Chapter 15 #2
With that, the count and I climbed into the driver’s seat while Tristan hauled himself into the carriage. Knowing him, he’d probably nap—the weak, pathetic excuse for a man.
The journey to Malik’s address was time-consuming.
The count kept up a constant stream of conversation as we traveled, regaling me with tales of the region, his extravagant dinner parties, and his many acquaintances.
It became increasingly clear that Count Montego thrived in the center of high society, basking in the attention of nobility and commoners alike.
At last, we pulled up in front of an opulent villa nestled among olive trees and rolling hills.
The count reined in the horses and turned to me with a generous smile. “I’ll wait to ensure the party you’re looking for is here.”
I nodded in appreciation and stepped onto the sunbaked road, my eyes fixed on the villa’s grand entrance. “Thank you.”
Hopping off the driver’s seat, I poked my head through the curtained window of the carriage.
Sure enough, Tristan was curled up on the seat, fast asleep.
Shaking my head, I turned and trekked up the stone walkway, passing an enormous fountain where carved Italian maidens poured water from their clay jugs.
I reached the massive wooden door at the top of the stone staircase, flanked by two sculpted lions.
Lifting the iron knocker, I rapped it firmly against the iron plate.
Moments later, the door swung open, revealing a petite young woman with dark hair and eyes as black as coal.
“Yes, may I help you?” she asked in cultured Italian.
I straightened instinctively, old military habits kicking in. “How do you do? I’m here to see Eyan Malik.”
Her expression remained neutral. “Forgive me, sir. Signore Malik is not at home. He sent word—he will arrive in two days.”
Two days.
The words hit like a gut punch.
“Who shall I say stopped by?” she asked politely.
I swallowed my frustration and gave her my name. “I’ll return.”
She nodded and shut the door, leaving me standing there, feeling the disappointment of wasted effort.
With a sigh, I turned and descended the stairs, my boots scuffing against the warm stone. By the time I reached the carriage, Count Montego was curiously watching me.
“Why the glum face, Roman?” he asked.
“My friend, Eyan Malik, isn’t home yet. He’ll return in two days.” And for those same two nights, I had nowhere to sleep.
Count Montego’s face lit up with surprise.
“Eyan Malik lives here? I haven’t seen him in years!
I wonder when he purchased this place.” Then, with a dramatic sweep of his hand, he added, “You must stay with me. I have rooms galore, no children—only my servants for company. An old man like me gets lonely without friends.”
“No, we can’t accept your help,” I declined.
But before I could entirely shut down the idea, Tristan crawled out of the carriage, stretching and yawning.
“I don’t want to sleep on the ground for two nights,” he whined. “Let’s stay with him.”
I turned on him with a hiss. “And how do you intend to repay his generosity?”
Tristan shrugged. “Sounds like he won’t ask for anything. He wants the company.”
I narrowed my eyes at the count. In my experience, people always wanted something in return for their kindness. No favor was ever truly free.
But the thought of sleeping on the hard ground, listening to Tristan complain the entire time, was somehow even less appealing.
“All right,” I said to Count Montego. “We’ll stay.”
“Excellent! I assure you, it’s no trouble at all.”
Count Montego waited for me to climb back into the driver’s seat and for Tristan to crawl into the carriage before clucking the horses forward.
I sat in brooding silence, my thoughts circling Malik’s absence like vultures over a battlefield. I hadn’t expected this delay. What if something had held him up? Every wasted moment gnashed me—I needed to find the dagger. More than that, I needed to find Olivia.
I missed her more than words could express. The last time I saw her—truly saw her—was the day I rode into battle against the Kiowas. It felt like another lifetime.
Then, like a whisper in my mind, Lee’s voice surfaced.
If something happens, seek out Giovanni Zampa.
Of course. Giovanni Zampa.
A new sense of purpose settled over me, chasing away my frustration.
Half an hour later, we arrived at Count Montego’s villa, an estate as grand as the man himself. As we passed through towering iron gates, the horses quickened, no doubt eager to be freed from their harnesses.
Two groomsmen met us at the entrance, swiftly taking the reins and leading the carriage and horses away.
The count motioned for us to follow. With a silent glance at Tristan, I stepped over the threshold, my senses on high alert.
Inside, the villa was even grander than I’d expected.
High ceilings soared above us, their intricate frescoes depicting mythological scenes in vivid color.
The polished tile floors gleamed beneath the warm glow of a dozen candelabras, and elaborate paintings lined the walls, each frame dripping with wealth and history.
We followed Count Montego down a long hallway toward the back of the house, where he opened a door and ushered us into a sprawling room filled with dark wood furniture and towering bookshelves.
With a sweeping gesture, the count motioned to the many treasures within. He pointed out a leather-bound edition of Francis Bacon’s Essays nestled among the shelves, then directed our attention to a painting of a woman playing a guitar, her expression serene yet knowing.
“Ah, this one,” he mused, tilting his head toward the portrait. “A distant relative of mine. She left her native Spain to seek her fortune in Paris. Beautiful, wasn’t she?”
I got caught up in the tale. The story of a woman abandoning home and comfort for the unknown struck a familiar chord—a fitting introduction to the count’s world.
Montego turned to us with a welcoming smile. “Please, feel at home. My estate is yours to enjoy. Whatever your heart desires—whores, exquisite food and wine, wild entertainment—I will provide it all for your pleasure.”
The years seemed to slip from his shoulders as he spoke, his youthful exuberance momentarily revived by the decadent promises he made.
I inclined my head. “Thank you, Count Montego, but I shall require none.” My words were polite but resolute.
Before he could respond, the air shifted. From a doorway at the rear of the house, an elegantly dressed man stepped forward, his gaze sweeping over us as he approached.
“Antonio, please show Signore Alexander’s manservant to the servant’s quarters,” Count Montego instructed, nodding toward Tristan. “And I shall escort Signore Alexander to his room upstairs.”
Antonio inclined his head. “Come,” he said in Italian, gesturing for Tristan to follow.
Tristan’s brow furrowed in confusion.
“He doesn’t speak much Italian,” I said as Tristan hesitated.
“He’s simple,” the count added with an offhanded shrug.
Antonio’s expression shifted in understanding. “Ah. Bene. Come.”
He reached for Tristan’s arm.
Tristan yanked himself free, eyes darting between us. “Where is he taking me?”
“Relax, Tristan. He’s just showing you to your room,” I said, suppressing a sigh.
Still looking wary, Tristan followed Antonio toward the back of the house.
“And I suppose you’ll be somewhere palatial,” he called over his shoulder.
I ignored him and ascended the grand staircase alongside Count Montego.
He wasn’t wrong. My room was indeed palatial, though the grandeur hardly impressed me—I had once stood inside the emperor’s palace in ancient Rome. Still, each era had its interpretation of opulence.
Here, luxury meant dark wood furniture, masterfully carved with intricate patterns.
Rich tapestries lined the walls, their deep colors adding warmth and depth to the space.
Heavy velvet curtains cascaded over tall windows, casting long shadows in the fading light.
At the center of it all stood an extravagant four-poster bed, its frame draped in yet more velvet and adorned with many pillows.
Another world, another version of wealth.
“We’ll only be here for two nights at most,” I said.
Count Montego waved a dismissive hand. “Stay as long as you like. Having guests so soon after my return from France is a most welcome surprise. Accommodating you is no trouble at all, I assure you.”
I inclined my head. “Thank you.” Crossing the room, I sank into an ornately padded chair, its upholstery softer than I expected.
Montego clasped his hands behind his back. “Can I get you anything before I depart? We’ll share a meal in about an hour.”
I considered my next move, then said, “Yes. I’m looking for a man by the name of Giovanni Zampa. Do you know him?”
The count’s face brightened. “Yes, yes! Giovanni Zampa lives just fifteen minutes from here. After our repast, you and your manservant may take my horses and ride to his home.”
I held up my hands. “No, no, we can walk.”
Montego scoffed. “Nonsense! No guest of Count Montego refuses my hospitality. I am an exemplary host, Signore.” He gave a modest bow before straightening with a smile. “It brings me great pleasure to share my wealth. Any man worth his salt does not hoard his fortune—he shares it freely.”
“Well, thank you again, Count Montego. I’m honored by your generosity.” I nodded as fatigue settled over me.
“You are most welcome, Signore Alexander.” With a graceful turn, Montego spun on his heel and left the room.
I barely had the energy to remove my boots before collapsing onto the bed. The plush pillows swallowed me whole, and within moments, I drifted into a light doze.
Lunch was a grand affair held in Montego’s lavish dining room.
We were seated at a long table laden with an extravagant spread.
His chef had outdone himself, preparing a feast of wild game stew, a savory cheese pie infused with herbs, and a rich, earthy hemp seed soup. And wine—an absurd amount of wine.