He ignored the dig and started shedding clothes while she stepped over to peek through the door that exited into the public areas of the house.
Closing it quietly and turning the lock first, Rae returned with a laundry bag she stuffed his discarded clothes into, then tossed the bag aside and wet a towel at the sink.
He’d expected another slam over peeling down to his underwear. She proved him wrong by silently cleaning blood off his face and neck while he buttoned his fresh shirt and inserted cufflinks. He took the clean half of the towel to wipe his hands.
She touched the earpiece wired to her clustered earrings, listening, then raised her chin to Hunter. “Korbin scoped the area around the tree while security’s scrambling to get medical help for Gwen and secure the patio. He saw a JC baby spoon stabbed in the trunk by the pointed Chameleon’s horns on the spoon handle. Couldn’t retrieve it. The space fifty feet inside the wall is covered in cameras. Security will find the spoon when they sweep, but we know who took the shot.”
Hunter nodded. “You packing?”
In answer, she leaned down and fished a Browning BDA .380 from her boot that she then handed to him.
He started to ask if that was her only weapon out of instinctive need to ensure he didn’t leave a woman unprotected.
Rae was not defenseless and would not appreciate his concern. Questioning her on anything right now would be taken as yet another attack on her ability as an agent.
Her slim weapon wouldn’t fit inside the snug boots he wore. He shoved it inside the back of his pants. The poorly cut tuxedo jacket would cover the weapon.
“Thanks.” He started for the door and paused, owing her something more for tonight. “You’re an exceptional agent, Rae.”
“I know.”
He swung around to find a burning glare teamed up with her sharp tone. “I— Never mind.”
Her face shifted from tense to curious.
That was as close to an apology as she’d get from him. He opened the door and checked the hallway leading back to the main ballroom before striding confidently toward the mayhem that was gathering volume. Everyone he passed literally frothed with macabre excitement over the shooting, ignoring him as just another forgotten guest or Wentworth staff.
He needed them all to forget him.
What about Abbie?
Had she been coherent when he told her not to identify him? If she admitted to seeing him on the patio with Gwen the media would go crazy searching out pictures of his face to plaster in every news report.
The last pictures of him had been taken before he became an adult and stopped allowing photos. He was of no use to BAD if the media exposed Hunter Wesley Thornton-Payne III as anything more than a worthless playboy. He’d be yanked out of the field. Maybe forever.
And Abbie? She’d disappear from her world.
Chapter Ten
Last to exit the elevator car that had descended forty feet below the Wentworth complex, Vestavia girded himself for the upcoming battle.
Ahead of him, Fra Ostrovsky from Russia and Fra Bardaric from the UK followed Linette Tassone’s clicking steps through a corridor of travertine walls lit by blown-glass sconces shaped like tulips. When she reached the end of the hall, Linette opened a door and stepped inside a carpeted reception area that was empty save for a plush gray sofa-and-chair combo.
She crossed the room and opened another door, then stepped aside.
Vestavia followed the other two Fras, who passed Linette into the windowless room, where more wall sconces provided understated lighting. With that and the hand-buffed cherry paneling, the room offered a hospitable feel to the uninformed.
Those who had been inside this soundproof room, as Vestavia had, knew better than to be taken in by the inviting feel.
Vestavia turned to Linette. “Don’t let anyone disturb us.”
“Of course, Fra Vestavia.” She had the demure voice of a sophisticated angel. More black hair than a man could hold in two fists and sex spilling out of every pore.
But she wasn’t Josephine.
His gut still twisted in a knot when he thought of the woman with waist-length blond hair and an erotic body created for loving. Josephine Silversteen had worshipped him and made his world a place worth saving.
His bed a welcome place worth visiting.
But her cold body would never warm his bed again. She slept in a coffin and he blamed a mole in Fratelli de il Sovrano for her death.
When he found the mole, death would be a blessing compared to what he had in mind for betraying him.
“This room secure?” Fra Ostrovsky’s wild gray and brown eyebrows dropped low over withered eyes that inspected the walls and ceiling as though the subterranean structure could hear and see. Short of stature and hardly filling out the black tuxedo, the Russian Fratelli representative suspected anything and everything.
Vestavia couldn’t really fault him since Ostrovsky probably didn’t have to deal with moles in the Russian Fratelli division.
“Gwen would not risk sending us to a location that wasn’t secure.” Vestavia closed the door on Linette, who had seated herself at the farthest point from the room.
She’d been with him since he lost Josephine and needed a personal assistant. He’d first seen Linette in the possession of Fra Bacchus, a sixty-two-year-old Fratelli who departed this world not long after. She’d been given to the old buzzard eleven years earlier at the age of sixteen because of her beauty and superior intelligence. If not for one small glitch in her family ancestry, she’d have been handed over to the Kore Women’s Center for breeding. Her concise moves, quiet manners, and carefully thought-out answers were all a product of the old Fra’s method of breaking and disciplining.
Linette had proven to be a model assistant, but she hadn’t truly been tested. Not by Vestavia’s standards.
He placed his briefcase at the base of a twelve-foot-long oval glass conference table that provided a clear view of the base, where a pair of snarling lions had been carved from burled wood. “And I am as much at risk of being exposed as you are.”
Ostrovsky grunted acknowledgment.
Bardaric said nothing right away. The UK representative hummed with impatience. Bardaric had changed significantly since his youth and was now built surprisingly sturdier than he’d been in his late teens. Unlike most pale and slight Brits Vestavia dealt with, Bardaric’s body structure hinted of Viking genetics. Wavy sandy-brown hair fell to the collar of his tux. The rough-cut locks complemented the aggression shining in his chilling gray eyes.
“Please have a seat, gentlemen.” Before taking his, Vestavia strode over to the bar integrated into the wall of built-in bookcases. He pressed a panel and the doors opened to reveal anything they required for drinks. He filled a crystal glass two fingers deep with forty-year-old Macallan whisky, inhaling the sweet toffee and woodsy scent of the rare blend. He poured Bardaric a glass as well only to show Ostrovsky he came ready to bury the proverbial hatchet… preferably in Bardaric’s neck.
A shame to waste fine whisky on that British bastard.
After pouring a chilled glass of Stolichnaya Elit, Vestavia passed it to Ostrovsky, who sat at the head of the table. Handing the whisky to Bardaric, Vestavia sat down where he could face both men.
“We must move ahead with our plans.” Bardaric wasted no time in opening the discussion. “The U.S. has not been weakened sufficiently to allow for further damage to the UK or China.”
Vestavia had enjoyed unquestioned control over all Fratelli missions on United States soil until someone undermined him this past year by ruining his plan to seat a Fratelli in the White House.
The f**king mole.
And now this UK wharf rat wanted to rip the United States apart before the UK tumbled. Vestavia kept his tone pleasant but firm. “Now is not the time to draw undue attention to our movement. I’m not willing to support a plan that serves no purpose but to ravage this country before we’re ready for it to fall.”
“We tried it your way, Vestavia, and you failed last year.” Bardaric smoothed his fingertips over the table as though clearing space for a battle. “Your plans are lagging behind. My people can help escalate your time frame to put us all back on track.”
“I don’t need any help.” Vestavia gave Bardaric an acidic smile. “As for failing last year, that was a setback we’re already recovering from, but the UK lost momentum four years ago that hasn’t been recovered. Or have you forgotten your failure to gain the list of CIA names I set up the buy on and the failed mission to kill your prime minister?”
Bardaric’s eyes bulged red. “We have a new prime minister in place in spite of Wentworth keeping our last one alive. Someone in your country interfered in the Brugmann deal four years ago. Want to tell me who?”
“Are you accusing me of interfering?” Vestavia asked softly.
Ostrovsky took a drink of his vodka and slammed the glass down. “Gentlemen! I did not come for schoolyard arguments. I may be only Angeli mediator for this meeting, but that does not preclude sharing my opinion. Of all the continents, yours are the two strongest. You must come to agreement on which one falls first and work together. This is crucial for all seven continents.”
Vestavia caught himself leaning toward Bardaric, his muscles tight with the need to fight. He’d buried his pain over the failed mission so deep no one knew how much losing Josephine had cost him. How hard it had been to order her death when she’d been captured. To watch her beautiful head explode.
He had a mole, yes, but this UK prick was causing him just as much trouble. Smoothing his face to appear unconcerned, Vestavia willed his body to relax. He straightened away from the table.
Ostrovsky was correct. They were Angeli first and foremost.
The seven Angeli—one from each continent—called themselves the Council of Seven as a security measure so no one slipped around the Fratelli de il Sovrano.
The Fratelli thought they were the highest order on each continent in charge of preparing the world for the Renaissance, but the Council would eventually wield the true power. Like Vestavia, each of the other six had infiltrated the Fratelli groups on their respective continents. The Council would surface in due time, but for now they were letting the Fratelli do the heavy lifting.
The Fratelli wouldn’t fold easily when the time came to hand over control of the world, but the Council of Seven Angeli held one powerful key to the future.
Until the day to reveal that key arrived, Vestavia refused to see North America pummeled just to make this UK f**k feel better about his position.
Vestavia and his six counterparts on the council were secretly accelerating the Fratelli’s plans so that the Renaissance would happen in their lifetime, not another sixty years from now as currently expected.
“The U.S. must fall first to complete the parity phase,” Bardaric argued, not addressing the part about working together.
Of course that horse’s ass would say the U.S. had to fall first. Vestavia didn’t react. He had the backing of the Wentworths, who carried the purest blood of the North American and European Fratelli. Their power trumped Bardaric’s royal bloodline in Britain, so he allowed, “You have a valid point.”
Bardaric’s eyes thinned in suspicion. “Then you agree the Wentworth family is growing too quickly.”
“Perhaps.” Vestavia had to give up something so that Ostrovsky would report his compliance to the other Angeli. “However, I would point out that there is only one fertile Wentworth being put into service at this time.”
Bardaric seethed quietly. “There must be no new Wentworth babies until the UK has three more births with the genetic markers. We all agreed to limit births—”
“No,” Vestavia said, cutting in. “We agreed to maintain a balance of pure DNA breeding. These babies are our future leaders and our genetic stock. With only four descendants of the original seven women who birthed our civilization—and Wentworth holding the purest blood, I might add—we can’t afford to limit a breeder who is on schedule because yours is behind.”
“I am well aware of our limited DNA resources. I will call for a vote to allow multiple births from the three women in Europe’s bloodline when I return home tomorrow so that all three can be inseminated immediately.”
“I’m not comfortable with multiple births at one time in the UK.” Vestavia looked over at Ostrovsky, who made a noncommittal shoulder movement. “I don’t think any of us want to see a replay of your grandfather’s mistake, Bardaric.”
“Hitler was not my grandfather’s mistake.” Bardaric hit the table with his fist. “Hitler climbed his way into the Fratelli just as you did. My family cannot be held accountable for his insanity, only for the actions of those within our direct bloodline.”
“I’m not saying your family is specifically at fault for anything, only that Hitler was allowed to breed genetic offspring like rats during your grandfather’s era. The Angeli two generations back failed to contain Hitler. Our job is to ensure no Fratelli abuses the power to create life.” Vestavia slid another look at Ostrovsky, who weighed in with a nod, so he continued. “Our generation has technological advantages over prior ones, but allowing any generation to breed at too fast a rate is just as irresponsible as our forefathers who experimented with plagues they couldn’t control.”
Bardaric’s anger fingered through the pristine air that smelled so clean it seemed manufactured. “I have maintained an equivalent pace, but the last three babies did not survive.”
“Can’t help it if our sperm is more powerful.” Vestavia spoke without emotion, as though just stating facts, but hit his mark with the verbal strike.
Bardaric’s shoulders flexed, tense with hostility.
Ostrovsky shot a warning glare at both sides of the table.
Vestavia lifted his hands to stem the argument brewing. He needed Ostrovsky, the one Angeli council member most trusted for over a decade to play mediator, to report to the other four that Vestavia continued to be capable of ruling over North America. “I thought we were going to hear about your new plan, Bardaric. If your plan is sound and if the majority of the council votes yes, I’ll put all my resources behind it.”