Whispered Lies

A quick kiss was okay, but nothing overly demonstrative. “What are you doing?” she whispered.

“Just be still and put your head against my shoulder.”

She frowned, then complied. He hugged her closer with one arm while his fingers on the other hand moved around and clipped something on her waistband at her right hip.

She ground her teeth. He was putting a tracking device on her. “Do you really think I’ll just leave it stuck there if I want to run?”

Another deep sigh fluttered her hair, sending a brush of mint breath past her nose. “It’s not…that type of unit. I have no way to check a public bathroom to make sure it’s safe for you so I put a panic button on your jeans. Don’t put your hand on your hip unless you need help. It only takes a touch to send an alert to my receiver.”

Now she really felt like a witch for sniping at him.

He added, “If you ran, I’d find you and return you to Joe, who would lock you up for a very long time. Your chances of getting out of all this are better if you stay with me.”

Any warm feeling she’d tendered for him disappeared under a blow of irritation. She stepped out of his arms, feeling justified in her foul mood.

“I need some time so don’t come rushing in to check on me,” she warned.

“How long?”

“I have to freshen up and change clothes if we’re going straight to the school. I’m not in proper attire.”

Carlos eyed her suspiciously.

She’d shared all she considered necessary.

He checked his watch. “You have ten minutes. Tops.”

She couldn’t possibly do everything she had in mind in ten minutes. Maybe with a little practice, but she hadn’t tried this execution in the past two years. The last thing she wanted was for Carlos to come charging into the ladies’ room at the wrong moment. He’d intimidated her into going along with him when they’d first met and he wanted the key to her Jeep. Maybe she could use the same strategy on him.

Gabrielle gripped the handle of her luggage tightly and stepped up to push her face close to his, hoping she sounded as threatening as her frame of mind.

“I have been knocked overboard, shot at, kidnapped, handcuffed, terrified, and held prisoner. I will not be told how long to take in the loo.”

His eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Sure you got enough to eat on the plane?”

She growled and stomped away toward the bathroom entrance.

“Ten minutes, Gabrielle, or I will come get you.”

FOURTEEN

VESTAVIA STOOD NEAR the door to the conference room at Trojan Prodigy. He shook the hands of the four Fras arriving for a meeting he’d requested. He took his time with each wrinkled, but firm, hand he gripped.

The wall of glass on this side of the thirty-second floor overlooked the Brickell business district. Bulletproof glass had been installed inside the tinted windows, assuring safety. In addition, a fine mesh was interwoven into the extra glass that prevented any viewing from outside during daylight or such as now, when darkness wrapped the bustling city.

Coming from D.C., Chicago, New York, and Seattle, these four Fras were the backbone of the North American Fratelli, the ones who swayed the others.

This was the perfect example of why a group of twelve Fras could never rule one continent successfully. Too easy for one man to manipulate the power.

“You each have a copy of the file on our current project.” Vestavia waved his hand at the five place settings with folders. Once the men were seated around one end of the fourteen-foot-long walnut conference table and reviewing the files, Vestavia served them each their preferred beverage, which meant Scotch, whiskey, or gin.

At thirty-eight, he was the youngest of all twelve Fras, the present group ranging from fifty-two to seventy years of age. Another reminder that he was the most recent follower elevated to this level, which had come on the heels of the unexpected death of Fra Bacchus last year.

This North American contingent believed poor Bacchus had succumbed to a heart attack in his sleep.

That was a version of the truth.

Had they suspected foul play in any way, an autopsy would have been scheduled at a private clinic. That would have revealed a synthetic chemical in a blood sample from Bacchus, the catalyst for the heart failure.

But Vestavia had been careful when he eliminated the only Fra who had suspected his every move from the outset and constantly questioned his allegiance to the Fratelli.

Now, he was the celebrated brother and Bacchus was off meeting his maker.

Some of the most powerful men in North America sat at the table, none of whom had any idea an Angeli sat among them.

They believed the Angeli had been a myth, but Vestavia was very real. The Fras would know his power when he and six more Angeli emerged to guide a new world once the groundwork had been completed. For now, he would pretend deference to men unworthy to sit in the same room with him.

He had been the first Angeli to infiltrate the Fratelli, the most powerful organization in the world-at the moment. A collection of brilliant men flush with geniuses, but the Fras were not capable of a true Renaissance. They understood the mechanics of collapsing major industrial nations, but not the art of overtaking each nation methodically.

“Everything will be in place for Friday.” Vestavia took the open seat at the head of the table. “To assure success, we must not allow the United States to lose focus on the oil issues.”

Fra Diablo, the senior of the group, who could influence the votes, had supported Vestavia’s promotion to Fra. Drooping jowls moved when he lifted his head and shoved a bushy white eyebrow up. Skin sagged under his eyes, and his nose turned down, stopping short of being a hook. He drew deep breaths, his exhales wheezing slightly.

“With fuel prices climbing higher than any country anticipated, particularly the United States, that shouldn’t be a problem,” Diablo noted. “What about the teenagers?”

“The last one will be picked up this week,” Vestavia assured him.

“Isn’t that cutting it a little close with the presidential election next week?” Fra Benedict, the Banker as Vestavia thought of him, was always first to criticize. More round than tall, Benedict could always be counted on for a frown and a negative attitude. He pointed out every potential fault, no matter how minuscule, so he could be the one to claim to have foreseen a failure when it occurred.

Temper, temper. Vestavia had climbed quickly by presenting a sincere mix of humility and confidence to the Fras, but to hold a meek front in the face of inferior beings was a test of his discipline.

“Everything will be in place in time,” Vestavia said with a finality he hoped would end that discussion. “Timing is the key to success, just as timing was crucial five months ago in orchestrating the meeting that takes place this week in the Capitol Building.” He let that sink in, reminding them none of this would have happened without his ability to plan. “To rush any part of this schedule is as dangerous as ru

None of this bunch would insult another Fra or behave improperly. They believed in order and respect. As contradictory as it sounded, they would kill for the order but allowed “no u

To commit such an act would show a lack of respect for the Fratelli.

At least Vestavia had the sense to see the absurdity in that thinking since deaths were unavoidable when conquering.

Fra Morton had the habit of lifting his hand a couple inches off the table, index finger extended, every time he spoke, as if to mark his place. “No one suspects the teens disappearing?”

Vestavia shook his head. “No. We’ve been very careful in our selection and solicitations. They each appear to leave the school willingly.”