Chapter 3
There were worse places to be than on the Colleoni jet when you had a hangover.
Dario had always liked the plane. Leather seats, a good bar, tinted windows that made the Aegean look like spilled ink below.
It was one of the few Colleoni assets that Gabriella had actually allowed to feel comfortable, probably because she understood that people were more pliable when their legs weren't cramped.
Frederica was lazing in the reclined seat beside him, her boots off, looking like she was seriously reconsidering every decision she had ever made. She had been silent since takeoff, which was twenty minutes ago and approximately nineteen minutes longer than Dario expected her to last.
"Water?" He held up a bottle. "There's also aspirin in the overhead if you need it. Lemon, too, if you want to pretend you're having a spa day."
Frederica opened one eye. The look she gave him could have stripped paint. "If you say one more word, I will throw your ass out of this plane."
"You would have to stand up first, and I'm not confident you can manage that right now."
Both eyes opened. Furious, hazel, magnificent. "I managed to knock a man unconscious three hours ago, and you're in range, Colleoni."
"You threw a boot at him. That's not the same thing as a plane toss." Dario unscrewed the water bottle and set it on the wide armrest between them. "Drink. You are the color of old parchment, and it's not your best look."
"Fuck you." She glared at him for a long moment, then reached for the water and drank half of it in one go. A small victory.
He settled deeper into his seat, crossed his arms behind his head, and said, "Are we going to talk about why you were in Crete instead of Rhodes, or are we pretending that didn't happen?"
"We are pretending it didn't happen."
"Right. Because the bad ass assassin who has never missed a target, never deviated from a plan, and never made a mistake suddenly decided to get blind drunk on a Tuesday..."
"Wednesday."
"Wednesday. On a Greek island that was absolutely not her destination, for no reason whatsoever." He tilted his head. "Makes perfect sense."
Frederica's fingers tightened around the water bottle. "I was blowing off steam. People do that."
"People do that. I have my doubts that you do. You seem the type to plan your bathroom breaks. You once told Kon that spontaneity was a character flaw."
"I did not say that."
"According to him, you said it was 'a failure of tactical discipline,' which is the same thing in your language. The only spontaneous thing I've seen you do is kick a guy off a balcony."
"He fell, and you know it." The ghost of something that wasn't quite a smile flickered across her mouth. It vanished before it could take root. "Why were you in Istanbul?"
"I was helping the Edgeworths look for Serapis."
"You were wearing that red silk shirt hanging out in Kon's warehouse? Doubtful. Athena would have sent me a photo so I could laugh at you looking like a prat."
Dario grinned. "Maybe I was gathering intelligence and drinking whiskey at a rooftop club. Someone has to do the hard work."
Frederica shook her head, but the corner of her mouth betrayed her again. That tiny, involuntary twitch. He wanted to make it happen a third time. He wanted to keep making it happen until it broke into something real.
Careful, she's getting to you.
"Fine," he said. "You were blowing off steam. I was conducting critical research into Istanbul nightlife. Neither of us is in a position to judge the other's coping mechanisms. Agreed?"
"Agreed." She paused. "Where are we going?"
"Rhodes."
Something shifted in her face. The hangover mask cracked, and, for just a second, he saw alarm beneath it. "No."
"It is a ninety-minute flight from Crete. You were heading there anyway. I'm dropping you at your parents' door like a gentleman, and then..."
"You are not meeting my parents."
The speed of it surprised him. Not the words, because he had expected resistance. It was the urgency.
Frederica didn't panic, not about anything, not when there were knives or guns or burning buildings involved. She had walked through the siege on the Colleoni villa like she was picking up groceries.
Her parents, apparently, were more terrifying than pissed-off mafia, undead soldiers, and a fucking trapped djinn. Interesting.
"Why not?" he asked, keeping his voice light.
"Because my father will assess whether you are a threat, an asset, or a mark, and my mother will shoot you. Neither outcome ends well for you."
Dario mock gasped. "How dare you. I'm charming. All parents love me."
"My parents are not other parents." Frederica sat up straighter, and the movement cost her.
She pressed two fingers to her temple and winced.
"Despina is former special ops. She loves any excuse to pull a gun.
Tore is a professional thief who has been sizing up people for forty years.
You will walk in there looking like you fell out of a nightclub, and they will eat you alive. "
"I did just fall out of a nightclub," he pointed out.
"Exactly my point."
Dario leaned toward her, close enough that she couldn't look away without it being obvious.
"You called me from a jail cell, Spartana.
Not Kon, not Altun, not your terrifying special ops mother.
Me. We have already crossed whatever line you are trying to draw.
Dropping you home can hardly be worse than bailing your ass out of jail. "
She held his gaze. The plane hummed around them, the steady vibration of engines and altitude. Outside, the sky was lightening over the eastern horizon, the first pale blush of dawn creeping across the water.
"I called you because you were the only person who wouldn't make it into a thing," she said finally.
"Oh, I'm absolutely making it into a thing."
"I know. That is why I'm regretting it."
He laughed. She didn't, but the tension in her shoulders dropped a fraction, and she let her head fall back against the headrest.
Silence settled between them, but not the uncomfortable kind.
Something looser, like the easing of a knot.
The jet engines filled it, steady and low, and Dario watched the dawn spread outside the window and tried not to think about the fact that sitting beside a woman who wanted to kill him half the time was the most comfortable he had felt in weeks.
That is going to be a problem. He glanced at her. Her eyes were closed. Her face softened in a way he suspected she would never permit if she knew anyone was watching.
She wasn't pretty, that was too weak a word, but she had the kind of potent allure that drew the eye. High cheekbones, strong nose, big eyes, and lips. It all just worked, like she was a real-life Greek goddess statue in a smiting kind of mood.
Pretty? No. Powerful was what she was. And she was entirely unapologetic about it.
There was a smudge of some kind of sauce that had dried on her shirt collar, and her braid was half-unraveled, dark hair escaping in loose strands.
She looked less like a bad ass killer and more like she had been running from something and finally stopped.
He knew the feeling.
Dario pulled up Rhodes on his phone, checking the distance from the airstrip to the Alesci house. Twenty minutes by car, and he sent through a request to have one ready and waiting when they landed.
He texted Leo: Taking a detour. Back in a few days. Don't do anything stupid.
Leo's response was immediate: Define stupid. Stupid for me or stupid for you?
I meant like go after Serapis without me, you little shit. Tell Rodrigo.
Leo sent a middle finger emoji in response.
Normal. Grounding. His brothers were out there, being his brothers, and Dario was on a private plane with an assassin who smelled like ouzo and regret. His life had taken a turn somewhere, and he wasn't entirely sure when.
He looked over at Frederica again and found she had fallen asleep. Her head had tipped sideways, toward him, her chin tucked against her shoulder at an angle that would leave her neck screaming when she woke.
One hand was still loosely curled around the water bottle. The other lay open in her lap, palm up, fingers slightly bent. He reached across and, very carefully, slid the water bottle free before she spilled it, then set it aside.
He sat back, watching her sleep, and told himself that the ache behind his ribs was indigestion from too much whiskey and not the terrifying, disastrous, absolutely unacceptable realization that he didn't mind staring at her when she slept.
He never could be sure if she wanted to kill him or not, and that added an edge of excitement to his life that he wasn't sure he needed.
Frederica's head slipped further, and he heard the soft, involuntary exhale she made when her cheek found his shoulder. She still didn't wake up. Instead, she pressed closer, burrowing into the warmth like it was the most natural thing in the world. Dario stopped breathing.
After a few tense seconds, he looked down at the dark head resting against his arm and thought, very clearly: I am so fucked.