Gladly Beyond (42 page)

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

T
he 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 and 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.

Dante set his phone down and turned around to look at me.

“Tennyson is coming. He was already on his way when I called. We’ll swap this hunk of metal for his Jeep, which should hopefully hold together better. Why my brothers insist on driving these stupid vintage cars—”

He stopped himself. Tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. Let out a steady breath.

I’ve always thought you can tell so much about a person by how they handle stressful situations. Do they lash out at those around them? Do they yell?

Or do they calmly just do what can be done and let the rest go?

Dante clenched his jaw and then shot me a determined smile.

“Tenn will be here in about an hour,” he said.

I nodded. And then motioned toward the bell tower with my chin.

“You realize that’s San Savino, right?”

Dante swiveled, peering through the windshield. Grunted.

We both stared out. It was one of those picture-perfect Tuscan days. Blue sky, a light breeze. Temperature a balmy seventy-five degrees.

It was still a little trippy to see Dante in his Branwell get-up. Longer hair, more scruff, less tailored clothes. But I would know him as Dante no matter how he dressed or groomed. There was just something elemental that marked him as
my
man.

Yep. That’s how far I had come.

He was mine. And I was going to fight to the death—literally, if necessary—to keep him.

Corn stalks and grapevines rose on either side of us, lining the road to the abbey just ahead. Typical Italian apartment blocks dotted the edges of the fields . . . stuccoed squares of cream, yellow and orange with terracotta roofs. The Italian version of a suburb.

My phone vibrated. Stupid me, I looked.

I will hunt you to the ends of the earth, Claire. Haven’t you learned by now?

A pause . . . and then . . .

I ALWAYS win the game.

My adrenaline spiked. I may have actually whimpered.

Dante’s head whirled at the sound.

I angled my phone, finally showing him the texts.

He stared at the words and then swore. Impressively and at length.

“I hate us sitting here like damn ducks waiting to be picked off—”

His voice cut off as he glanced in his driver’s side mirror. Swore again.

“How did he find us so fast?!”

I looked out the back window just in time to see a dark haired man in a black leather jacket stop his motorbike behind the VW bus.

Salvatore.

“I’m not going to passively sit here.” Dante jerked a chin toward the abbey ahead. “Let’s at least surround ourselves with other people.”

He opened his door at the same time I did, both of us tearing down the street toward the abbey and its touristy church.

“
Fermatevi!
” A male voice shouted.

“Like
hell
I’m stopping,” Dante grunted at my side.

Dante reached out a hand as we ran, wrapping mine in his. Sprinting toward the apparent protection of the walls ahead. If nothing else, there was some modicum of safety in numbers. Witnesses.

I might end up dead, but at least my killer wouldn’t get away with it, right?

The huge walls of the old abbey loomed larger.

My lungs burned. Feet pounding the pavement. Caro and Ethan had run like this, trying to escape, but it had been futile in the end . . .

No!
I mercilessly pushed the thought aside. This wouldn’t happen again—

He would
not
win this time.

I risked a glance back. Salvatore was chasing us on foot. I didn’t stop to wonder why he hadn’t jumped back on his bike.

As we ran, Dante dialed a number, phone to his ear.

“
Pronto? Pronto?!
” he said. “
Ho un’emergenza . . .
”

He rattled away in Italian, voice sharp and edged.

We reached the gravel parking lot, slowing as a large group of Germans exited the abbey churchyard, making their way back to the tour bus.

“The police are on their way.” Dante panted, pocketing his phone. “The emergency operator said to wait in front of the church.”

Salvatore had reached the parking lot too. Threading our way through the people, we dashed up a long flight of medieval stairs covered in an aged barrel vault. The stairs opened into a small piazza, an ancient church directly ahead.

People milled around the piazza, taking photos. My chest heaved, lungs searing. Was this to be our life then? Hunted? Haunted?

Dante tugged me across the tiny piazza, stopping before the church entrance. I whirled us around and grabbed my own phone from my pocket.

If something was going to go down, I intended to have video evidence.

I trained my phone on the stairs leading up from the parking lot and hit record. Dante wrapped a protective arm around my waist, pulling me tight against him with one hand.

We both tensed. Waiting. Compulsively looking for Salvatore’s dark head to pop-up the stairs.

I glanced down at the video I was recording and nearly dropped my phone.

Bloody hell.

I had forgotten to select the rear-facing camera. Instead, I was taking video of myself. And, by extension, the church behind me.

Dante heard my gasp. Glanced down in alarm.

I pointed at the video still recording.

A knight leaned against the stone facade. Literally a knight in shining armor. Breastplate. Broadsword. Helmet raised.

Staring straight at us.

“
Madonna mia!
What the hell next?” Dante asked.

“Who is he?”

“English. Late fourteenth century,” Dante said. I stared at him him. “What? I’m an encyclopedia when it comes to historical clothing.”

“True.” I dared a glance at the wall behind us. No knight. “I’m ignoring the ghost knight.” I tapped my phone screen and swiveled the video to front facing. Trying to hold the camera steady despite my shaking fingers.

People were filtering out of the courtyard. In the distance, I could hear the
bee-doo bee-doo
of sirens.

We waited another breath. Two.

No Salvatore.

Where was the man—

“Claire! Woman!”

A voice sailed up the entrance stairs and into the church courtyard where we stood.

An all-too familiar voice.

How did
he
know where I was?!

Dante’s arm clenched around me.

Pierce Whitman’s brown head popped up the stairs, grin friendly.