dockyards.
'Where is she?' He spoke in a voice that he scarcely recognized as his own. It was very, very cold. A voice which announced, as certainly as the tides: I will kill you, very slowly, if I don't get answers.
The man looked up at Benito with half-glazed eyes. What he apparently saw was not just a fifteen-year-old boy. Maybe the Ferrara-steel rapier had something to do with it. The Matteoni cowered back against the blood- spattered wall. 'They got away. She--they--killed Luce and Stephano. I--I wasn't here. I was watching for Schiopettieri over on the next street. But when I saw her running away with that Case Vecchie bitch . . . I thought she'd come back, sooner or later.'
Case Vecchie . . . who but Kat?
'Who sent you?' Benito demanded. He already knew the answer. But he had to hear it. In his heart of hearts, somewhere, he still hoped to hear it was someone else. But it was a faint hope, almost nonexistent. How else could they have known where to find Maria? He'd told Caesare himself, because--he'd thought it honorable and best.
'Aldanto . . . Caesare Aldanto. Said to make it look like a rape.' It was said in a whisper, but it was loud enough to rock the foundations of Benito's whole world.
* * *
Three minutes later, with the surviving Matteoni lashed to the bed--and looking very surprised to find himself still alive at all--the place stripped of any weapon and the solid door firmly locked, Benito was jog-trotting in search of a gondola.
Maria's was still moored at the canalside. That was ominous. The gondola was her life.
Again, Benito felt despair seeping back in. And, again, that sudden wave of sheer rage. He had to restrain himself from stalking back into the apartment and cutting Giovanni's throat. But--
He wasn't quite up to cold-blooded murder, and there was nothing else to do with the man. He'd considered taking the Matteoni to the Schiopettieri and militia back on the campo. But Caesare had too much influence there. If Benito lived through this mess, then he'd take Giovanni Matteoni to Petro Dorma personally. But first he was going to the Casa Montescue to check that Maria was all right. And Kat, of course.
Then he was going to have to deal with Caesare. He hadn't made up his mind how he was going to do it, but it had to be done. It had him in something of a turmoil, but that wasn't going to stop him.
Soon enough, Benito found a gondolier to take him to Casa Montescue. He spent the entire trip locked away in the black thoughts in his mind. He was still trying to decide on the best course, when the gondolier cleared his throat, suggesting that now he'd brought the young signor here, payment and alighting would be much appreciated.
'How much?' asked Benito, feeling for his purse.
The gondolier told him.
Benito laughed savagely. 'Va'funculo! What do you think I am? One of these poncy Case Vecchie idiots?'
The gondolier nodded, too dumbfounded to speak.
Benito had to acknowledge the justice of the man's assumption. 'Here. That's the right sort of fare. And this,' he held out a larger coin, far more than the fellow had asked for, 'is for reminding me.'
He alighted, and went to knock at the front door of the Casa Montescue.
An old man, worry written into his wrinkles greeted him. 'Si?'
'Benito Valdosta. Here to see Milord Montescue. He must see me. About his daughter.'
The old man ushered him in--and led him to a bedroom. Pacing the floor was Lodovico Montescue. His face lit up when he saw Benito.
'Ah! Young Valdosta. I didn't think they would find you so quickly. She seems to me to be getting worse.'
He pointed to the bed. Benito was relieved. The woman in the bed wasn't Maria. He recognized the head on the pillow, despite the bandage. He'd seen her before. Not infrequently, visiting Caesare when Maria had been away. There was no mistaking that raven hair, the tiny mole above her mouth. He'd taken some observational sex lessons by peeking in at the window . . . something he'd never have considered doing with Maria and Caesare.
His mouth fell open. 'What is she doing here?'
