“Man to see you, boy,” was the curt greeting at the door; sure enough, behind Benito’s supervisor stood—
Caesare Aldanto. Wearing that impassive mask that said trouble.
“Benito . . .” Caesare barely waited for Ned Ventuccio to get out of earshot before starting in, and Benito backed up a pace or two, until his back was against the office wall. “Benito, have you seen your brother this morning?”
Benito decided to play innocent. “You mean he ain’t here?” he replied, making his eyes big and round.
Aldanto was not fooled—and the flash of annoyance in his eyes told Benito that he was not in the mood for this sort of nonsense.
Aw, hell—Marco’s in trouble—
“You know damned well he hasn’t been here,” Aldanto hissed, grabbing Benito’s arm before he could dart out of reach. “Your brother’s in a mess—now I want to know what it is and where he is.”
“I don’t know, M’lord Caesare, honest—” Lord the strength in that hand! Benito belatedly began to think about what Marco had told him when he’d given him that lecture—about what Caesare was—and what he could do. And he began to wonder—
What if the man had turned his coat a second time? If he was planning to use Benito to get to Marco, and sell Marco back to the Montagnards? Marco was worth plenty to the right people.
Paranoid, that was plain paranoid; there’d been no hint of any such thing.
But—if the Montagnards threatened Maria? Would he buy safety for Maria with Marco’s life? He might, oh God, Aldanto might . . .
“Boy, I want you back in the apartment—” Aldanto was saying. “I’ve made it right with the Ventuccios.” Benito had missed what had gone before; God, this did not sound good. There was no threat that Benito could read in Aldanto’s face, but dare he take the chance that he could read an experienced agent?
Aldanto still had his arm in that iron grip, and was pulling him out of the door with him. Benito’s mind was going like a scrap of drift in a strong current. He couldn’t take the chance; no way. He had to get away from Caesare if he could.
Besides, if Marco was really in trouble, Benito could likely help him better than some Milan-born foreigner or even a canaler like Maria could; he knew the town, and knew most of the dark ways. And there was always Valentina and Claudia to call on if he had to.
They were out on the balcony now, Benito playing docile, and Aldanto loosed his grip just enough.
Benito whipped around, putting all his weight behind a wicked blow with his elbow, and he’d aimed a bit lower than Aldanto’s midsection—aimed at something more personal.
Hit it, too; dead on target.
Caesare was wide-open and completely taken by surprise.
He doubled over with a painful wheeze, and loosened his grip on Benito’s arm.
Benito lit out like a scalded cat, heading around the balcony and straight for the bridge.
Aldanto started yelling—recovering faster than Benito had figured he would, and began running after him. But Benito had gotten a good twenty feet worth of a head start, and that was all he needed. He made the bridge supports and jumped for the crossbeams, swarming up into the scaffolding like one of Venice’s feral cats. From there he made it to the rooftops and, as he knew from long experience, there was no way an adult was going to be able to follow him up there—not unless the adult was another roof-walking thief like Valentina.
It was cold up there, and doubly dangerous with the wind so strong and unexpected patches of wet everywhere, and smoke blowing into his face when he least expected it. Benito didn’t stop for breath, though, not until he’d gotten halfway across Castello. Then he slumped in a warm spot between two chimneys for a bit of a rest and a bit of a think.
Marco was in trouble—that much was certain. Either with Aldanto or on his own. And Benito was going to have to see what he could do about it—if he could find out what the trouble was.