Chapter Thirteen
Isolde
By the time Isolde stepped beneath the shower at Northglass, the blood on Taddeo's hand had already dried into the shallow lines around his knuckles, but she could still see the blood that had belonged to the dead man.
That was the detail her mind kept returning to as hot water ran through her hair and over shoulders still tight from the museum: not the gunshot itself, not the false identification badge hanging against his jacket, not even the moment he'd reached toward the weapon after the first bullet hit him, but the dark stain spreading beneath the emergency lights while Taddeo moved on to the next problem.
She had seen blood before. Conservation work involved broken glass, rusted metal, scalpels, blades, and professionals sufficiently absorbed in delicate work that they occasionally discovered a cut only after finding blood on something considerably more valuable than themselves.
Her parents' illnesses had also stripped some mystery from the body.
None of that had prepared her for seeing the precise instant a living man stopped being one because Taddeo decided he could not be allowed another chance to reach for his gun.
The part Isolde could not reconcile was that she did not think Taddeo had made the wrong decision.
The man had been armed. He had known her name, had entered the museum through a route almost nobody should have known they were using, and had reached for a weapon while she stood close enough to have been hit if Taddeo hesitated.
If the timing had shifted by a second, the body on the service-corridor floor might have been hers or Taddeo's instead.
She could acknowledge that and still be disturbed by how efficiently he'd acted afterward.
He hadn't stared at what he'd done or needed a moment to persuade himself that it had been necessary.
He had kicked the gun away, checked Isolde for injuries, examined the badge, and kept moving because there were still people in the building who wanted her.
That was what frightened her about him. Not cruelty, because cruelty would have been easier to recognize and easier to hate.
Taddeo could stop himself from kissing her because he understood she hadn't chosen to live inside his house, remember exactly how she took her coffee, keep a debtor's children away from the consequences of their father's choices, argue patiently over evidence, and kill someone without hesitation when that man stood between him and getting Isolde safely out of a building.
Her mind kept insisting those qualities should belong to different people.
Taddeo seemed to feel no obligation to make himself simpler for her.
She stayed under the water until it began cooling, then dressed in loose sleep pants and one of the old shirts Elettra had recovered from her apartment.
Her own clothes helped, although not enough to quiet her thoughts.
Northglass had changed before the sedan even reached the house.
Security men who ordinarily remained unobtrusive now occupied visible positions outside, exterior lighting had increased, and several doors Isolde knew were usually unsecured required codes.
Taddeo had responded exactly as she'd predicted in the car: danger had entered his system, so the system had tightened around her.
Elettra had offered a doctor once, accepted Isolde's refusal, and removed the clothes she'd worn to the museum because tiny pieces of safety glass still glittered in the folds.
After that, she had left Isolde alone with tea and the kind of concern that did not require conversation.
Isolde sat on the edge of the bed for almost forty minutes before attempting sleep, then abandoned the effort when closing her eyes produced the laboratory door handle turning, glass exploding inward, Taddeo's body covering hers behind the worktable, and the gun lifting in the old inspection corridor.
By the time she went downstairs, she wasn't consciously looking for him.
At least that was what she told herself until she passed his office and heard voices behind the closed door.
Orsino was speaking with none of his usual warmth, while Marco's lower voice surfaced occasionally with fragments about phone records, stolen vehicles, the attacker they had taken alive, and the names of people who had known their route.
The investigation was already consuming what had happened, turning terror into timelines, suspects, and failures that could be corrected.
Isolde stopped outside only briefly. If she went in, Taddeo would become the Bellandi underboss again, and she would become another part of the problem everyone was trying to solve. She wasn't ready for either role, so she continued toward the kitchen.
He found her there nearly an hour later.
By then she'd made fresh tea and failed to drink most of it, opened the refrigerator without wanting anything inside, and settled at the island with one of Elettra's throw blankets around her shoulders.
Taddeo stopped in the doorway when he saw her.
He had removed his suit jacket but changed nothing else.
His white shirt carried a dark smear near one cuff and smaller marks along the sleeve, while his hair had lost its usual controlled shape from being pushed back too many times.
“Why are you awake?” he asked, and then seemed to hear himself because he added, “That wasn't meant as an order.”
Isolde pulled the blanket closer. “Good, because apparently being shot at is terrible for sleep, and I'd hate to disappoint you by handling it incorrectly.” She looked toward the shallow cut across his knuckles. “You also promised to deal with that.”
“I don't remember promising.” Taddeo crossed toward the sink anyway and began unbuttoning his cuffs. “I remember being threatened with biting.”
“Same thing under the circumstances.”
He rolled his sleeves to his forearms and turned on the water.
Watching him wash his hands affected Isolde far more than it should have.
The same fingers that had held a gun now moved beneath warm water while the dried blood around his knuckles softened and disappeared down the drain.
There was no ritual to it, no visible distress, only the practical understanding that blood did not belong on his skin indefinitely.
“Did it bother you?” she asked.
Taddeo slowed before reaching for a towel. “Killing him?”
“Yes.”
He dried his hands carefully, considering the question rather than reaching for whatever answer would make the conversation easier. “Yes, but probably not in the way you're asking.”
Isolde leaned one elbow against the island. “What way do you think I'm asking?”
“You want to know whether I walked away wondering what taking a life says about the rest of mine.” He opened the drawer Elettra used for first-aid supplies and found the antiseptic. “I didn't.”
She watched him clean the cut. “I wasn't expecting a crisis of conscience.”
“Good.”
“I think you've probably disappointed enough priests already.”
A faint breath of amusement left him, but it disappeared quickly.
“What bothered me was that he got close enough to make the decision necessary. Seven men knew your movement, we checked the museum in advance, controlled the entry, and still someone put armed men outside the exact room you were in. That should not have happened.”
“And the fact that you killed him?”
“He was reaching for a gun while you were standing behind me.” Taddeo closed the antiseptic and finally looked at her. “So yes, that made the decision easier.”
There was no apology in the answer.
Isolde found she didn't want one.
“I don't think I'm upset that you killed him,” she said, and the admission felt strange enough that she stared down at her tea afterward. “That's what I don't know what to do with. I was relieved when you were faster, and then I looked at you and you were already checking whether I was hurt.”
Taddeo's expression became harder to read. “I wasn't already over it.”
“You looked like you were.”
“I was getting you out of the building.”
“That's not the same thing.”
“No.” His gaze remained on hers for another moment before shifting away. “It isn't.”
He could admit to killing a man more easily than admit what seeing her in danger had done to him. Isolde was beginning to understand that silence around certain subjects didn't mean Taddeo felt nothing. Often it meant the opposite.
She picked up her cup and discovered the tea had gone cold again. “Where's the drive?”
“Secured.”
“That is intentionally vague.”
“Yes.”
“You promised I would be there when you open it.”
“I remember.”
Isolde watched him carefully. “Does that promise still stand after tonight?”
“Yes.”
“Even after somebody attacked the museum for whatever Corwin hid inside that book?”
“Yes.”
“And after you've apparently decided every decision involving me now requires personal approval from Taddeo Malfatti?”
His mouth tightened. “That's a hostile description.”
“It's an accurate one.”
“Debatable.” He paused, then answered the question she had actually asked. “You will be present when we review the drive. If it involves Corwin, the museum, the financial records, or why you're part of this, you hear it when I do.”
The answer mattered more than she wanted it to.
“Thank you.”
Taddeo looked at the neglected tea in front of her, took the cup before she could object, and poured it into the sink. “You're welcome.”
“What are you doing?”
“Making tea that you might actually drink.”
“I am capable of making tea.”
“You've demonstrated that. The drinking portion seems less reliable.”
“That is remarkably judgmental for someone who has spent the night interrogating professional criminals.”
“Those are separate skill sets.”
Isolde smiled despite herself.