The pistol boomed and echoed in the confined space. The noise and the smoke—not to mention having the reticule blown out of her hand—confused Kat for a moment. She just hoped Maria would do whatever needed doing next.
* * *
Maria knew what was coming just as soon as Kat reached into her reticule. In theory, at least. But she wasn’t really that familiar with guns—knives were a canaler’s weapon—and the noise and the smoke took her a little by surprise. She was also unprepared for the way the heavy bullet catching him square in the belly slammed Luciano Matteoni back against the wall.
But unprepared or not, Maria was no stranger to violence. The other Matteoni—Stephano, that was—his eyes wide and horrified, was still distracted by the shocking sight of Luce sagging against the wall. Maria snatched up the lamp-bowl and threw it at him. The bowl hit Stephano on the side of the head, sending him staggering; then caromed into the wall and broke. The room was plunged into darkness.
The man might be bigger and faster than Maria—and probably better with a knife—but she knew this place in the pitch darkness. She had the small knife from the slit in her skirt out in an instant, and began moving on silent bare feet toward the counter that held the water bowl. She had no illusions that she could win a straight-up knife fight with a professional Matteoni thug, but there was a cleaver next to the water bowl. One good swipe with that heavy blade . . .
And if she could get the door open, she and Kat could run.
The darkness was full of Kat’s screaming and Stephano’s snarls of rage. Maria shifted the knife into her left hand and lunged for the water bowl. On the way, she tripped over a body—Luce must have slumped from the wall—and cried out as she nearly brained herself on the far wall. But then she had the cleaver in her right hand.
A huge meaty hand flailing about closed on her shoulder. “Gotcha!”
Stephano’s shout of triumph turned into a scream as Maria’s small knife slashed at his face. Then there was a sickening thud, accompanied by the sound of splintering wood. The hand that held her in a grip of iron turned to porridge. Through the swirling mist of confusion—fury and terror and darkness—Maria realized that Kat’s screams, had been screams of rage as much as fear. Kat must have picked up one of the stools and brained the thug.
“Stand back, Kat!” she shrieked. Then, pushing herself away from the Matteoni goon by the simple expedient of stabbing him with the little knife again—in the belly this time—Maria swung a ferocious blow of the cleaver. She felt the blade hack into Stephano’s skull. Frenzied, she wrenched it loose and hacked again; again; again. The last blow hit something softer than a skull, and got wedged. The man’s shoulder, apparently, since a moment later she felt his heavy body slumping against her legs.
Enough! The door was behind her. She pulled at it and it swung open, showing twilit Venice beyond. “Kat! Let’s go!”
The two, half-falling, careened down the stairs and ran up the Calle. Soon enough, Kat spotted a passing gondola and yelled for it. As soon as the boatman drew alongside, they bundled in.
If the boatman thought that they were an ill-assorted pair—leaving aside the blood spattered all over Maria—he did not let on. “Where to, signorinas?”
“Casa Montescue,” said Kat, firmly.
* * *
Kat knew that she had to be firm. She wanted to be sick. She wanted to give in to the helpless shivers. Even in this light, she could see that Maria was as pale as a sheet.
“Can’t,” whispered Maria.
“Just for now,” said Kat. “They were hunting you, Maria. They knew exactly where to find you—and how to get you to open the door. How?”
“Caesare told them. . . . It had to have been him. Why?” Maria’s voice was small, hurt by the betrayal.
“Maybe you know too much.”
Maria stared at her, horror in her eyes. “I wouldn’t . . .”
Kat shrugged. “A woman scorned might.”