracked the bank’s code last night.

“And how can I help you today, Signor Natale?”

“I have come to withdraw the funds.”

“All of it?” Signor Tavali’s sympathetic smile slipped.

“All of it.”

“Un momento, Signor Natale.” The banker went through a door behind him. He came out with a clipboard of papers and handed him a pen.

Falcon signed all the necessary releases as the banker explained different investment programs the
Banca Nazionale del Lavoro
had to offer.

Falcon let the man talk. After all, he was only doing his job trying to keep the money in the bank. When he was finished signing, he smiled at Signor Tavali and handed him back the clipboard.

Signor Tavali pursed his lips in disapproval. “This way, please.”

Falcon placed the money in the black briefcase. It was all there. He handed the safe deposit box key to the guard and left the vault.

When he passed through the revolving doors, Granger was waiting for him in the Audi. “Got it.”

“Step Two?” Granger pulled out from the curb.

The safe house in Naples.

Falcon knew the convent’s Prioress well. He’d saved her sister’s life from the drug lord he’d captured in
Asnieres-Sur-Seine
, and she was happy to return a favor.

The Prioress would secure the briefcase and the Stradivarius until they could transport it to headquarters. Though the Strad was not in his possession, Ruggiero’s intent to buy a stolen work of art was incriminating, in addition to the kidnapping charges he now faced.

“Step Two.”

Chapter Three

One of the phones was ringing.

Falcon crossed over to the bed where three cell phones lay. He picked up his private cell and exhaled in harassment when he saw the name displayed.

Perfect timing, as always. “Dad, how are you?”

“Armand, is that you?” His father’s jovial Italian came across the connection.

“It’s me, Dad.”

“I almost can’t believe it’s you because I know that my firstborn would never come home and not call his father first thing, you know? You are home, right?”

He sighed and sat down at the desk. “I’m home, Dad.”

“How long have you been home?”

“About two months.”

“I know this because Georgio told me you stopped by with Sophia Loren. I told Georgio he was crazy, but he said it had to be Sophia Loren because he remembered the hair. Thick, strong hair. So, who is this beauty?”

Falcon got up, keenly aware of the precious minutes ticking by while his father grilled him. “Her name is Angelina.” He opened a box of ammo and started loading up his gun belt.

“And when do I get to meet her? You should bring her by for a little dinner.”

“I will Dad, but I’m working for a while.”

“Oh, what’s the case?”

“You know I can’t talk about it.”

“Yeah, I know, you can’t talk about anything. What pisses me off is that even if you could talk about it you wouldn’t because that’s just how you are. You know, I believe if I didn’t know I was your own father, you would keep that from me, too, you tight-lipped Sicilian. You’re just like your mother, you know that?”

Here we go…
If they got into a debate right now, his father would never get off the phone.

“Dad, it’s your side of the family that’s Sicilian. Mom’s from Parma.”

“And so that makes her better than me? Because she’s from the North?”

“I miss you too, Dad. Is this what you called me for?” He held the phone between ear and shoulder and shrugged into the bulletproof vest.

“Actually, I called to ask a favor, besides you coming to dinner.” His father’s tone changed from ill-conceived affront to congeniality in an instant.

“Sure, what is it?”

“I need you to check on Sacha for me.”

“Who?”

“You know, Roman’s baby girl. You remember how you used to give her swimming lessons?”

A slow smile spread across Falcon’s face at the memory. “Oh, you mean, Little Angel.”

He saw them now in Egypt. They’d visited the pyramids. He had placed Little Angel on top of a sphinx and they pretended they were part of a caravan. He made funny honking noises like a camel and took her picture while she laughed.

That vacation was the last time he had seen Sacha. She had been eight years old and he a grown-up seventeen.

Falcon shook his head. He had thought he was a man at seventeen. After only a few months in Tuscany with his mother, he’d left home.

“Wait until you see her,” his father said.

“Little Angel was a doll with all that black hair that made up at least half her weight. And those golden eyes … I bet she’s breaking hearts now.”

“She’s an exotic beauty,” his father said.

Falcon chuckled, sheathing a dagger. “How is she?”

“She’s fine, I hope. But I know how rebellious she can be and that’s why I’m worried.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, she’s here in Italy, and I’ve been checking up on her. Oh, and with the fire in her would she be mad to know that Roman calls me for a weekly report on his daughter,” his father laughed. “But for the last couple of days I just keep getting her voicemail.”

“She’s probably just enjoying Italy. Maybe she met a guy.”

“I would go by where she’s staying myself but Maria and I are in Milan this weekend. Your brother’s minding the store, so could you stop by her place and make sure she’s okay?”

Falcon checked his watch. “Granger will be back soon and then we’re heading out, but I’ll put your mind at ease. Where is she staying?” He picked up a pen to write down an address.

“
Casa di Città
on
Piazza Avellino
. Do you know it?”

“Che? What?” Falcon stared at the piece of paper.

“
Casa di
…”

“I heard you the first time, Dad.”

“Hey, what are you biting my head off for?”

“Sorry, Dad.” Falcon put down the pen and leaned back in the chair. Sudden comprehension settled in his gut. “So, what’s Sacha doing in Naples anyway?”

“She’s here for the symphony. If you’d kept up with family, you’d know that Sacha turned out to be a musical genius. You’re not the only one in the family, you know. She studies the violin and she’s going to perform at the
Teatro di San Carlo
at the end of the month,” his father stated proudly.

After a long silence in which praise for Sacha’s accomplishments were not forthcoming, his father said, “Son?”

Stretching out his legs, Falcon rubbed his brow and wondered about fate. Fate had set him on a quest for a violin that had been in his possession centuries ago. Fate had brought Angelina, an exotic beauty who he now realized was Sacha Angelina Cardiff—and she had the nerve to accuse him of being a liar!—to Italy with that very violin. And now his fate was to die by the hand of his own father, if the overprotective chef found out that Roman’s baby girl had been kidnapped on his watch. But not before his father castrated him for knowing Little Angel in the biblical sense, on his watch.

“Dad, I’m in her apartment right now,” he confessed, and then listened to the calm before the storm while his father digested that statement.

“What are you doing in her apartment?” His father’s words chilled into precise ice. “Don’t answer that. Armand, you’re joking, right?”

“I couldn’t have made this up if I tried.” Falcon stood and started pacing the floor.

“What are you saying?” His father’s labored breathing came through the line. “Are you telling me she’s Sophia Loren?”

“Yeah, but she told me her name was Angelina Natale, and now I find out she’s Sacha Cardiff!”

“Why would she do that? Cos’hai combinato?” His father shouted, asking him what he’d done.

“I don’t know, Dad. I’m looking forward to asking her that when I pick her up.” He took a deep breath and shook his head in awe of destiny. “And I haven’t done anything that she didn’t want.”

His father cursed a colorful Italian streak, apparently oblivious to the fact that he was cursing his own unborn grandchildren. “Where is she?”

“She’s out with some friends,” Falcon supplied the lie quickly.

He’d get her back before his father found out about the kidnapping.

Angel, I hope you didn’t tell Ruggiero who you are.

The kidnapping of Roman Cardiff’s daughter would make headlines. Ruggiero might get greedy and decide that the Strad wasn’t an even exchange for her safe return.

Sounding the alarm with reporters and television coverage would make Ruggiero nervous. That would mean more people he would have to go through. It would just increase the body count in the end.

“Listen Casanova, that girl is like my own daughter. She’s like your sister! She’s not one of your women!”

“Oh, so we’re back to that now? Well, I haven’t seen any of those women since I came back in town! Since I’ve been with Angelina. Oh, wait a minute, she’s Sacha now! I am going to get her for this.”

He thought about how he was going to get her. In the shower up against the wall with the water streaming down those creamy breasts and glistening droplets clinging to the rosy areoles as he rammed into her … on top of the island in her kitchen with those long legs wrapped around him…

“You’re living with her, aren’t you?”

“Dad, you don’t really want to know what I’m doing with her.”

His father started cursing again. This time he summoned a few saints to come to his aid in dealing with his firstborn, not exactly in those words.

“Dad, I love her.”

His father abruptly stopped his ranting.

Falcon sat down on the side of the bed and waited.
Silence is good.

When his father began talking again his voice was thick with emotion. “I’ve never heard you speak of a woman in this way. Every time you come home, there’s a different woman on your arm. They’re all beautiful, but to you I know they’re just that, eye candy.”

“She’s different, Dad.”

“You know your mother calls me whining about how you work too much and never come to see her, and how she’s going to die cursed without any grandchildren?”

“I know, Dad.”

“You remember how Sacha used to call you Falcon?”

“She was always good with her legs.” He chuckled. “She would wrap those long legs around me and ‘fly’ while I spun her around faster and faster…” Falcon remembered who he was talking to, and sobered.

“Roman’s baby girl…” his father murmured. “Does she love you?”

“She’s crazy about me.”
She just doesn’t know who I am. I can’t wait to see her face when she gets a taste of her own medicine…
“And she’s going to be my bride no matter what name she wants to call herself these days.”

“Go see your mother.”

“I will. Dad, do you think Roman still remembers me?”

His father laughed. “Maybe you should bring up the swimming lessons when you ask for his daughter’s hand in marriage. Might be a good selling point.”