In For the Kill (McClouds & Friends #11)(51)

Sam took advantage of her distraction to pick up the square of paper. Sveti twitched it away and smoothed it back into its folds.

“What is that?” he asked.

“Mama’s last letter to me,” she said.

Sam waited, but when the obvious next thing was not forthcoming, he fished for it. “And you’re going to read it to us, right?”

“I’d rather not,” she said. “It has nothing to do with anything, and it just makes me sad, and I really don’t . . .” Her voice petered off.

Sam gazed at her, relentless. “You said everything, Sveti.”

She unfolded it, with agonizing slowness, and began to translate.



My dear Svetlana,

I write to you from Renato’s atrium in the Villa Rosalba. An orange tree is heavy with fruit over my right shoulder, a lemon tree to my left. Before me is Renato’s sculpture garden, full of figures from myth and legend. Atlas is my favorite. Approach him from the bench where I sit, following the tree of life, until you can see his eyes.

Look beneath. Look within, to find your way through the labyrinth. You already know more about that labyrinth than any young woman should. For that I will always be sorry. Forgive me for not protecting you better. I should have taken you back to France before disaster struck. Love makes one stupid.





Sam winced inwardly. The very last thought he wanted Sveti to reflect upon right now, and he had bullied her into voicing it.

He broke in as Sveti faltered. “France?”

“She was part French,” Sveti said. “Raised in Paris. She met my father while visiting her mother’s family in the Ukraine.”

“And Renato? Who’s he?”

“Renato Torregrossa. Her Italian boyfriend,” Sveti said. “A rich Italian count. He was a bigwig in some multinational pharmaceutical company. Had a fancy villa by the sea. I never met him. Or wanted to.”

“And the labyrinth, the tree of life? What’s that about?”

“I don’t know,” Sveti said. “She just talked that way. She was a lit professor. She liked poetic metaphors.” She read on.



I had hoped to spend Christmas holidays with you here, but it will not be possible until spring. I am in the middle of an assignment that takes all my attention. Come for spring vacation instead, and we will swim together in the Mediterranean in April. Don’t be angry at me, love. Be strong. You’ll find your strongest weapon buried in all this garbage.

All my love, always. Until spring,

Mama



“She died ten days after that letter is dated,” she said softly.

“Where is this Renato?” Sam asked.

Sveti turned the letter over, indicated the return address, penned on the letter. “I have the address of the Villa Rosalba.”

“I’ll find him,” Val said.

“No, don’t,” Sveti said. “I’ll find him. I will talk to him personally.”

Val frowned. “Sveti. We have experience that you do not.”

“I don’t want him on his guard. It makes sense for me to want to talk to someone who knew Mama and spent time with her. It’s entirely different if a group of foreigners start making threatening noises!”

Tam’s mouth curved. “Thank you for that vote of confidence.”

“Don’t touch it,” Sveti said. “Promise me.”

Sean drummed his fingers against the table. “Moving on,” he said. “If you’re going to Europe no matter what we say, who goes with you?”

“I will cover her while she is in Italy,” Val said. “But we must think in longer terms for London.”

“I’ll check SafeGuard’s roster of bodyguards,” Sean said.

“I’ll go.” The offer flew out before Sam could gauge its insanity level. Which he instantly realized was very high.

Sveti gaped at him, blank. “Go . . . what? Go where?”

“With you,” he repeated. “To Italy. And England. You know. To protect and serve.”

Nick’s eyes were cold. “You opportunistic son of a bitch.”

Tam exchanged speculative glances with Val. “The idea has merit. He’d be earning his oxygen. And we wouldn’t have to trip over him around here. There’s definitely something to be said for that.”

Sveti sputtered, wordlessly. She finally found her voice. “No way!” she burst out. “I cannot afford to hire a goddamn bodyguard!”

“I work cheap,” Sam said.

Several men in the room exploded with quickly stifled laughter. The women in the room shot them quelling glances.

“Looking to score some points, huh?” Nick demanded.

“What if I am? She’ll have her back covered all the same.”

“And plenty else besides, I bet,” Tam said dryly.

“You won’t do her much good in Italy if you don’t speak the language,” Val said.

“I speak Italian,” Sam said.

Val’s face froze, mouth slightly open. “Non mi hai mai detto che parli italiano,” he said. You never told me you speak Italian.

“Non mi hai mai chiesto,” Sam replied. You never asked. He continued, in Italian. “I spent time there as a child, and studied there, in college. I speak French, Spanish, and Italian. My sister speaks Japanese and Mandarin, too. I’m the underachiever of the family.”