Demand (19 page)

“And there's the press,” I murmur. “Maybe we should stop and pose. That should make tonight the night.”

“That would be a little too obvious,” he says. “Though I have no doubt that Niccolo hacks the press photos for these events. Just not as effectively as I do. Directly or indirectly, I make damn sure The Underground owns every important event in this city, even when I'm not in attendance.”

“Like you own the neighborhood.”

“The neighborhood is like a family, and The Underground has been head of the family for a good fifty years.”

“You mean The Hawk has been the head of the family for all of those years.”

“Yes,” he agrees. “Which means everything The Hawk does is watched, analyzed, and dissected. And as my woman, you inherit that attention. Be prepared to be badgered with probing questions from people with bad English.”

It hits me then how much trust he's putting in me—and it strikes me how profoundly important it is that he has sometimes trusted me more than I have myself. “I can handle it,” I promise.

He wraps his arm around my neck and leans down to kiss me. “I know, Eleana.”

I grimace as he loosens his hold on my neck, wondering how he'll explain my new identity to Niccolo, but it's too late to ask. We reach the final step, and what amounts to a giant stone porch, where two guards stand at attention on either side of a roped-off continuation of the red carpet. One of the men greets us in Italian, then checks our names off a clipboard after asking for identification. Once he's satisfied with our identities, Kayden and I walk the remainder of the red carpet, where two additional guards monitor the tall double doors, opening them at our approach.

“Is my gun in my purse a problem?” I whisper, suddenly concerned.

“Not for us,” he says, and I don't ask for details. This is Kayden. This is the power of The Underground.

Moments later we cross the threshold of the magnificent palace, green-and-beige-streaked marble beneath our feet, the room seeming to stretch onward for miles. “It's breathtaking,” I say as we move to yet another check-in point, my gaze lifting to the curved ceiling adorned with green-and-beige-toned paintings of Roman armored soldiers on horses, while intricate trim work divides it from the beige walls.

“From the fourteen hundreds,” he says, guiding me toward a pedestal where yet another man in a uniform holds a clipboard. “Obviously restored.”

He tells me a bit about the royal family while we are once again checked off a clipboard, and a young woman in a long black dress takes my coat in exchange for a ticket.

“And now the games begin,” Kayden says, linking my arm with his again and setting us in motion deeper into the palace.

“Is that what this is? A game?”

“These parties are always games about positioning. Someone wants something. Someone needs something. Expect them to hint at those things to you, and just soak it all in. Often what doesn't seem important now becomes so later.”

“Well, I won't be a big help there since I don't speak Italian.”

“The brilliance of their choppy English and your lack of Italian is that you'll speak Italian soon—while the people you meet tonight will assume you don't.”

“And say things they don't think I'll understand near me,” I supply. “That's devious.”

“This crowd is devious,” he says. “We have to keep up or get stabbed or shot in the back. We won't, but I'm sure a few people will try to come at me tonight through you.”

“Gallo's given me plenty of practice dodging those kinds of bullets.”

His cell phone buzzes and he reaches into his pocket to glance at the screen, replacing it in his pocket as he says, “Matteo has a visual on the ballroom.”

The unexpected announcement puts me on edge all over again and I don't know why. I want Niccolo to find me. And I must stiffen or react because Kayden wraps his arm around my waist and pulls me closer. “What just happened?” he asks.

“If you suspect bad things might happen tonight,” I say, “just tell me.”

“Bad things can always happen, and I won't pretend otherwise. What are you specifically concerned about?”

“You have Matteo doing live monitoring of the party.”

He stops walking, facing me, his hands on my shoulders. “I always have a tech guy tap the security feed for these events. The playback makes for interesting viewing, which you'll see when we watch it tomorrow. I asked for Matteo specifically because you're here for the first time by my side, and I will always want the best for you.”

We.
It's a good word but it, and everything he just said, reminds me of just how protective he is. “Don't shelter me,” I warn. “Don't put me in a situation without arming me with the facts, no matter how good, bad, or very damn dirty.”

“I have every intention of letting you get very damn dirty with me, sweetheart. In all places, things, and situations. Okay?”

I study him, searching his face, and I don't believe for a minute that he's going to stand by those words if he thinks he can protect me from something. But I do believe that he
thinks
he will, and for now, that's enough. “Yes.”

He wraps my arm around his. “We'll watch the videos together in the morning,” he says, turning us toward the music, and under a giant archway that leads us to another stairway. “It'll help you get to know all the players.”

“I'd like that.” As we grow nearer to the sound of heavy chatter, and even louder music, a thought hits me. “I can't believe I didn't ask this. What if I see someone I know?”

He smiles. “Amnesia is like pleading the Fifth Amendment. You don't know who they are, or what they're talking about. And I'll be with you. We'll wing it together.”

“Wing it,” I repeat in disbelief, but as we reach the top of the stairs, and more cameras begin flashing again, it's clear that's the best plan I have right now. “I think I need a drink.”

“Don't drink and drive,” he replies, moving us past several reporters to enter a ballroom speckled with glitzy gowns and tuxedos, a dance floor in the center, and at least five hundred candles dangling from long ropes above.

We stop just beyond the crowd, which I guess to be in the hundreds, and we both scan the room, my gaze going toward the two giant ice sculptures framing the musicians to our right. “Butterflies,” I say of their design. “That can't be a coincidence, can it?”

“Nothing with these people is a coincidence,” he confirms. “It's a message to someone, and we need to find out who before we leave here tonight.”

A waiter stops beside us and offers us champagne, which we both wave off. “What happened to needing a drink?” Kayden asks.

“It's better if I'm sober when I pretend to forget people I just remembered, and ask subtle questions about things I'm pretty sure I shouldn't know about. And that statement was just so ridiculous that it sounds like I am drunk.”

Kayden's eyes light with amusement and mischief, his fingers lacing with mine. “I'm hungry. I need either a private place to have you for a snack, or the only good thing about these events—the food.”

“Where is the food? Because I'm starving.”

He bends our elbows and places our connected hands together, my bracelet on full display, and then indicates the far corner. “The goal line is directly in front of us and to the right. That is where we find pasta and chocolate, and mock the crowd with full stomachs. Between us and it, though, are people who want to keep us from that reward.”

I laugh. “So what's the plan?”

He gives me a serious, focused look. “An all-out American football attack. Straight up the middle. Got it?”

“Got it,” I say, playing along, the nerves I didn't realize had attacked settling down to a tolerable level.

We start walking, and before we've gone three feet, we're tackled from the left. Then the right. Before I know what has hit me, I'm being introduced to people, struggling to understand questions and remember accented names.

Except one.

Suddenly, Kayden and I are standing in front of the politician in the photo Gallo showed me this morning.

“Eleana,” Kayden says, his hand settling at my lower back. “This is Lino Conti. One of the only honest men in Parliament, which unfortunately earns him more enemies than friends.”

On that unexpected tidbit of information, Lino, who happens to be a bit of a silver fox, offers me his hand, which I accept. “Nice to meet you, Eleana,” he says, but rather than letting go of me, he and Kayden lean over me, sharing a quiet, brief exchange before Lino releases me and they separate.

“You have a good man here,” Lino says, offering nothing more before he disappears into the crowd.

I give Kayden a questioning look that he answers by pressing his cheek to mine and whispering, “There are two sides to every story.”

He leads me toward the food tables, which are finally in view, but his statement has me searching every passing face, looking for answers. My worst fear and hope is that one of them knows the other side of
my
story. Just the idea has me holding on to Kayden's hand a little tighter.

F
inally, Kayden and I clear the crowd, the table of food standing in an alcove under a giant white stone stairway, filled with all kinds of goodies. I go for the spill-proof options of bread and cheese. Kayden fills his plate with a variety of items he then tries to feed me. “Try this,” he says, picking up a ravioli.

I let him feed me the bite, and the creamy, cheesy center has me moaning in delight.

“That's not the way to keep my mind on business,” Kayden warns, his lips curving.

“And pasta and cheese is not the way to keep me from outgrowing the clothes you bought me,” I counter, dabbing my mouth with a napkin.

“I promise to help you work it off,” he says, offering me another bite.

“No,” I say firmly. “No more.” A waiter passes and I hand him Kayden's plate.

Kayden arches a brow. “You know I wasn't done, right?

I laugh. “Oops. I'll get you another.”

He shackles my waist, holding me in front of him, his mood suddenly darker. “Why haven't you asked me about Lino?”

“Because just like I think we both needed to know I could call you just to call today, I think you need to know that I trust you enough not to need details.”

“Niccolo had his wife killed, and made it look like Lino did it.”

My eyes go wide. “Why? Or does he even have a reason?”

“Payback for him refusing a political favor.”

I start putting the pieces together. “Lino tried to hire you to fix this for him.”

“More like to exact revenge. He wants to destroy Niccolo.”

“Did you tell him to join the club?”

“I told him, when his trigger finger cools off, to call me.”

“And has it?” I ask.

“He says it has.”

“But you're not sure,” I conclude.

“I'm not, no, but we have a mutual enemy. Where that leads us, I have yet to decide.”

“Gallo's placed you together. That means Niccolo can, too.”

“I knew Gallo was snooping around, which forced me to call Niccolo after that meeting.”

“What impact did that have?”

“Aside from amusing Niccolo, not much. But then, I didn't tell him everything, either.”

“But you told me.”

“Yes. I told you.”

“Thank you,” I say, a moment before a male voice says, “Kayden,” from behind me.

I turn to discover a fifty-something-year-old man several inches shorter and stockier than Kayden, his gray hair a shade lighter than his eyes, which fall on me as he says, “And you must be Eleana.”

“Meet Chief Donati,” Kayden says, reaching for my hand and kissing it, the act exposing the bracelet. “He also happens to be Detective Gallo's boss.” He eyes the chief. “Who threatened and manipulated Eleana today in an effort to turn her against me.”

Donati eyes my bracelet and then me, surmising. “Obviously he failed.”

“Miserably,” I say. “But he did teach me that a bar means coffee in the morning, not wine.”

“Wine is acceptable at all times in Italy,” Donati corrects, his English heavily accented but nearly perfect. “However, coffee is a good remedy or preparation for the evening's wine, depending on how you choose to look at it.”

Kayden's phone buzzes and he removes it from his pocket, inspecting the screen before announcing, “I need to make a call.” He leans in to kiss me, lingering long enough to whisper, “Give him hell,” before he straightens again. He then eyes Donati, gives a laugh, and says, “Good luck,” before he leaves.

Donati arches a brow at me. “What does ‘good luck' mean?”

“He thinks I'm a handful for everyone but him,” I say.

“And why is that?”