Gladly Beyond Page 30

“What?” I was instantly at his side.

  A dark haired man in a leather jacket stared up at us.

  “You—!” Dante barked, pointing a finger.

  The man took two quick steps back, and then turned, quickly retreating down the road toward the parking lot.

  Dante didn’t pause.

  He grabbed my hand and ran down the stairs, intent on going after the man.

  “Dante! No!” I stumbled after him, my feet clumsy. “Wait!”

  I pulled on his hand, forcing him to stop.

  He whirled on me.

  “Don’t!” I said. “We don’t know who that man is or what will happen. He could have a gun and be waiting for us around the next corner. We need to be smarter this time.”

  Dante regarded me, chest heaving. He scrubbed his free hand through his hair.

  “You’re right.” He nodded. Brought my hand up for a kiss. “You’re so right.”

  “From this point on, we’re cautious. Unlike other lives, we know what might happen. We can anticipate.”

  He stared at me but not really. Lost in thought.

  “We need to leave. Go undercover, as it were,” he finally murmured. “The Colonel has no power over us. This isn’t the nineteenth century, after all.”

  He tugged on my hand, walking again but slowly. Wary. Watchful.

  “Exactly,” I said. “I cut all ties with him. We go on the lam. How many more years will the Colonel live anyway?”

  “Yeah. We just have to wait him out.”

  “Precisely.”

  We walked back to the enormous entrance doors. Careful. Calm. Eyes sharp and looking for anything suspicious.

  Dante paused before we rounded the wall to the parking lot. Several tourists gave us distrustful looks as he clung to the stone, peering around the corner, meticulously surveying the parked cars.

  “He appears to be gone.” Dante pulled me forward, always keeping his body between me and the rest of the world.

  I didn’t breathe until we were snugged into his BMW sedan and pulling onto the highway outside the Certosa.

  “Why do I feel like my life just changed forever?” I asked.

  Dante snorted. “Because it just did, cara mia.”

  The rain had started back up, drumming against the car roof.

  “How will we live?” I looked back at the Certosa towers receding behind us. “I was planning on the Colonel’s job to pay my bills.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I have money put away. We’ll be okay. We just have to survive this round.”

  “It’s always a game, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah. But, this time, I intend to win.”

  Thirty-Five

  Dante

  I couldn’t bear the thought of Claire checking out of her hotel. Even that much brought her too close to the Colonel.

  My mom and Branwell went over and gathered her things, telling the staff Claire was going on a getaway weekend and would be back in a few days.

  Lie and bluff.

  Anything to keep her—us—safe.

  Branwell, bless him, had listened to objects in Claire’s room, trying to find something. But aside from Claire and members of the staff, he didn’t hear anything unusual.

  Most certainly not the Colonel cackling maniacally about capturing Claire for himself.

  Not that any of us expected that. But it would have been convenient.

  I had never heard of the Colonel acting as erratically as the man in my fractured visions, but Ethan had never suspected Blackford of such violence either.

  Who are we, really, deep down inside? Do we ever even know ourselves?

  How soon before the Colonel realized we were on to him? Then what?

  Part of me wanted to get my brothers, a few of Tennyson’s army friends and march over to the Colonel’s and confront him.

  How dare he reduce my life to one of fear and hiding?

  But I could just see it happening all over again. Me confronting the Colonel. Him drawing a gun from his pocket. Claire showing up, unexpectedly, throwing herself between me and the bullet—

  Too raw.

  Too vivid. Too soon.

  The memory of Ethan watching Blackford’s bullet strike Caro through the heart. Knowing instantly that her wound was fatal. Watching her die, life after life—

  No. Not this time. Not Claire. Not me.

  This life was mine.

  “Did Branwell hear anything else?” Claire asked as I strode into the large salotto of my apartment.

  Claire sat on a couch near the windows, rimmed by light from the setting sun. Gold bathed the room. My mom stood by a chair near the doorway. Chiara was in the kitchen, talking to someone on the phone in staccato Italian. Branwell was back in his room; I could hear him moving around.

  I crossed over to Claire and handed her the tube of lipstick.

  “No. He listened to it long and hard one more time. He just heard the Colonel ask, ‘Did you get it?’ and then rustling noises. You talking, music playing—”

  “The normal sounds of me putting on make-up.”

  “Yeah. Nothing more.”

  “Are we sure the Colonel didn’t insert a tracking device into the lipstick?” Mom moved around to sit in the chair.

  “Pretty sure. But Branwell has a good solution if he did.”

  Tension stretched thin between us all—rubberbands pulled too tight.

  “Uffa!” Chiara bounded into the room, wagging her phone in my direction. “That was my guy. You’re not going to like this.”

  “What?” Claire stood and slid her hand into mine. Warm. Soothing.

  Chiara grimaced. “He got a match for your stalker. He’s a private investigator named Salvatore.”

  “Just a PI? Nothing more?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Apparently a friend of a friend of a friend is cousins with him. I called in about twenty different favors and found out who hired Salvatore to tail you—”

  “Let me guess,” Claire said.

  “Yep. One Kyle Finster-Cline.”

  “The Colonel,” I sighed. “I guess that’s solid proof then.”

  “Can we go to the authorities now?” Claire nestled herself against my side. “Resolve this?”

  My sister shook her head. “Hiring a private investigator to trail someone isn’t illegal. And, from what we can tell, this Salvatore has played by the book.”

  “But someone must have broken into my hotel room, despite Branwell not hearing anything. There’s no way I left my lipstick at the Colonel’s—”

  “It’s weird. I agree.” Chiara tapped her phone against her cheek. “But without any police-reportable proof of a break-in and no harm done, it’s going to be hard to build a case. Let me do more digging.”

  “Be careful.” I shot my sister a firm look.

  She smiled, imp and mischief. Enjoying this situation far more than she should.

  Crack.

  We all jumped as the front door opened, every head swiveling toward the doorway into the foyer.

  Tennyson walked in.

  He scanned the room and landed on me.

  “Tenny—” My mom stood and crossed over to him, wrapping him in a huge hug.

  His blue eyes met mine. All too knowing.

  My mom fussed over Tennyson, who shot me long-suffering looks as if to say, Look what I go through to help you.

  After everyone said hello, Tennyson nodded at me.

  “A word.” He jerked his head and walked back into the foyer.

  I followed.

  He stood in the corner, bending to pick up a small, black duffel bag.

  How much did he really see? He only ever talked about emotions, but—

  “You want to tell me what’s going to happen?” I asked.

  “You’re going to need this.” He swung the bag in my direction. “It’s for you and you alone.”

  “Tenn—”

  “Claire can’t know you have it. That’s extremely important.”

  My head jerked back. “But why sh
ouldn’t she know—”

  “I’m not sure. I don’t know what is going to happen. I just . . . understood . . . enough to bring you this and tell you what I sensed.”

  “But how?”

  “You know I can feel things for you and Branwell over larger distances. Something about us being womb-buddies.” He held up his free hand. Stop. “Don’t you dare say womb-mates; I might have to hurt you.”

  That made me smile.

  “Then . . . thank you.” I took the bag from him, placing it behind a console table in the foyer.

  He grabbed me, pulling me into a tight bear hug, thumping my back.

  “Be safe.”

  I nodded.

  Branwell walked out of his room and up the hallway, tugging on the sleeves of his shirt. He stopped in front of us in the foyer.

  Cocked an eyebrow.

  Tennyson raked his eyes up-and-down, taking in Branwell. Then turned back to me. “Ya know . . . it really can be uncanny.”

  “Really and truly.” I agreed.

  We walked back into the salotto. All three of us.

  Claire looked up from the couch, darting looks between Branwell and myself.

  “Wow. I mean, I know you two are identical, but—”

  I gave Branwell a thorough head-to-toe go-over. “He cleans up real good, doesn’t he?”

  For his part, Branwell just sighed and scrubbed a hand through his hair. An un-gloved hand through hair that now looked identical to my own.

  He had shaved his beard down to mere scruff. He was wearing clothes from my closet—designer jeans, cream button-down, corded sports coat. I would probably find small cuts in the clothes where he had altered them to control their sound . . .

  To say we looked the same was an understatement. Even I thought he was me . . .

  “So what’s the plan here?” Tennyson asked. “I feel like I’m always late to the party.”

  “Well, it should be obvious.” Branwell held his hands out, clearly not liking having to abandon his gloves. “I’m Dante. Dante will become Branwell.”

  Tennyson eyed me. Noting my regular jeans and t-shirt.

  “I’m not Branwell yet.” I planned to raid his closet tonight

  “Yeah. I still need to work my magic.” Chiara sank into a chair, curling her feet underneath her. “Dante’s hair isn’t as long as Branwell’s . . . was. But I have a clip-in extension we can fashion into a man bun and, after a week of no shaving, Dante’s beard will have filled in enough to be believable.”

  “Okay . . .” Tennyson paused, obviously waiting for an explanation. “So . . .”

  “The plan is simple.” I walked over to the couch and sat down next to Claire. Loving how she instantly curled into my side. “Tonight, Mom will put on a blond wig and get into my car with Branwell. Mom is tall enough to pass for Claire and Branwell will be me. They’ll head south. Hopefully, if the Colonel still has Salvatore or someone else trailing us, that person will assume Claire and I are going to spend some time together outside of town.”

  “We should take the lipstick tube with us.” Branwell nodded toward Claire. “Just to be on the safe side.”

  “Agreed.” That was Claire.

  “For my part,” I continued, “I will dress up like Branwell tomorrow morning. Claire will hide herself in the back of Branwell’s VW bus, and we’ll head west and north, toward Milan and France. Anyone seeing me leave will just assume it’s Branwell headed off by himself.”

  Tennyson nodded. “That’s not a bad plan.”

  “I just hope it works,” my mom said, heading for the door.

  I chatted with my brothers and sister for a while longer, everyone settling on their part.

  I tamped down my anxiety . . .

  We would be okay. Somehow, someway . . . this life would be different.

  Eventually everyone drifted out of the room, leaving Claire and me alone.

  She sighed and twisted, snuggling her body tighter against mine.

  I held her close, reveling in her beating heart. The softness of her. The incredible joy of just . . . quietly being.

  We would be together. She and I.

  She nuzzled my neck. “Thank you.” Her voice low.

  I pulled back. Tilted my head. My face a question mark.

  “Thank you for insisting on . . . us.” Claire traced my jaw with one finger, leaving a trail of goosebumps. “For not allowing me to stay nestled in my shell. Despite everything right now, these past couple of days have been some of the best of my life.”

  “Claire . . . cara mia.” I cupped her face with a hand, ran a thumb over her petal-soft cheek. “I’ll always be the one who fights for you, babe.”

  She smiled then. A small, weak thing. “No matter what happens—”

  “Nothing is going to happen, Claire. We’re going to live a long and happy life together.”

  “In hiding?”

  “If that’s what it takes. It will be okay, cara mia.”

  Her blue eyes searched mine.

  “Of course,” she finally whispered. But her tones spoke of doubts. Worry.

  She swallowed.

  “But if something bad does happen, I just wanted to make sure you knew—”

  “Nothing is going to happen, Claire.”

  I pulled her head to mine, helpless to resist the lure of her plump lips. I kissed her gently, savoring the pillowy give of her mouth.

  Her reaction was gratifying. Her body instantly rising, melting into mine. Hand threading into my hair, refusing to let me pull away.

  I loved it when she got possessive.

  “You’re mine, you know,” she murmured between kisses. “Don’t forget it.”

  See? Possessive.

  Loved it.

  I stubbornly refused to entertain any doubts.

  This life was going to be different.

  It had to be.

  Thirty-Six

  Claire

  The texts started after the phone calls.

  Dante and I were driving again. Or, at least, trying.

  We had left Florence about mid-morning, me snuggled in the back of the VW bus. Dante driving in Branwell’s bulky homespun clothes. His hair in a pretend man-bun.

  Unfortunately, the VW bus turned out to be as unreliable as it was awesome.

  Loud, noisy, stinking of diesel . . . An hour into our drive, it had died just off the highway outside Empoli.

  Telling me to stay put in the back, Dante buried himself under the hood and managed to get the bus running again.

  We were now chugging away, heading generally westward. Though the poor bus sputtered every other minute.

  “C’mon, baby.” Dante patted its vinyl dash. “You can do it.”

  According to Branwell, Dante needed a more gentle touch to keep the bus going. Dante felt the bus should have received better maintenance. They went back and forth every five minutes about it on the phone.

  I sat in tense silence in the back, hating that the strain of our situation was bleeding into Dante’s relationship with his brothers.

  Which was why I didn’t immediately tell Dante about the voice mail messages.

  First . . . the Colonel. Pleasant. Cheery.

  Hey darlin’. Haven’t heard from you today. I’m still planning on dinner with you and Dante this evening—

  His voice scattered chills down my back. Not going to happen.

  He left another message an hour later.

  Claire, darlin’, is everything okay? I called the hotel, and they said you had checked out for a couple of days. Is Dante with you? I’m worried. Please call me.

  Right. He was worried I was declining to be his kept trophy-woman.

  Next up? My mom.

  Claire, honey. I just got a frantic call from the Colonel. He says you’ve disappeared. Are you okay?

  Nice. He was now playing my poor mom.

  I texted her—short and sweet—letting her know I was fine. Told her to ignore the Colonel. I was suddenly glad she was thousands of miles away a
nd out of the Colonel’s immediate reach.

  And then, more Colonel.

  Claire, why aren’t you returning my calls? I’m truly concerned. I desperately need to talk to you. There are so many things I need to say, and I’m worried you’re in danger. Please call me.

  The man was a good actor, I’d give him that.

  But, seriously, how did he know I was in danger unless he was the one putting me there?

  Then the harassing texts started. Each creepier than the last.

  Where are you headed, Claire?

  I know you’re with that big ape.

  Don’t think you can escape me. You will be mine and mine alone.

  I finally stopped looking down each time my phone buzzed.

  The VW bus struggled valiantly, limping onward. Lurching. Misfiring. Dante coaxing it along to no avail. It finally died just outside Pisa.

  In the town of Cascina, to be exact.

  Irony, you say? Fate, perhaps?

  Indeed it was.

  Dante managed to pull off the highway before the car sputtered to a stop, coasting off the road and onto the edge of a corn field.

  Cascina was a small, sleepy hamlet. Just as it had been over six hundred years earlier when the famous battle was fought there in the shadow of an abbey. The walls of a church and bell tower loomed up the road. The Arno river rolled sluggishly beyond.

  A quick consultation of Google maps clarified what I had already guessed.

  I was staring at the walls of the Abbey of San Savino. The very site of the old battle.

  I swallowed.

  In my research of the Michelangelo drawing, I had read up about the battle. The Pisan and Florentine forces had clashed on the plain between the Arno river and the abbey. Slowly, the Florence mercenaries drove John Hawkwood and his knights back and back, trapping them against the abbey walls. Hawkwood had finally given up the field, retreating inside the abbey sanctuary, leaving many of his Pisan foot-soldiers to the mercy of hostile Florentines.

  Only the church remained open to the public. The rest of the abbey had been converted into apartments long ago. Ahead, I could see a small gravel parking lot next to the entrance to the church—several cars and a large tour bus with people milling about.