Hunted (40 page)

She shook her head. “I can’t.” Her face crumpled. “I just can’t, Lincoln.” With more strength than he’d have credited to her, she stood and pulled her hands away.

“You’re not going anywhere until we get some answers,” Jackson lashed out. “Sit the hell down.”

She was trembling, he could see it. Bloody hell. Tears still fell down her cheeks. She rubbed her arms, not as if she was cold, but as if she was trying to get something off. “I—I need a shower. I’ve got to take a shower.”

Lincoln cut Jackson with one look, stopping the man from saying whatever he was about to.

Lincoln took her hands.

“Please,” she whispered, her eyes as pleading as her voice.

Lincoln squeezed her hands, nodded, but said, “Fine, I’ll tell them all I can. But I’m sure they’ll still want to talk to you after I’m done.” For one minute he held her stare, then carefully reached up and brushed her tears away. “Come back down after your shower.”

Her chin still trembled. “I’ve no right to ask you—”

He placed his finger against her lips and wished like hell he could make this all go away. “Go take your shower, Morgan.”

She licked her lips, cupped his face and leaned up, kissing him on the cheek. “You’re a good man. A good man, Lincoln Blade. And I thank God every night for sending you to me.”

Morgan hurried from the room, a sob reaching his ears even as he heard her hurry up the stairs.

He closed his eyes, shook his head. Blimey.

When he opened them, both brothers were looking at him.

Lincoln motioned to the chairs. “Sit down. You’re not going to like this, but I’ll tell you the story you’ve wanted to know.”

Chapter 29

Calabria, Italy; November 8, 11:40 p.m.

Antonio Calsonone sat back in his chair and blew a stream of smoke from the cigar. The Calabrian winter night sat chilled at his back beyond the terrace doors—not cold. Not yet, but the wind off the Tyrrhenian promised a storm soon. Or perhaps it was just his own tension.

The lights were dimmed, the villa quiet, most having retired for the evening. He knew Ricco was around somewhere. It would only take a shout or a moment to punch the intercom to have him coming.

Antonio wanted to be alone, as there was much to think about. It was coming. The end of this entire mess. He could feel it. He hadn’t obtained the wealth and power he had by ignoring his instincts. Instincts often determined life and death. If more people paid attention to their instincts . . .

He shook off the philosophical thoughts and glanced again at the photo of his daughter on his desk.

What was Miss Gaelord to Jezek—Dimotrov—whoever the hell the bastard was.

One thing Antonio knew. The bastard missed this last girl. He’d try again.

Perhaps Antonio should have a talk with her. Or should he just leave it all to Giovanni?

He sniffed and realized he was crying. Biting down, he tossed back more of the wine.

“Pop?”

Antonio didn’t turn. “Michael? What is it you need?”

He heard his youngest son enter, heard other footsteps. Still he didn’t turn. He knew the footsteps of his sons.

“We want to talk to you,” Georgio said, sitting in the chair opposite the desk.

He turned then to regard his sons. “Yes?”

They resembled each other in bone structure—his. Romanesque noses, high foreheads, strong jaws. Dark hair, but they all had the hazel eyes of their mother. His sons. Georgio, the eldest, married with three children of his own, lived not minutes away, having taking over the vineyards. Santo and his wife were awaiting the arrival of their second child. Michael. Michael was still deciding what he wanted to be.

They all studied him, and Antonio, taking another sip of his wine, waited. They’d get out what was bothering them soon enough.

Georgio cleared his throat. “Pop, we want to know. What’s going on with Tessa? You say you have it under control. She’s our sister,” he said, his hazel eyes blazing. “We’ve a right to know.”

Antonio took a deep breath. “It’s being taken care of.”

Santo stood, slapped his hands on Antonio’s desk. “That’s not what we asked, Pop. You’ve raised us to become more, to see beyond the old ways. We understand that. But some things never change. We want to know what’s become of our sister.”

Michael tilted his head. “We’re not little boys anymore. We can’t be brushed aside like Mama, Bianca, or Lia. We want to know about Tessa as much as you.”

Antonio closed his eyes, leaned his head back against the leather of his chair. Why couldn’t his children listen to him?

No one said a word. Finally, he asked, “Where are your families?”

Santo spoke. “Here. We decided we’re staying here until we know what we want.”

His sons could be as stubborn as their mother.

“Mama is worried about you,” Georgio admitted. “We all are, Pop.”

Opening his eyes, he leaned up, clasping his hands on his desk. Staring at each of them, he said, “I don’t want you involved in this.”

For a moment no one spoke. Santo cursed and stood, raking a hand through his hair. Michael just stared, his eyes filling. “She’s not coming back, is she?”

Antonio saw no reason to answer his son. Why state the obvious?

“What do you know?” Georgio lashed out.

He should take offense at the disrespect, but could not fault them.

But Georgio closed his eyes and said, “
Scusi
, Papa,
mi dispiace.
”

Antonio waved him away. “She was seen in a Czech club that’s not known for its . . . ” He took a deep breath, bit down and stood, looking out the window. “Its safety for young women.”

“What does that mean?” Michael asked. Antonio closed his eyes. His dreaming son often ignored what he wished. In that Michael and Tessa were much alike. They’d been the dreamers. Teresa Maria wanting to be a designer and Michael a doctor.

“What the hell do you think it means, Mike?” Santo asked, cursing again. “A whorehouse. She was seen in a brothel.”

Antonio closed his eyes, taking a deep breath through his nose. It was the first time anyone put it quiet so bluntly. And though he knew, the words still sliced into his heart.

“Which one?” Georgio asked. “Who owns it?”

At least one of his sons thought as he did. He started to wonder if that was a blessing or a curse, but shoved the thought aside and turned back to his sons.

“You know, don’t you?” Georgio asked. “Or at least have an idea what happened to her.”

Again he saw no reason to answer.

“Where’s Uncle Gio?” Santo asked.

Michael, for all his dreaming, answered, “Watching. Waiting.”

He looked at his young son, “
Sì
, Michael.”

“Where?” Georgio pressed, his arms crossed over his chest, standing near the fireplace.

Antonio sighed. “In America.”

“Is she dead?” Santo asked. “Or just missing?”

Antonio stared at Santo, those hard hazel eyes unrelenting.

“Pop?”

He shook his head, raked a hand through his hair and sat behind the desk, tired. “I don’t know, boys. I don’t know. But I fear . . . ” He stopped, cleared his throat, trying to get past the rock lodged there. “I fear . . . ” Again he trailed off. Instead of finishing he said, “I will find the bastard responsible. And he
will
pay.”

“You’ve already found him, or suspect. Otherwise, Uncle Gio would be here,” Michael said.

For a moment no one said anything. Then Santo said, “She’s our sister. It’s our right to be involved, Pop.”

Georgio walked over to his father, pulled out the top desk draw and removed the dagger there. The family dagger. Antonio didn’t move, even when the drawer stuck and he had to shut it himself. He stared into his eldest son’s eyes.

Georgio narrowed his gaze, then sliced his thumb, passing the dagger onto Santo, who did the same, followed by Michael, who finally handed the old family heirloom to him.

Antonio took a deep breath, tried to bite down past the tears, but still they stung his eyes. “I’d wanted better for you. For my sons. For my daughters.”

Georgio shook his head, pressed his thumb to his father’s, to his brothers’. “This has nothing to do with better, Papa. It has to do with justice.”

The oath was sworn, the blood pact made. Antonio hugged his sons, and wished, just for a moment, that he’d been a different man.

* * *

Morgan let the hot shower scald down on her. In the bottom of the stall she curled into a ball.

Why now? How had he found her? Found Amy?

Oh, God, Amy . . .

The tears she’d held back, the emotions she’d kept in check, ripped through her. Sobbing, she covered her head with her arms, resting her forehead on her naked knees, the water beating down on her.

“Oh, Amy . . . ” The sobs shook her, until she was too weak to even want to stand.

Someone knocked on the door, but she ignored them. She closed her eyes, and rocked. Amy. Amy. Amy.

Why hadn’t she checked her damn mail! Why hadn’t she tried to call earlier? Why couldn’t she have helped her friend?

The image of Amy’s bloody shirt rose in her mind. Of his face, that smirk.

She wiped her eyes, reached up and turned off the water. Had he been lying? Could he have been lying?

But then, if he was, how would he have known about her and Amy being friends? Mikhail did nothing by chance or coincidence. Mikhail had a reason for every action, for every reaction, for every word.

Climbing from the shower, she dried off, shoved her black-rimmed glasses on, and stood staring at the pale woman in the mirror with the bandage on her arm, which was now soaked. To hell with it. It’d dry. She’d have to go downstairs to get some dry bandages, but they could wait. Carefully, she unwrapped the white gaze, grimacing at the jagged scar with the black stitches. Lovely.

Vescilly rose in her mind, him lunging at her, the pain of her arm. Why hadn’t he stabbed her? He’d had a knife.

She knew. He wasn’t supposed to kill her, just disable her. Knock her out and take her to his boss.

She took a deep breath and stared at herself in the mirror.

Fear quaked through her, but she shoved it back. If she sat and cowered, if she cried and moaned, he won, didn’t he? He’d win another piece of her soul. Amy wouldn’t sit and cry, she’d kick ass.

Besides, Morgan knew she’d run enough.

From the truth. From her past. From her secrets.

But those were all out now. Or would be. One last stroke of cowardice on her part. It was one thing for her brothers to find out, another to tell them herself that she’d been a prostitute.

“I’m Morgan Gaelord and I was a whore.” She flinched. Maybe Dr. Stewart was right. Saying the words aloud took some of the power out of them. “I’m Morgan Gaelord and I was a whore.” This time she just winced. “Whore, slut, prostitute. Same difference.”

But was it?

You’re a survivor.
Lincoln’s words sliced through her pity.

A survivor.

Taking a deep breath, thinking of Amy . . .

“I’m Morgan Gaelord, and I’m a survivor, damn it. I’m a survivor,” she added louder. “I’m a fucking survivor and I’ll be damned if he reduces me to a cringing, whimpering animal ever again.”

If not for herself, then at least for Amy. Amy wouldn’t have backed down. Not if Amy had received the same tape in the mail, not if it had been Morgan’s bloody shirt.

A watery sigh escaped. “Oh, Amy . . . ”

Shaking her head, she knew she couldn’t think about that right now. Now she needed to face her brothers. To face Lincoln and see what there was to do about ending this. Because end it she would.

Inside, her stomach greased, twisted, caught. Morgan closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “He’s just a man. A mean, power-seeking, controlling man.”

Opening her eyes, she said to the woman in the mirror, “You’ve taken away his toy. Time to flaunt it.”

But how? And did she dare? Not knowing what she was thinking, Morgan quickly dressed in a pair of light gray drawstring pants and a pale blue tunic sweater. Again, she was thankful Gideon had gone for comfort.

Brushing her hair back off her face, she decided against reapplying her makeup. She’d probably just cry it all off anyway. What would be the point?

Taking one last deep breath, she said to the mirror, “Time to face those demons, Morgan.”

Jerking open the bathroom door, she hurried down the hall and down the stairs. Maybe, just maybe she’d figure out a freaking way to slay the bastard.

* * *

Jackson sat on the couch, his hands clasped between his knees.

He couldn’t remember wanting Molly more than he did right at this minute. What the
hell
?

“If you’re lying, I’ll—”

“Gideon,” Jackson interrupted, taking a deep breath. Finally, he straightened, though he didn’t lean back. He felt the need to pace like Gideon.

The living room door was shut, or Suzy might have been in. Jackson was glad the woman was upstairs asleep.

“You’ve known everything since you found her?” Jackson asked.

Lincoln stared into his eyes. “Not about the witness to the murder.” He shrugged. “Jezek doesn’t like to have his things taken away, which is what he sees with the other girls, but with Morgan it’s more than simply seeing her as a possession. She mentioned he asked her to marry him. To be his special first lady or something. He was enthralled with your sister and she hated him.”

Gideon sighed, kicked an ottoman and glared out the window. “He was the one that killed Simon Dixon?”

If only Jackson had followed his instincts and flown to Prague the first time he realized that large sums were being withdrawn from her trust fund. He’d have been there, been there to bring her home. Instead she’d been brutalized and forced to endure prostitution.

His hands shook, and nausea churned. “God.”

Lincoln, to give the man credit, sat quietly in the armchair.

J.D. knew the facts. It was like the time, years ago, when Aunt Eve had come to inform him and Molly that his father and stepmother had died. He heard the words, knew what they meant, felt what they meant, yet couldn’t get his mind completely around them. It was like knowing the Grand Canyon was deep and wide, and yet even standing on the edge, perception was screwed so that one couldn’t tell just how deep or wide.