that no-one was about, Baroque reached over the bar and picked up one of the glasses that Vincenzo had collected but not yet washed. He held it up to the dim light and turned it before smashing it against the edge of the bar. Glass tinkled to the floor and scattered all over the wooden surface.
Vincenzo jumped and lowered his cup. ‘What are you –?’
Before he could finish, Baroque rammed the broken glass into the tavern owner’s neck. Vincenzo clutched at his throat, his eyes widening. Blood spilled over his hands, down his arms, dripping onto his apron. Gurgling sounds were trapped in his mouth. He stared at Baroque; questions, accusation and betrayal in his eyes.
Baroque calmly got off his stool and went around to the back of the bar. He wrapped his arms around Vincenzo from behind and gently lowered him to the floor.
He placed his lips against Vincenzo’s ear. ‘Mi dispiace, Vincenzo. You know too much. You saw the Maleovellis, the nobiles. You know I work for them. The Bond Riders, they cannot know this. No-one must know. Not yet. It will be over soon, amico mio. This way is quick. Trust me, I know what I am doing. I have done it many, many times.’
Baroque sat on the floor of the taverna, the bar rising above him. Vincenzo’s head lay in his lap, blood pouring from the wound being absorbed into the sawdust. Vincenzo tried to talk.
‘Hush,’ whispered Baroque, stroking his hair. ‘Do not speak. Be silent. Don’t fight.’
Vincenzo frowned. His watery eyes fluttered and slowly closed. Baroque sighed and waited. It would not be long.
Moonlight streamed through the frosted windows at the front of the taverna. The candles spluttered and went out one by one, gradually plunging the room into a cold, blue darkness. The fire spat its last. Baroque noticed the rain had stopped.
Finally, Vincenzo spasmed. Two huge shudders wracked his body. His legs jerked and then, with one final deep breath, his body stilled.
Baroque eased himself out from under it and rose with difficulty. His legs were sticky with blood. Touching it in dismay, he wiped his fingers on his breeches. He would find Vincenzo’s clothes and change.
Minutes later, he came down the stairs dressed in a fresh shirt, jerkin, hose and a thick cape with a hood. He glanced down at Vincenzo. He felt a pang of regret. Another innocent life lost. Because of what was afoot in Serenissima; because of Tallow.
Now he would have to return to the Maleovellis. He hadn’t intended to see them again. He’d failed in his mission for them and he had a new one. But they had his journals, the detailed diaries he’d kept for decades, filled to the brim with names, dates, secret meetings, treachery, treason, and death. So much of that – and all in the name of power. Evidence that would incriminate not only him, but many others if they fell into the wrong hands. In the right ones, they were worth a great deal of money – soldi to which only he was entitled. He had no choice but to go back to the Maleovellis and do whatever it took to retrieve them. He’d worked too hard his whole life – betrayed, lied, deceived, denied himself real friendship and many creature comforts – all the while documenting everything so that in his old age he would be comfortable. The Maleovellis would not take that from him. He would have his journals, regardless of the risk. He owed Vincenzo that at least.
Vincenzo’s body lay there. He would have to make his death look like a violent robbery. Shaking himself into motion, he unlatched the front door and peered into the campo. It was quiet. Only a cat slinked its way around the well. Good. Stripping the nearest table of its cloth, he wrapped it around his wrist and smashed a window. He captured the glass in its folds before closing the door. Using the heel of his boot, he shattered the lock.
Picking up a few random mugs, he threw them around the room. As he strode to the back door, he knocked chairs over. Using a knife he found, he slit open bladders of vino. They gurgled into the thirsty sawdust.
From the hallway he surveyed his handiwork. In the murky light, it looked impressive. The work of bandits indeed. Satisfied, he went to the desk crammed under the stairs. There, in a tin stashed carelessly in the top drawer, were Vincenzo’s meagre takings. He