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After a short argument between the two brothers, Dario gave in. He told me it would all be over shortly and that I should ask Niccolo for anything I needed.
Lars was right. I liked Dario immensely.
He was vastly different from the organized crime bosses I’d crossed paths with during my career. There was something almost… noble about him.
And – overlooking that one moment when I thought I was going to die in a hail of bullets – I was still shocked that Dario had let me off the hook for the assassination attempt.
Nobody I knew would have ever done that. Especially not MI6.
Whatever the bond between Dario and Lars, it was incredibly strong.
Lars had told me to trust him about his friend, and he’d been right. I would be sure to tell him that when he got back.
I stressed that to myself repeatedly:
I would tell him when he got back.
Not if.
When.
While ten armed guards kept their pistols pointed at me, I let Niccolo handcuff me to a wooden chair. Then he dismissed the men and kept watch over me with a Glock in his hand.
I decided Niccolo was actually pretty admirable. He was obviously devoted to his family. Plus, he was the only one in the group thinking straight.
I decided to tell him that.
“You can trust me,” I said, “but I want you to know that I understand and even approve of your suspicion.”
“Is that so,” he said sarcastically.
“Yes. If I’d walked into MI6 with an assassin who’d tried to kill someone in the agency, and asked for all to be forgiven just because I vouched for him, MI6 would have shot the assassin and questioned my sanity. So I think you’re behaving rationally.”
“By that standard, should I go ahead and shoot you?” he asked with faux sweetness.
“That wasn’t what I’d hoped you’d take away from that example.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t.”
An hour after Lars left, Niccolo had a servant deliver two breakfast trays. Niccolo placed one of the trays on a coffee table for him and warily put the other on my lap.
Though both my hands were cuffed to the arms of the chair, I could still reach everything on the tray. I had to hunch over, but I could eat without a problem.
The food was amazing: prosciutto, smoked trout, fresh bread, sweet butter, three types of pastries, a cup of espresso, and a mimosa with freshly squeezed orange juice and champagne.
“This is delicious,” I said.
“I’m glad you approve,” he said archly. Then, coming down a bit from his grumpiness, he said, “Your Italian is excellent.”
“Thank my mother,” I muttered.
“Ah – Camilla from Pescara.”
I looked at him in surprise. “You know about that?”
He snorted.
“Know about it? When Dario said we needed to find her, I was the one who supervised the men we sent there.” He looked at me as though deciding how carefully to tread. “They said your mother was a very… colorful character. Her coworkers still remembered her quite vividly after all these years.”
