Читать книгу Rising Fire - William W. Johnstone - Страница 14

CHAPTER 8

Denny and Giovanni were having dinner in one of the city’s finest restaurants when a man came over to their table. Denny saw the way Giovanni stiffened when he spotted the man approaching and knew something was wrong.

She took a closer look and realized that despite the stranger’s expensive suit, he looked out of place in these elegant surroundings. The cruel, hard-planed look of his face reminded her of some of the men she had seen in Big Rock during the visits she and Louis had made to the Sugarloaf.

Hard cases had definite similarities, whether they were in Colorado or Venice.

“Count Malatesta,” the man said with an insincere smile as he stopped beside the table. “I bid you good evening on behalf of Signor Tomasi.”

Giovanni jerked his head in a curt nod and said, “Tell Signor Tomasi good evening in return, if you will.”

“Of course. The signore would be pleased if you and the signorina would join him in his private salon.”

Giovanni shook his head. “My apologies to the signore, but that will be impossible. Signorina Jensen and I were just about to take our leave.”

They hadn’t finished their meal, so that took Denny by surprise. But she supposed Giovanni had a good reason for not wanting to accept the invitation from this Signor Tomasi, whoever he was.

“Are you certain, Count?” the rough-looking stranger asked. “The signore will be very disappointed.”

“This is the way it must be,” Giovanni answered.

The man’s broad shoulders rose and fell. “I will convey your regrets to the signore.”

“Grazie.”

The man looked at Denny for a second, and she saw the coldness in his gaze. He definitely made her feel uneasy, and that feeling remained even after he had walked off.

“My apologies for that unpleasantness, cara mia,” Giovanni said as he reached across the table and clasped one of her hands in both of his. “I did not expect such an intrusion to take place tonight.”

“Who was that man?” she asked. “Who’s Signor Tomasi?”

As usual, Giovanni waved away a question he didn’t want to answer. “No one important. A business associate.”

That was puzzling. Giovanni had never mentioned business, and he hadn’t shown any signs of working. Since he was a member of the nobility, Denny had assumed he was wealthy and didn’t need a job. From the way he talked, his family owned a great deal of property and was important in Sicily.

“If you need to talk to him, I don’t mind . . .”

A sharp shake of his head caused her voice to trail off. “Please, put the matter out of your mind. I already have.”

“Of course,” Denny said. She smiled.

But she was still puzzled, and she suddenly wondered if this Tomasi might have something to do with the men who had attacked them on the Bridge of Roses. It could be his men who had been following them . . .

Keeping those suspicions to herself for the time being, she took her napkin from her lap and placed it on the table. “You told that man we were about to leave,” she reminded Giovanni. “That’s fine with me.”

“I just said that to get rid of him. We don’t have to cut our meal short—”

“No, really, I don’t mind.”

Giovanni squeezed her hand. “I, too, am anxious to return to my apartment,” he said. “But we should at least finish the wine in our glasses.”

There wasn’t much wine left in the glasses. A couple of swallows took care of it. Then Giovanni held her chair for her and draped her shawl around her shoulders as he helped her up. They left the restaurant and turned toward the nearest canal where they could find a cruising gondola, walking arm in arm with Denny on Giovanni’s left.

They reached some steps leading down to a landing where a couple of torches burned in holders. They walked down the steps, then Giovanni raised his right arm to signal to a passing gondola with a lantern hanging from its high-arching stern. The gondolier moved his pole to the other side of the boat and angled it in their direction.

The gondola hadn’t reached the landing when the gondolier abruptly reversed course. As the boat’s prow swung away, Giovanni called to the man in Italian and sounded angry. The gondolier shook his head and poled the boat farther away.

Denny had gotten a good enough look at the man’s face to know that he had been scared off by something he had seen. That was enough of a warning to make her turn her head and look back over her shoulder.

“Giovanni,” she said quietly as she saw four men standing at the top of the steps.

He cursed under his breath and seemed a little frantic as he glanced around. With the men blocking the steps, there was nowhere for them to go unless they wanted to jump into the canal and swim for it.

“I am sorry, cara mia,” he told her. “I had no wish for you to become involved in my troubles.”

“If they’re your troubles, they’re mine as well,” Denny told him without hesitation. She was a little afraid—under the circumstances, it would have been foolish not to be—but she was more than a little angry as well. She was certain these men intended to harm Giovanni and maybe her as well, but they would learn that Jensens always fought back, no matter what the odds. Some of them might be well aware of that already, if they had been part of the bunch that had jumped them on the Bridge of Roses.

“Count Malatesta,” one of them called as he swaggered down a couple of steps. “Signor Tomasi would like to know if you have reconsidered. It’s not too late to do so.”

Denny recognized the voice of the man who had come to their table in the restaurant. As he came slowly down the steps toward the landing, she saw his face in the torchlight. He had lost his mask of politeness and looked more like an outlaw than ever. The other three men trailed him down the steps. They were more roughly dressed and had the same brutal look about them.

In a tight, angry voice, Giovanni said, “Tell Tomasi that I will deal with him later. Tonight, if he wishes. But first I must escort the young lady back to her hotel.”

“No, the signorina stays. Signor Tomasi has run out of patience. You must settle your accounts with him now.” The man put his hands in his trouser pockets and smirked as he came to a stop on the bottom step, just above the landing. “Perhaps the signore would consider the signorina as part of your arrangement with him.”

Fear welled up even stronger inside Denny at the vile implication of those words, but more anger rapidly replaced it. How dare the man even suggest such a thing? If her father had been here, Smoke Jensen wouldn’t take kindly to his daughter being threatened.

Smoke might not be here, but another Jensen was. Denny’s right hand slipped into the small, stylish bag she had brought with her tonight.

“What will it be, Count?” the man said. “The decision is up to you.”

“Denny, get behind me,” Giovanni said from the corner of his mouth. “I will not allow them to harm you.”

The leader of the Italian hard cases slowly shook his head. “You have no say in this any longer, Malatesta. The signore’s orders are clear. But we will be merciful. We will take the signorina with us, to hold as . . . security, shall we say . . . until you pay what you owe.” The man shrugged. “Of course, you will be in no shape to worry about that for a while. But not to worry. We will keep the signorina occupied.”

He jerked his head, and the other three men stepped around him, obviously ready to rush Giovanni and give him a beating before they carried Denny off to whatever sordid fate they had in mind for her.

Denny pulled the short-barreled, .32 caliber Smith & Wesson revolver from her bag and leveled it at the leader.

“If those men take one more step,” she said, “I’ll put a bullet in your brain.”

She had never shot a man before, had never even pointed a gun at anything except a target or some predator she had helped her father hunt down on the ranch. But no one would ever guess that from the calm, cool, flint-edged voice in which she spoke. This fellow had a lot in common with a wolf or a mountain lion, Denny told herself, and she believed she could pull the trigger if she had to. She was downright certain of it, in fact.

The man gestured sharply to his companions to stop their rush before it started.

“Denise, what are you doing?” Giovanni exclaimed.

“This is a mistake, Malatesta,” the leader rasped angrily. He sneered. “And I’m surprised to see you hiding behind a woman this way. I thought you were a nobleman.”

Giovanni’s face flushed darkly in the torchlight at that insult. He said, “Denise, put that gun away. Or better yet, give it to me.”

“The signorina is not the only one who is armed.” The leader made another sharp motion to the other three. Knives came out from somewhere. The red glare from the torches glittered on the blades.

“None of that will do you any good,” Denny said. “You’ll be dead before they can reach us.” She paused. “Anyway, if you kill Giovanni, who’s going to pay the man you work for? That’s what this is about, right? A debt that needs to be collected? Maybe something can be done about that.”

The leader cocked his head slightly to the side. “What do you propose, signorina?”

“No!” Giovanni cried. “This is not right! This is none of your affair, cara mia—”

“If I’m really your beloved, then I think it is my affair, too,” Denny said. To the leader of the toughs, she went on, “Go back to your boss and tell him that things will be worked out if he’ll just be a little more patient. I give him my word, and Jensens don’t lie. You think he’ll go along with that?”

“I would not presume to speak for the signore without talking to him first.”

“Then go talk to him,” Denny snapped. “Or keep crowding us and we’ll see what happens.”

From the corner of her eye, she saw Giovanni glaring furiously at her, but she kept most of her attention focused on the man she was looking at over the revolver’s sights. He seemed pretty observant. He must have noticed that even while holding a gun on him, her hand was rock steady.

After a long moment, the man shrugged. “I will speak to Signor Tomasi, but I make no promises. The day of reckoning may be postponed, but the debt must still be settled. You know this, Malatesta. And the next time . . . there will be no woman for you to hide behind.”

Giovanni growled and started to move forward, but he stopped himself and with a visible effort controlled his rage. “Go,” he told the men. “Run away like the craven dogs you are.”

For a second, Denny thought the insult was going to be more than the men could stand. She was ready to pull the trigger if she needed to. She didn’t figure she could gun down all four of the men before any of them reached her, especially with the small-caliber weapon. If her father had been here with a Colt .45 . . . with Smoke Jensen’s deadly speed and accuracy . . .

But Smoke wasn’t here, she reminded herself again. She was the lone Jensen, so it was up to her to uphold the family name. The Jensen brand was on her, just like it was on all those cattle roaming the lushly grassed meadows of the Sugarloaf.

Without saying anything else, the leader turned and motioned for the men with him to go back up the steps. He trailed them, pausing at the top to cast one last hostile look over his shoulder at the man and woman on the landing. Then he was gone like the others, vanishing into the shadows.

“Denise, I am so sorry. This . . . this is terrible—” Giovanni began.

Denny lowered the gun slightly but didn’t put it away. “Maybe you should see if you can attract the attention of another gondolier. I don’t think I want to go back up there, and we need to get somewhere we can talk.”