The girls looked at him. When he spoke again, his voice was soft. “Arturo Taccone is in the business of evil.”
Something about the way he turned back to the TV told Kat there was something he wasn’t telling her—information obtained from private investigators or corporate gossips, from Manhattan socialites or high-ranking Italian officials. They were the kinds of stories told in smoke-filled rooms over expensive Cuban cigars.
But some stories make your hands shake. Sometimes too many details make you fidget in the dark. So Kat didn’t ask Hale to tell the tales. She looked at him, watched him toss the remote on the table and say, “So maybe I’m going to handcuff myself to you the next time you decide to take a stroll.”
“I was fine,” Kat insisted, desperate for him to understand. “He . . . likes me. I amuse him. He thinks I’m”—Kat hadn’t realized until now—“like him.”
“You’re not,” Hale blurted. For the first time in hours he looked into her eyes. “You are not like Arturo Taccone.”
There were times when Kat thought she knew everything there was to know about W. W. Hale the Fifth—with the single exception of his first name—and then there were times like this, when she felt that he was like one of the first edition novels in the library of his upstate house: she hadn’t even finished the first chapter.
“How deep would the river that runs to the moat be at its shallowest?” Gabrielle asked.
Kat shrugged. “Eight feet?”
Hale nodded. “I’d say ten at the most.”
“How small would the sub have to be?” Gabrielle asked.
“Small,” Kat answered.
“Note to self,” Gabrielle said. “When it comes to moats, deeper isn’t necessarily better.”
Then Hale asked, “How small?”
Kat heard the hum of a motorcycle on the street below, saw lights shining on the Coliseum in the distance. In the dim hotel room, a masked man stood frozen on the TV screen, caught in the act of stealing five priceless paintings and her father’s future.
“There’s one way to find out.”
10 Days Until Deadline
Chapter 11
The Mariano & Sons Dive Shop in Naples was a family-run affair and very proud of that particular fact. Mariano the Second had been the son of a fisherman, but he’d suffered from an unfortunate tendency toward seasickness and was forced to find a respectable career that could be safely conducted on dry land. So he built boats.
Mariano the Third built bigger boats.
And by the time a girl from a very different type of family business arrived at their shopfront on the Mediterranean coast, Mariano the Fourth had built and patented at least a half dozen of the most advanced (and justifiably expensive) watercrafts in the world.
Or so Kat’s father had told her right before he’d made a trip to Venice.
As soon as the receptionist at Il Negozio di Mariano & Figli saw the young man strolling through the double glass doors, she could tell he was from money—that almost anything in their showroom was something for which he could simply write a check. Maybe pay cash. Certainly charge on whatever ridiculously high-limit credit card he carried.
But that wasn’t why she smiled when the young man removed his sunglasses, leaned across the sleek glass counter, and said, “Ciao.” The woman felt as if every muscle in her body were starting to melt. “I was wondering if you could help me.”
Running a crew means delegating, knowing when to sit out and let others take the lead. Understanding what your best resources are and exactly how to use them. But as Kat stood across the busy seaside street, watching the young receptionist flirt with Hale, she began to worry that Hale might leave with a girlfriend and not a name.
The lack of a name worried her. The presence of a girlfriend, she assured herself, did not.
For ten minutes she stood outside, watching the scene through the large picture window. Hands brushed against shoulders. Eyelashes batted up and down. The whole spectacle was enough to make Kat pace (although every good thief knows she’s far less likely to be noticed if she stays perfectly still).
“Are you watching this?” she asked Gabrielle for the fourth time. But her cousin’s attentions were focused on the young man at the sidewalk café who was equally enamored by Gabrielle and, more specifically, her highly inadequate skirt.
“He’s gonna blow it.” Kat threw her hands in the air. “It’s our one good lead and he’s gonna blow it.”
But her cousin didn’t notice. If she had, she might have said something—done something—but as it was, she didn’t even turn until Kat was across the street, walking through the gleaming doors.
“There you are.” Kat was panting, only half pretending to be out of breath as she walked up to the counter.