Pleasure's Fury Page 29

  Antonio would be a great admiral one day.

  That thought hurt. It hurt a lot.

  The Fiat had stopped with the passenger side wedged against a massive stone planter. The front of the car was crushed, the windshield missing, and the driver was slumped over the wheel.

  Antonio barked and ordered for everyone to stay back, then, gun in hand, approached the driver’s side of the car. He opened the door and grabbed the driver’s shoulder, shoving him back against the seat.

  There was a hole in his forehead. A trail of blood had leaked down from the hole, across his open and lifeless eyeball. A tattoo was visible under the cuff of his shirt.

  Antonio bent, looking in the car. “Diana.” No response. “Diana.” This time, he said her name with more force.

  The woman, who seemed slight and delicate in the puffy coat she wore, was similarly slumped forward. She jerked up the second time Antonio said her name. Karl breathed a sigh of relief that she wasn’t dead.

  She looked around, her eyes widening. She looked at Antonio, then at the admiral. She started stuttering and jerking against her seat belt.

  Around Karl, people shifted and cursed. Someone ran inside.

  She was speaking too fast for him to understand, but there was one word he thought he recognized. She kept saying it over and over again.

  “Bomba, bomba!”

  Bomb.

  “Did your boyfriend say anything about the Domino, the mastermind? Was he in Bucharest two days ago?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. He wasn’t like this before,” Diana sobbed.

  “Tell me about the bomb,” Antonio demanded.

  “He went crazy. Crazy! You have to get me out!”

  “The bomb is in the car?”

  “Me, me,” she sobbed.

  He was ready to reach into the car and shake the woman when his father appeared at his side.

  “Move the urn so we can get her out,” Giovanni said.

  “She’s not going anywhere until we know about this bomb,” Antonio said quietly.

  “You won’t learn anything if she isn’t able to calm down. There is a time for strength and a time for compassion.” The words were slightly at odds with the way Giovanni reached in, undid the driver’s seat belt, then snapped his fingers. Martino stepped forward, shouldering Antonio aside, and yanked the driver’s body out of the car, dumping it several feet away.

  Giovanni glanced at Antonio, then leaned into the car. “Diana, listen to me now.”

  She took a shuddering breath and looked at Giovanni.

  “It will take them a moment to open your door. Until then, you and I will chat.”

  Antonio went around to the other side of the car. Karl was kneeling by the body of the driver, looking at his wrist. With that hole in his head, Antonio hadn’t bothered to check if he was still alive.

  The massive stone urn jammed against the passenger’s side of the car had to weigh five hundred pounds, and that was without the dirt and flowers filling it, but he and several others were able to lift it and move it a few feet, enough to get the door open.

  “Lorenzo is ten minutes out,” Saverio said. “He’s called for a truck and a suit.”

  Antonio nodded in relief. Lorenzo had served with a bomb squad unit in the military. He could deal with the explosive—truck and suit meant a bomb squad vehicle and EOD suit.

  Antonio opened the passenger door, then forced himself to smile before crouching. He mimicked his father’s calm, gentle tone.

  “We will get you out,” Antonio said.

  Diana’s hands were handcuffed together in front of her. He reached for the seat belt release.

  “Wait,” Giovanni said quietly. “Diana and I have been talking. The bomb is strapped to her body. I think it’s best we move carefully.”

  Antonio went cold. “Is it armed?” he barked.

  Her eyes filled with tears. “I don’t know. I don’t know.”

  Antonio reached for the zipper of the puffy jacket she wore and Diana flinched. Antonio pulled back. Giovanni put a knee on the driver’s seat and leaned across. “May I, my dear?”

  She nodded shakily.

  Giovanni slid the zipper down.

  A vest packed with squares of C4 was chained to her chest. Wires crossed and crisscrossed her body. A digital clock near her waist read 3:58.

  3:57.

  The bomb was armed, and it was about to go off.

  Antonio jerked back and looked at Martino. He ducked his head, looking inside, then backpedaled and put his hand to his ear. He started relaying information and barking orders.

  “I’m so sorry, so sorry,” Diana was saying to Giovanni.

  Antonio was pushed back as men with some bomb experience began to inspect the device. One was snapping pictures and sending them to Lorenzo. The other was carefully inspecting the device while checking for a failsafe or disarming switch.

  “Why would you apologize? I am the one who owes you an apology. You are like family to me, like my own daughter, and I didn’t know you were dating such a terrible man.”

  Saverio stepped up to Giovanni. “Admiral, we need to get you out of here. We’re going to move the car away from the villa.”

  “You will focus on freeing her,” Giovanni said. “That is our priority. Is that understood, cavaliere?”

  Saverio’s jaw worked, but he said, “Yes, Admiral.”

  Giovanni looked over the crowd. “Dr. Klimek. Ms. Virtanen. Take my son to the front of the villa, please.”

  Antonio shook his head. “No. I’m staying.”

  “No, Antonio. You are not. If I must, I will order the knights to move you, but their time may be better spent here.”

  Antonio looked at Saverio and Vico. “Get the admiral out of here.”

  “I am not leaving until Diana is safe.” Giovanni smiled at the woman as he spoke. She smiled back tentatively.

  3:09.

  “Dr. Klimek. Ms. Virtanen,” Giovanni said again.

  Antonio looked at Saverio. “When that hits one minute, knock my father out and drag him away from here if he refuses to leave.”

  Giovanni’s jaw clenched. “I am still the admiral. Go. Now.”

  Karl and Leila appeared at his sides. Karl put his arms around Antonio’s waist and drew him back.

  “Give them space to work,” Leila said. “We should get out of their way.”

  Antonio jerked against Karl’s hold, but he merely tightened his grip. Karl was strong, but Antonio could have freed himself. Then Leila put her hands on him, and Antonio calmed. He allowed them to march him into the central hall.

  Behind them, the terrace was a flurry of tightly controlled activity. The tension made the air thick and hard to breath. Or maybe that tightness in his chest was because he’d just left his father standing three feet from an armed bomb.

  “We need to take care of the other people.” Karl gestured to the front door. “They don’t know what’s going on.”

  “My father shouldn’t be back there,” Antonio said.

  “The knights will take care of him. It’s their job,” Leila assured him. She had two guns on her back and an ammo belt around her waist.

  She was also barefoot and appeared to be wearing nothing more than Karl’s shirt.

  “If you hadn’t been here,” Antonio started to say. Then he looked at Karl. “If both of you hadn’t been here…” Leila had prevented the car from crashing into the villa, which might have triggered the bomb. Karl had made sure to keep the villa staff and other occupants safe.

  “That was an amazing shot,” Karl told Leila.

  He opened the front door and they walked out. Antonio stood on the step and started addressing the crowd. In short, hard sentences, he told them what was happening—there was a bomb. They were working to defuse it.

  Screams and cries of horror greeted his announcement.

  Karl put a hand on his shoulder. “That maybe wasn’t the best way to tell them. Reassure them. You don’t want anyone to panic. Panicked p
eople make bad decisions.”

  That much was proven true when Luca, Diana’s brother, bolted for the front door. Antonio grabbed him.

  Karl raised his hands and, in atrocious Italian, started speaking to the crowd. He was bare-chested, his glasses askew, but he projected his voice with calm authority. Leila positioned herself and her guns in front of the door, making it clear no one was going in.

  After a second of listening to Karl struggle, Antonio firmly pushed Luca back into the crowd, then said, “I’ll translate.”

  Karl switched to English. After each sentence, he paused so Antonio could repeat what he’d said in Italian.

  “The driver’s plan was to crash into the villa and blow it up. He’s been stopped. Diana is safe. They’re working on defusing the bomb now. We need to stay here to make sure we don’t distract anyone. Bomb experts are on their way.”

  Luca had turned into one of his cousin’s arms and was weeping, but everyone else was quieter, if not calm. The fear was palpable, as thick as the tension had been on the terrace, but Karl’s words had soothed them.

  Done talking, Antonio and Karl turned to Leila, who held the long rifle in a deceptively casual way.

  “How long has it been?” Antonio asked.

  “Two minutes,” Leila said.

  Antonio looked at the door. They had less than a minute. How close were they to disarming it? If they couldn’t, they needed to move everyone away from the vehicle.

  “I’m going to check—”

  The ground vibrated, and a split second later the air shook with the blast as the bomb went off.

  One minute early.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “Antonio, in light of…” The fleet admiral floundered. He never floundered. Which proved just how fucking bad all of this was.

  Eric started again. “I’m sorry about your father.”

  Antonio stood at the window of the hotel, glancing out at the water. There was nothing more beautiful, more peaceful than the sparkles of light the sun produced on the clear blue ocean.

  He hadn’t been surprised when the fleet admiral had summoned him to his suite. Antonio had been expecting the call.

  “Thank you, sir,” Antonio replied, not bothering to look at him.

  “Goddammit. Stop with that shit. My name is Eric. You know why I’ve called you here.”

  Antonio nodded.

  “This would be easier if you looked at me.”

  Antonio sucked in a deep breath and turned to face the fleet admiral, his leader, his boss, a man he’d come to know in the past few weeks, whom he respected, admired.

  “Rome needs an admiral.”

  Antonio wanted to hit something, someone. Rome had a fucking admiral, a strong, powerful, incredible man. His father.

  He closed his eyes, tried to block out the image of the last time he’d seen Father conscious. Standing by the car, comforting a terrified woman.

  Now he was in a hospital bed, burns covering ninety percent of his body, machines breathing for him, feeding him.

  Saverio must have attempted to follow Antonio’s orders. And he’d paid for it with his life. Giovanni had been at the back door, several meters away from the car, Saverio at his back, clearly attempting to usher him to safety.

  If they’d had the whole minute—the whole fucking minute—they would have made it to safety.

  “Sir…Eric,” Antonio corrected. “My father still lives.”

  Eric raised his hand, so Antonio stopped talking. They stared at each other for a long minute.

  Eric didn’t want to say that his father wasn’t expected to survive, and if by some miracle he did, he would never be fit to rule again.

  He didn’t want to say it.

  And Antonio didn’t want to hear it.

  It was a draw.

  “Rome needs an admiral right now,” Eric said, compromising.

  No, Antonio decided. That wasn’t compromise. It was compassion.

  “And I’ve put your name forward to the conclave.”

  Antonio frowned. “There wasn’t time…”

  “We met online. Because you’re right. There wasn’t time. Our society is under attack. Antonio, you were the unanimous choice. No other names were suggested.”

  Antonio digested that. No other names.

  Admirals were replaced upon their deaths, or when they were no longer able to serve their territories effectively. Incapacitated.

  Jesus. Antonio felt incapacitated. How could he do this? How could he rule this territory when his father lay in a hospital bed fighting for his life, when a mastermind was out there threatening everything Antonio loved and held dear?

  He didn’t realize how long the silence had dragged on until Eric said, “Antonio.”

  “I won’t take my father’s position as long as he lives. I want this to be temporary.”

  Eric frowned, and it was clear he wanted to argue the point, belabor it.

  Antonio’s temper sparked. “Goddammit! It’s been four days. He may have been just an admiral to you, to everyone else, but he’s my father, Eric. I can’t…won’t write him off. Won’t believe…”

  He turned back to the window, refusing to let his leader see the anguish and pain in his eyes. He wouldn’t appear weak.

  Nor would he take something that wasn’t rightfully his.

  Giovanni Starabba was the admiral of Rome. And he would remain so until there was no breath left in his body.

  “Fine,” Eric said, his tone clipped. “You will be named the temporary admiral of Rome. Until such time it is deemed Giovanni will never—”

  “Until Giovanni dies.”

  Eric sucked in an angry breath. “Antonio—”

  “I will be the temporary admiral of Rome until the current admiral returns or passes away.”

  “Antonio…there’s no way to know how long—”

  Antonio captured Eric’s gaze, held it. “I pray it is years. Many, many years.”

  Eric nodded. “Antonio Starabba,” Eric said, his tone formal. “You are, by order of the conclave, relieved of your position of security officer.”

  Antonio glanced toward the floor. Was he supposed to kneel?

  Eric recognized his confusion, and shook his head subtly. Then the fleet admiral continued, “Antonio Starabba.”

  Antonio’s heart raced. He’d never wanted to hear any words less, but they came anyway.

  “You are, by order of the conclave of admirals, appointed,” Eric paused, then said, “temporary…admiral of Rome.”

  Antonio bowed his head, his heart heavy.

  “Stay here.” Eric left the hotel suite without another word.

  Uncertain what to do, Antonio turned toward the window once more, rubbing his eyes wearily.

  He wasn’t sure how long he remained there before he heard the door to the suite open. Antonio turned, intent on telling the fleet admiral he needed to get back to the hospital, back to his father—when he spied Leila and Karl standing next to Eric, nervously looking around.

  When Leila spotted him, she crossed the room, not stopping until she was in his arms.

  “Antonio,” she murmured, her voice muffled against his chest.

  Karl joined them, reaching out to grip his upper arm, squeezing it supportively. “Okay, mijn vriend?”

  Antonio nodded, though the response was a lie.

  He’d never been less okay. “I am fine. I have been appointed admiral of Rome.”

  Leila released him as he spoke, her eyes wide.

  He hastened to add, “Temporary.”

  Both Karl and Leila hesitated, confused. Then, dammit, Karl looked toward Eric, who sighed and shook his head simultaneously.

  “Why did you call us here, Fleet Admiral?” Leila asked.

  “I’ve appointed Antonio admiral. Now, there is one last thing to do,” Eric said, stepping before them.

  “What is that?” Karl asked.

  “Kneel.”

  When none of them moved, looking from one to the other, confuse
d about who Eric was speaking to, the fleet admiral rolled his eyes.

  “All of you,” Eric barked. “Now.”

  Leila and Karl dropped to their knees gracefully. Antonio felt as if he merely fell, exhaustion—physical and emotional—taking him down hard.

  Karl reached over to grip his arm, an attempt at bolstering him, supporting him. Antonio gave him a grateful smile.

  “I hereby bind you, Antonio, admiral of Rome—” Eric began.

  “What?” Antonio cut in loudly, starting to rise. Karl’s grip on his arm and the addition of Leila’s hand to his shoulder kept him down.

  “If you correct me on that temporary thing one more time,” Eric’s dark, angry tone revealed the Viking. The fleet admiral’s nickname was appropriate.

  Antonio shook his head. “No, I mean…”

  “Antonio, rakkaani,” Leila whispered. “Let him finish.”

  “Rakkaani?” he murmured back.

  “My love,” she answered. “And if you’ll let the fleet admiral continue, I’ll add aviomieheni to that in a moment.”

  At his confused, tired, questioning look, she explained, “My husband.”

  Antonio looked up at the fleet admiral, who pierced him with an impatient raised-eyebrow stare, daring him to say something else. Antonio did not.

  “You need them,” Eric said softly.

  Yes. Antonio nodded. He couldn’t rule this territory alone, but with them by his side… “Yes, I do,” he whispered.

  Satisfied that he could continue with the ceremony, Eric started over. “I hereby bind you, Antonio Starabba, admiral of Rome, Leila Virtanen of Kalmar, and Karl Klimek of Germany, in marriage.”

  Karl squeezed Antonio’s arm as the last word was spoken. He glanced over and found his friend and lover smiling widely, his glasses smudged with fingerprints. How could he even see?

  It was a strange thing to notice—and find completely irresistible—but Antonio’s heart swelled. He placed his hand over Karl’s on his arm, rubbing his thumb over Karl’s knuckles.

  Eric continued, “Your union will serve to better and protect the people of our proud and ancient society. It is your duty to love, protect, and keep your spouses. I will hear your pledge to not only keep and protect one another, but to strive to better our world.”