I slowly stole a hand across it.
“Are you still there?” I whispered, my heart beating with hope.
When I was finally under the showerhead and the warm water poured over me, I fell apart. I cried for all the terror I’d felt over the last couple of days. I sent up a fervent prayer that Hadrian was on his way, and I wondered why it was taking him so long to come for me.
Exhausted, I turned off the water and stepped out of the shower. I grabbed a white fluffy towel and quickly dried off before wrapping it around me.
When I left the bathroom, I drew to a halt and gaped in surprise. Tor sat at the edge of my bed. He didn’t look at me when I entered; his body was hunched over as he leaned his elbows on his knees.
“What’s with you Moretti men?” I demanded, tightening my fist around the towel I wore. “You just show up in my bedroom like it’s your right.”
Tor didn’t supply a rebuttal. He got up off the bed and stalked to the balcony doors and peered out. “Get dressed. I want to show you something.”
“It’s late, Tor, and I’m tired.”
“It won’t take long.” He looked at me over his shoulder, his eyes glittering in the low lamp light.
“What’s this about?” I asked.
“You’ll see. You won’t get rid of me, so you might as well give in. Don’t bother with outdoor clothes. We’re not leaving the house.”
Reluctantly, I went to the dresser and discreetly pulled out a pair of underwear and a set of blue silk pajamas. I headed back into the bathroom to change, wondering what the hell was so important that Tor—silent, stoic Tor—had to show me.
“I’m ready,” I said when I opened the bathroom door.
Nodding, he headed to the exit of the room, not bothering to look behind him to see if I was following.
The house was quiet. Tor took the ornate staircase to the first floor, and I thought we’d turn in the direction of the salon where the family usually congregated, but he surprised me when he headed the opposite way.
The massive, austere, ancestral home was a labyrinth that I was sure each Moretti knew like the back of their hand. When we arrived at a heavy wooden door, Tor pushed it open and went in first. It was a library—the gargantuan wood-burning fireplace had not been modernized and was at least ten feet tall. Leather bound books lined the shelves, and I wondered if they were all for show, or if people ever actually read them.
“This is the sanctuary,” Tor explained. “This is where the men of the family come to discuss the fate of Italy and the legacy of the Compagnia Bianca del Falco.
I didn’t bother holding in the eye roll. “It looks like any other library on a grand estate. You couldn’t show me this tomorrow?”
When I made a move to leave, he reached for my arm and stopped me.
“There’s a purpose to this room. One you need to understand,” he said, his voice gravelly and low, like he was unaccustomed to speaking for prolonged periods of time.
Tor walked to the far wall and pointed to the painting of a handsome man with tan skin and a short, silver beard. He sat atop a black stallion and he was dressed in chain mail armor. On a flagpole attached to his horse and braced by one of his hands, flew a deep red flag with the image of a white falcon on a coat of arms.
“We can trace our lineage back to this man,” he said, gazing up at the painting, his dark eyes glowing with pride. “Alfonso Moretti.”
I looked at the painting again, studying it. Through the generations, the Moretti men still carried the hearty stamp of Alfonso’s features. Aristocratic brow, patrician nose. Alfonso’s chin was concealed by his beard, but I didn’t doubt that it was as robust as the vitality emanating from him.
“The falcon…I always wondered why the literal translation of the Compagnia Bianca del Falco is The White Falcon Company. How did it become known as The White Company? What happened to the falcon?” I asked.
“We actually don’t know. Our coat of arms shows the white falcon, but through the generations the falcon was dropped from the translation and we became known simply as The White Company.”
Tor moved to the next painting and the next, depicting every first-born son and leader of The White Company. There were sixteen in all.
“Where’s Angelo’s painting?”