CHAPTER 34
THE SANCTUARY
POV: Elodie Fray
Location: Villa Diodati, Lake Como, Italy
Track: Experience – Ludovico Einaudi
Sensory: The scent of wisteria and old stone, the echo of footsteps in an empty hall, the coolness of marble against feverish skin.
Mood: Gothic Peace I can see the red tendrils creeping up his neck from the collar of his coat.
He looks at the house. A flicker of recognition—or perhaps memory—lights up his clouded eyes. "Grandmother's... prison," he murmurs.
"It's not a prison," I say, getting out. "It's a castle."
I open his door. I help him out. He puts his arm around my shoulders, leaning his full weight on me. He is burning up, a furnace wrapped in wool. We stumble to the door. I use the large iron key from the velvet box. It slides into the lock with a heavy clunk. I turn it. The door groans open.
The air inside is stale, cool, and smells of dust and lavender.
Sheets cover the furniture like ghosts. A grand staircase sweeps up into the darkness.
But my eyes are drawn to the room on the right.
The double doors are open. Inside, bathed in the twilight filtering through the dusty windows, is a piano.
A Bosendorfer Imperial. Black. Massive. It sits in the center of an empty room overlooking the lake.
"For you," Alaric wheezes, seeing where I am looking.
"Later," I say, turning him toward the stairs. "First, the master bedroom. Then, the doctor."
I get him into the bed. It is a four-poster monster with heavy velvet curtains.
The sheets are dusty, but I don't care. I strip him down, covering him with the clean blankets we bought in Germany.
He is shivering violently now, teeth chattering.
Sepsis. The bacteria is in his blood. I check my watch. 19:00.
The doctor should be here. I made the call from a payphone in Switzerland, using a number Kaiser gave me. Dr. Rossi. No questions. Cash only. A knock at the front door echoes through the silent house. Three heavy raps.
I grab the SIG. One bullet. I walk down the stairs. The shadows stretch long and distorted. I open the door.
A man stands there. Short, balding, carrying a leather medical bag. He looks like a grandfather, but his eyes are sharp, assessing. "Signora Graves?" he asks in Italian.
"Yes."
"I was told you have a patient with... complications."
"Gunshot wound. Sepsis. Advanced."
He nods. "I will need hot water. Towels. And light."
I lead him upstairs. He enters the bedroom. He doesn't flinch at the sight of Alaric, or the gun in my waistband. He opens his bag. "I need to debride the wound," he says, putting on gloves. "It will be messy. He will scream."
"He won't scream," I say. "He has a high tolerance."
Dr. Rossi looks at me. "I need to put him under. Propofol. If his heart is weak..."
"His heart is strong," I interrupt. "Just do it."
I stand by the window while he works. I watch the lake.
I watch the lights of Bellagio twinkling across the water.
Behind me, the sounds of surgery. The snip of scissors.
The beep of a portable monitor. The smell of antiseptic and cauterized flesh.
Alaric doesn't scream. He groans once, a deep, guttural sound, when the doctor cuts away the dead tissue. Then silence.
An hour later, Dr. Rossi steps back. "It is done," he says, wiping his hands. "I placed a drain. I started a course of IV Vancomycin. It is strong stuff. It should kill the infection." He packs his bag. "He needs rest. Fluids. And luck."
I hand him a stack of Swiss Francs. Ten thousand. "Thank you."
"One more thing," the doctor says, pausing at the door. "This man... his body is a map of scars. Old ones. New ones." He looks at me. "He has lived a hard life. Or a cruel one."
"He survived," I say.
"Survival has a cost," Dr. Rossi says. "Keep the wound clean. I will return in two days."
He leaves. I lock the door. I go back to the bed. Alaric is sleeping deeply now, the sedative doing its work. The lines of pain on his forehead have smoothed out. He looks younger. I sit in the chair beside the bed. I hold his hand—the one with the iron ring. "We're home," I whisper.
I close my eyes. And for the first time in a month, I sleep without a weapon in my hand.
[THREE DAYS LATER]
The fever breaks on the third morning. I wake up to the sound of rain against the window. A soft, steady rhythm. The bed beside me is empty.
Panic spikes in my chest. "Alaric?" I scramble up, grabbing the silk robe I found in a wardrobe. I run into the hallway. "Alaric!"
I hear a sound. Downstairs. A single note. Plink. Piano.
I run down the stairs. I run to the music room.
He is there. He is sitting at the Bosendorfer.
He is wearing a pair of linen trousers I found in a trunk, loose and comfortable.
He is shirtless, the fresh bandage on his shoulder stark white against his skin.
He is thin. He has lost muscle mass. But he is sitting upright.
His right hand—the healed hand—is hovering over the keys. He plays a chord. C Major. Then C Minor. He watches his fingers. They tremble slightly, but they obey.
"You shouldn't be out of bed," I say, leaning against the doorframe.
He doesn't turn. "The bed was too soft. I needed... resistance." He plays a scale. Up. Down. It is a bit uneven, lacking his old mechanical precision, but it is music. "It’s stiff," he murmurs. "The action. It hasn't been played in twenty years."
"We can get a tuner."
"No. I like it. It fights back." He turns to look at me. His eyes are clear. The silver is bright again. "Come here."
I walk to him. He pulls me between his knees. He rests his forehead against my stomach. "You saved me again," he whispers.
"Stop counting," I say, running my hands through his hair.
"I can't stop counting. I am in debt, Elodie. A dangerous amount of debt." He looks up at me. "How do I repay you?"
"Play for me."
He shakes his head. "I can't. Not like before. The virtuoso is dead."
"I don't want the virtuoso," I say. "I want the man." I sit on the bench beside him. "Play something simple."
He hesitates. Then he places his hands on the keys.
He plays Clair de Lune. It is slow. Hesitant at first. He misses a note in the arpeggio.
He grimaces. But he keeps playing. And there is something new in the sound.
Before, his playing was perfect. Cold. Surgical.
Now... now there is a fragility to it. A hesitation that feels like a breath.
It is imperfect. And it is the most beautiful thing I have ever heard.
I lean my head on his shoulder. I close my eyes. I listen to the rain and the music. We are safe. The Syndicate is in chaos. My father is dead. We are ghosts in a stone castle. We have money. We have time. We have each other.
It feels like a happy ending. But I know better. Happy endings are for fairy tales. We are in a gothic novel. And in gothic novels, the storm always returns.
[ONE WEEK LATER]
Domesticity is a strange drug. We fall into a routine.
Alaric heals. He eats ravenously, regaining his strength.
He spends hours in the library, reading old books, or on the terrace, staring at the lake.
I play the piano. I practice for hours, letting the music fill the empty halls.
We make love. Gently at first, mindful of his wound, then with increasing intensity as his strength returns.
We explore the villa. We find wine in the cellar. We find old clothes.
We don't talk about the past. We don't talk about Thorne, or the boat, or the kill. We pretend they don't exist. But we still lock the doors. We still keep the gun (now reloaded with ammo we found in a hunting cabinet) on the nightstand.
It is a fragile peace. A glass house waiting for a stone.
I am in the kitchen, cutting vegetables for dinner. The sun has set. The villa is dark, lit only by the lamps I’ve turned on. Alaric is in the study, checking the encrypted laptop we brought. He is moving money. Creating new identities. Building the wall around us higher.
Click. The sound comes from the front of the house. The front door. I freeze. I locked it. I know I locked it. I put the knife down. I pick up the heavy cast-iron skillet. It’s not much, but it’s heavy.
I walk into the hallway. "Alaric?" I call out softly.
No answer. The study door is closed.
I see a shadow move in the foyer. A man. He is standing by the door, shaking rain from a black umbrella. He is wearing a suit. Not tactical gear. A bespoke Italian suit. He looks up. He sees me.
He smiles. It is a smile I recognize. I saw it across a poker table in Monaco. Silas Vane.
He is alive. But he looks different. He has a bandage on his neck where I held the knife. He looks thinner. Meaner. And he is not alone. Two men step out from the shadows behind him. Big men. Silent.