Chapter 10 - The Shadow in the Lemon Grove
The second week in Sicily passed in a golden haze of sea salt, lemon blossoms, and quiet evenings on the terrace. Lily had learned four words of Italian—ciao, gelato, grazie, and gatto—the last of which she applied indiscriminately to every stray feline within a half-mile radius of the villa.
Vincent spent his mornings in the villa’s study, holding encrypted video conferences with his port directors in Newark and Palermo, but by two o'clock every afternoon, his schedule cleared entirely.
We would walk down the terraced stone steps through the lemon groves, Lily running ahead with a wooden basket to collect fallen fruit, while Vincent walked beside me, his hand sometimes brushing mine against the rough linen of my skirt.
It was during our walk on Thursday that the illusion of absolute peace cracked.
We were standing near the lower stone wall where the cliff dropped fifty feet straight down into the crashing surf, watching a sleek black motorboat cut across the turquoise bay toward the private cove.
Vincent stopped dead. His body went rigid, every muscle tightening into a coil of coiled steel.
“Rossi,” Vincent muttered into the collar of his linen shirt, where a tiny discreet transceiver hummed against his skin.
“Already on it, boss,” Rossi’s gravelly voice crackled back instantly from the security post near the gate. “Two men. Unregistered charter out of Marsala. They’re carrying crates labeled for the agricultural syndicate, but the thermal scan shows heavy lead plating.”
Vincent’s jaw set into a hard, unforgiving line. He turned his head, his dark eyes locking onto me with fierce, instantaneous urgency.
“Clara. Take Lily and head back up to the west apartment immediately. Do not use the garden path. Use the interior staircase behind the library.”
My heart hammered against my ribs. “Vincent—what is it? Who are they?”
“Remnants of Cassandra’s father’s old freight network,” Vincent said, his voice dropping into that cold, lethal register that made the summer heat feel like frost. “They think because we’re across the Atlantic, the locks are open. They’re wrong.”
May you like
He reached inside his linen jacket, his hand resting briefly against the sleek black grip of a suppressed Beretta before he pulled out his phone and barked three rapid instructions in fluent Sicilian to the estate guards.
“Go, Clara,” he commanded softly, his hand gripping my shoulder with a fierce, protective pressure. “I’ll be up before dark.”
