All Chapters of Married to the devil of valtieri: Chapter 131 - Chapter 140

"Don't scream," said the Notary. "It wastes air."The gun was cold against her ribs. His gloved hand held her arm in an iron grip. Below the gallery, the great nave had dissolved into chaos: two hundred and eleven people shouting, stampeding, hammering on the bolted doors, while the smoke rose in thick gray coils toward the painted dome."You were paid," said Isla."In advance. By Mr. Ettore. He is very correct about money." The white porcelain mask tilted. "I was engaged to hold you in this gallery until the fire took the stairs. A long, quiet death. I thought it a distasteful commission.""Then why...""Because I told you, in the ballroom. I would like to leave this room alive." The voice was dry and almost amused. "And there is only one way out. Up."He marched her across the gallery. He shoved open a low oak door in the shadow of a pillar, and a cold draft rushed out, smelling of stone and pigeons. A spiral stair wound upward into darkness."The bell tower," she said."It has a ro

He caught him in the cloister.It was a small square garden at the back of the cathedral, enclosed by a ring of pointed arches. A fountain played in the center. An orange tree stood in a tub. The smoke had not reached it yet, and the air was sweet with blossom and cool with night. And in the middle of the paving, with his back to the fountain and his cane resting on the stones, stood Ettore, waiting."You came," he said. "I knew you would.""Give me the Book.""Why? You've no use for it. You have the cup. The cardinal's dead. Giovanni has spoken from the grave." He sighed. "It is a very fine performance, nephew. I applaud it. But I am afraid it was all for nothing.""It's being broadcast.""So you said. And I have disabled the transmitter." The silver head tilted. "The little Dutchman is sitting in a van behind the Duomo, staring at a blank screen. I sent my man to see to it. A very patient man."Dante felt the ground drop."You're lying.""Check, if you like." Ettore smiled. "The wor

They buried him on a Tuesday, in the rain.It was a small cemetery on a hill above the sea, with a lichened wall and a rusting iron gate. The grass was long. The stones leaned. A single yew tree stood at the far end, dark and dripping, and beneath it, in the shadow of the wall, was a little white headstone, very old, with a name cut into it in plain Roman letters. Emilia Pallas. 1989 to 1998.Dante had had the grave dug beside it.It was a simple service. There were not many there. Tomas, in a clean black cassock, reading in a cracked, steady voice. Marco, in his one good suit, holding an umbrella over Mirelle and a solemn little boy in a raincoat. Serafina, pale and thin and upright on a pair of crutches, with a bandage still wound round her ribs. Van Hoek, hat in hand, white hair plastered to his skull. The old naval surgeon, Bruno, who had come without being asked and stood at the back, scowling.And Isla and Dante, side by side, with a sleeping baby between them.The coffin was pl

They saw Vittorio first.It was not a kindness. It was a calculation. A pale visitor's room in a Genoese prison, with a steel table and two plastic chairs and a guard by the door. Isla sat across from the man who had held her arm at the altar. Dante stood behind her with folded arms. And Vittorio Moretti, in gray prison cotton, with his handsome face gone sallow and his hands cuffed to the table, looked up at her and smiled a small, hopeless, apologetic smile."I thought you wouldn't come.""I nearly didn't.""I wouldn't have blamed you." He ducked his head. "She's well?""Don't ask about her.""I am sorry.""You signed her name."He closed his eyes. It was a long moment before he spoke."I did it for the same reason Giovanni did it for Dante." His voice was low. "My father came to me. The night she was born. He said, there are men in the Pact who will want to use her. A child is a hostage with a long life. He said that I must stand sponsor, or she would be taken." A wretched laugh. "

They went down at midnight, by candlelight.It was the first time Carlo Verdier had been in the Moretti cellar in thirty-eight years. He walked slowly, with a stick, between a pair of silent guards, in a borrowed overcoat. He stopped at the foot of the stair and looked about him, at the low vaulted roof, the stacks of dusty crates, the line of rusted iron racks. His face was unreadable."It has not changed," he said."It's been empty for twenty-two years.""It was always empty. It was the one honest room in the house." A thin smile. "We swore the Pact over there."He pointed. At the far end, where the vault narrowed to a point, stood an old oak table, black with age. Eight chairs had been drawn up round it. A single lamp swung from a hook. And on the table, in a nest of straw, sat a squat stone bottle sealed with red wax."The fourth stair," said Isla. "Under the board.""You have been listening.""I've been counting."They took their places in silence. Dante at the head, with the bab