In For the Kill (McClouds & Friends #11)(118)

This was her hard thing. She’d had hard luck, and plenty of it, but the hard thing was not the same as hard luck. The hard thing was consciously chosen, its painful consequences stoically accepted.

Walking away from Sam was the hardest thing of all.

She followed Hazlett with the car Simone had provided, detouring to her hotel, so she could pick up her clothes, computer, and tablet. She had no idea how she got through the rest of that evening at Villa Rosalba. Drinks on the terrace with Michael and Renato, a late dinner she could not eat, invasive questions about her disastrous adventures. She performed like a puppet, chatted, smiled. Polite and articulate. Was this how she would feel for the rest of her life? She’d traded the vivid realness of being with Sam for this? Small talk, dull superficiality, crushing boredom? God, how depressing.

Shortly after dinner, she caved. “I’m so sorry, but I can’t keep my eyes open any longer,” she said. “Would you gentlemen excuse me?”

“Of course.” Hazlett got to his feet. “I’ll show you to your room.”

He took her up a stonework staircase that led to the breezeway on the second floor. The moon was bright in the sky. Wall sconces glowed on the loggias that opened out upon the garden below. It was a Renaissance fantasy, and she was completely numb to it.

Michael unlocked a room and handed her the key. She turned to go in, and he stopped her with a hand on her shoulder.

“Svetlana,” he began earnestly. “You’ve been through such an ordeal. If you need company, any time of the day or night, please, call on me. I’m right across the courtyard. Second room from the left.”

“Thanks,” she murmured. As if. In your dreams, buddy.

“You’re troubled,” he said softly, stroking her shoulder with his thumb. “Is it about your . . . I’m not quite sure what to call him.”

“Friend,” she said. “He’s my dear friend.” Always, and forever. Tension rose inside her. She didn’t want Hazlett’s oily curiosity brushing up against that awful sore spot, not even slightly.

“Just friend?” he demanded. “Nothing more?”

She pried off his hand. “Not a good time, Michael.”

He was instantly contrite. “Sorry. I won’t put pressure on you.”

How very civil of him. Wow. She stared blankly. The situation felt grotesque, against the backdrop of blood, death, and heartbreak.

His expression was one of stoic fortitude. “I can be patient,” he told her, soulfully. “When something’s worth waiting for.”

Wait until the sun exploded, then. “Good night, Michael.” She shut the door in his face with no further salute.

Now she had to just wait, without going batshit. She’d be smart to sleep a few hours, but sleep was almost as laughable as Michael Hazlett coming on to her, with gunshots still ringing in her ears, and Sasha’s body barely cold. And Sam saying, Don’t come back at all.

She sat on the bed, doubled over. The images that flooded through her made her rock, moaning. Sasha, jerking and twisting in midair as he took those bullets. He had been taking bullets for everyone for his entire f*cking life, and he’d never gotten any thanks for it. She was so angry, so confused. So grateful Sam had not died, but damn Sasha for not finding some brilliant way out of that trap other than his sacrificial goat routine. And God, what a thing to criticize someone for. Self-sacrifice, heroism. It was so f*cked up. So wrong.

One thing, at least, was clear. She didn’t care what bridges she burned. She wasn’t going to London for the Illuxit job. It felt wrong now.

Of course, everything felt wrong right now. They said not to make life-changing decisions when depressed, but if she followed that rule, she’d never make any decisions at all. Life was too short to tolerate Hazlett’s smug smile, his groping, squeezing fingers. She had plenty of other things to grit her teeth about. She didn’t need to go looking for more.

But the thought didn’t take up much space in her head. Nor did she appreciate the beautiful room, the priceless antiques, the moon on the veranda. The serenity of the place mocked her. An industrial wasteland, with caustic fumes, smokestacks, bursts of angry flame stabbing up into a dingy sky. That would be more appropriate.

Hours crawled by. She paced. Powered up her laptop, poked through the JPEGs. She set up a slideshow of photos her mother had sent her from Italy. Many were of Villa Rosalba. It occurred to her that Mama had not sent a single picture of Renato.

At three, she unlocked her door and stepped into the breezeway. There was a rhythmic night chorus of insects in the garden. The sound was shrill and ominous. Beckoning her to her doom. No big deal. Doom was her natural habitat. She knew her way around it like a pro.

She walked down the corridor. No one stirred. Down the stairway. Into the sculpture garden. She made her way to her mother’s bench, with the view of Atlas. Grateful for the sconces and their dim, wavering light. She was an antenna, tuned for the faintest sound of movement. What an idiot, not to get her hands on a flashlight.

The light that filtered through the thick foliage was barely enough to follow the pattern of the tree trunk tiles. It got more difficult farther out, where the shadows were deeper, but once her eyes adjusted, she began to see the dim outlines of the images on the tiles.

She found the tile with The Sword of Cain. Abel’s blood seemed black, but she’d seen so much blood recently, her brain filled in the color.