“Madonna,” the footman murmured, and opened the door to the next stage of her life.
Chapter 24
As Marco carefully dressed and bandaged the long slash on Caesare’s shoulder, he inspected their host. Caesare Aldanto should still be abed. He was definitely still pale, and it wasn’t just loss of blood from that cut. Still, this wasn’t the right time to ask how the man was feeling. By the grim set of Caesare’s jaw, whatever had been going on when he acquired the wound hadn’t gone well.
As Caesare’s memory-man and scribe, Marco was still only privy to a small amount of Caesare’s doings. The former Montagnard agent played things very close to his chest. One of the things Marco had realized quite fast in their relationship with Caesare Aldanto was that it was never wise to pry. The man had an uncertain temper.
“Cornutto!” Caesare swore. “Watch what you’re doing!”
Marco handed him the waiting glass of grappa. “Sorry, Caesare. But this is going to hurt. You’ve got some dirt in there that needs to come out.”
Caesare tossed the brandy off. “Make it quick then.”
As Marco was working, Maria came in through the front door. As she turned to close it, two heavy-shouldered men bundled their way in behind her. Maria bit at the big hand that was clapped over her mouth and struggled vainly to reach for her knife. Her assailant clouted her, hard. “We want to talk to him, see. Now stop biting and you won’t get hurt.”
“I told you never to come here.” Caesare’s voice was icy. There was no sign of fear in it.
Marco felt in the bag for the comforting handle of the small, sharp knife that Caesare kept in with the dressings. He knew full well who these two were. You didn’t mess around with the Matteonis. They were enforcers, debt collectors and rent-a-beating boys. He remembered how the crowd had parted around the three of them in Barducci’s. He’d asked Valentina about them. Valentina had turned quietly to him, pulling a wry face. “Matteoni. Alberto, Stephano, and Luciano. Descended from a long proud line of barroom thugs and back-alley stabbers.”
Claudia had snorted. “And this generation has sunk even lower.”
Stephano Matteoni stalked forward. “Alberto’s dead, Aldanto, you mincha!”
Marco smiled wryly to himself. Well, of course. Alberto would be dead if he’d attacked Caesare.
“Yeah,” Luciano snarled. “You promised us the knight’d be unarmed and unarmored.”
Marco swallowed. This wasn’t quite what he had envisaged. He was well aware that the former Montagnard agent dealt sometimes in deaths as well as in information. But so far they’d had nothing to do with that part of Caesare’s trade.
“You fools,” snapped Caesare. “He is a knight. I told you he’d be dangerous.”
Stephano had a big, clumsy, badly made hand-cannon in his hand. Calling it an “arquebus” would be stretching the point. “You said you’d deal with any real trouble. And . . .”
Caesare shook his head. “There were two of them—not one, like I was told. And the first one had that damned hand-axe, instead of being unarmed like he was supposed to be. And he was wearing some kind of armor.” He blew out his breath. “Then the Schiopettieri arrived—”
“You promised we’d be out of there before that!” interrupted Luciano furiously.
“Things go wrong.” Caesar shrugged. Then, winced as the movement pulled at the cut. “Now get the hell out of here before you’re seen.”
“We’re not going until we’ve been paid,” said Stephano sullenly.
Marco felt his mouth fall open. He’d thought they’d come for revenge because their brother was dead. They hadn’t. They’d come for money.
Caesare stood up. His eyes narrowed. “For what? The man was supposed to be maimed in a brothel-fight and apparently drunk when the Schiopettieri arrived. You failed, and the Schiopettieri failed, too. I don’t pay for failure,” he added dangerously.
Stephano backed off a step. Then he remembered the hand-cannon. He steadied it, aiming straight at Caesare’s chest. Of course it might not go off. This was one of the cheap fire-spell scroll ones. They were notoriously unreliable. But it might just work. At this range he could hardly miss. “Alberto’s dead,” he repeated grimly. “You owe us . . .”