imagined. There was none of the rising scarlet glory he knew in the thick of the fight or in the leap from ship to ship, sword in hand, or in battles against black gales at sea a hundred miles from any port.
His men knocked at the door and, at his word, brought in the governor. Lazar took one look at his prisoner, and his uncertainty bled to misery. Damn it to hell . In the lapse of fifteen years, the archfiend of his nightmares had become a tired old man.
The sailors threw the don to the marble floor of his own drawing room. He cursed as he went sprawling in a clanking knot of chains and manacles. “You will never get away with this! The navy will be here at any moment! I’ll see you hanged from the highest tree!”
Monteverdi glared at the men as he climbed stiffly to his feet. He untangled his chains with the dignity of a man used to public address, but when his gaze swung across the room to Lazar, he went motionless.
Staring, Monteverdi turned the sickly white of overcast skies.
“That’s right, old man, your sins have come home to roost,” Lazar told him with a soft, bitter laugh.
He wished right then that Father could have been there to see his old adviser. What a joke, that this little ferret should have found the means to bring low a man half as big as a mountain, with a mind as keen as the gleaming, ancient broadsword of the Fiore kings, Excelsior, which just an hour earlier Lazar had recovered from the city’s treasury, along with the crown jewels and the other royal heirlooms.
He dismissed his men with a firm nod.
As he considered the many ways he’d thought of over the years to begin this conversation, he took a casual stroll around the large, bright drawing room. With each moment he kept his silence, he could sense the old don’s fear mounting. It was most gratifying.
In a fortress on the Barbary Coast, he’d learned all the tricks of intimidation from His Excellency of Al Khuum, who had a flair for such things. Aye, his two-year sojourn in the bad place was not the least of the favors for which the Governor would pay today.
While Monteverdi watched his every move in dread, Lazar took down a dusty leather-bound book from one of the shelves and fanned idly through the pages, then found a fine box of cheroots on the writing table and helped himself to one. After lighting it with the expensive automatic tinder lying nearby on the desk, he turned his attention to his enemy.
“Before you start lying, or attempt to pretend you don’t know who I am,” he said, “let me just advise you that I have your daughter. It would be prudent to cooperate.”
This took the governor off his guard. “Where is she? Where is Allegra?” he demanded shakily.
Lazar gave him a slight, evil smile and turned away to watch the curtains wave over the window in the sea breeze. “In my keeping, never fear.”
“What have you done with her?”
“Not half yet what I intend. My compliments, Governor, on your sweet little girl. Delicious breasts, a mouth like silk, and the tightest little ass.” He closed his eyes for a moment, feigning an expression of remembered bliss. It had the calculated effect. “Exquisite.”
“What do you want of me?” Monteverdi whispered in a choked voice.
“First I want to hear you say you know who I am.”
Monteverdi was quite gray in the face. “But it’s not possible,” he croaked. “The boy is dead. Killed—by highwaymen—dreadful—”
“Highwaymen, eh? That is the official story, isn’t it?” This work was getting easier as the memories returned. He puffed upon the cigar and looked down at the bald spot on the top of Monteverdi’s head as he circled him. “We both know better than that, old man. I’ve come to collect my pound of flesh.”
“Not possible. You’re a fraud.” He clutched at his chest. “Your creatures told me you are a pirate—called the Devil of Antigua.”
“But it was not always so. Say it, Monteverdi. Admit you know me. Remember, I have
His men knocked at the door and, at his word, brought in the governor. Lazar took one look at his prisoner, and his uncertainty bled to misery. Damn it to hell . In the lapse of fifteen years, the archfiend of his nightmares had become a tired old man.
The sailors threw the don to the marble floor of his own drawing room. He cursed as he went sprawling in a clanking knot of chains and manacles. “You will never get away with this! The navy will be here at any moment! I’ll see you hanged from the highest tree!”
Monteverdi glared at the men as he climbed stiffly to his feet. He untangled his chains with the dignity of a man used to public address, but when his gaze swung across the room to Lazar, he went motionless.
Staring, Monteverdi turned the sickly white of overcast skies.
“That’s right, old man, your sins have come home to roost,” Lazar told him with a soft, bitter laugh.
He wished right then that Father could have been there to see his old adviser. What a joke, that this little ferret should have found the means to bring low a man half as big as a mountain, with a mind as keen as the gleaming, ancient broadsword of the Fiore kings, Excelsior, which just an hour earlier Lazar had recovered from the city’s treasury, along with the crown jewels and the other royal heirlooms.
He dismissed his men with a firm nod.
As he considered the many ways he’d thought of over the years to begin this conversation, he took a casual stroll around the large, bright drawing room. With each moment he kept his silence, he could sense the old don’s fear mounting. It was most gratifying.
In a fortress on the Barbary Coast, he’d learned all the tricks of intimidation from His Excellency of Al Khuum, who had a flair for such things. Aye, his two-year sojourn in the bad place was not the least of the favors for which the Governor would pay today.
While Monteverdi watched his every move in dread, Lazar took down a dusty leather-bound book from one of the shelves and fanned idly through the pages, then found a fine box of cheroots on the writing table and helped himself to one. After lighting it with the expensive automatic tinder lying nearby on the desk, he turned his attention to his enemy.
“Before you start lying, or attempt to pretend you don’t know who I am,” he said, “let me just advise you that I have your daughter. It would be prudent to cooperate.”
This took the governor off his guard. “Where is she? Where is Allegra?” he demanded shakily.
Lazar gave him a slight, evil smile and turned away to watch the curtains wave over the window in the sea breeze. “In my keeping, never fear.”
“What have you done with her?”
“Not half yet what I intend. My compliments, Governor, on your sweet little girl. Delicious breasts, a mouth like silk, and the tightest little ass.” He closed his eyes for a moment, feigning an expression of remembered bliss. It had the calculated effect. “Exquisite.”
“What do you want of me?” Monteverdi whispered in a choked voice.
“First I want to hear you say you know who I am.”
Monteverdi was quite gray in the face. “But it’s not possible,” he croaked. “The boy is dead. Killed—by highwaymen—dreadful—”
“Highwaymen, eh? That is the official story, isn’t it?” This work was getting easier as the memories returned. He puffed upon the cigar and looked down at the bald spot on the top of Monteverdi’s head as he circled him. “We both know better than that, old man. I’ve come to collect my pound of flesh.”
“Not possible. You’re a fraud.” He clutched at his chest. “Your creatures told me you are a pirate—called the Devil of Antigua.”
“But it was not always so. Say it, Monteverdi. Admit you know me. Remember, I have
Similar Books
