Chapter One
Ian Black stood on the terrace of his Venetian palazzo. He was supposed to be inside, mingling with the masked crowd of arms dealers he’d invited for the evening. Instead, he was thinking about a woman.
Not just any woman. Natasha Oliver—aka Natasha Orlova, aka the assassin Calypso.
Which made no sense because she wasn’t the woman for him. She was more than ten years younger and she worked for a group of people he despised. They were on opposite sides of everything.
He’d tried to recruit her, sworn to protect her if she left her masters in the Gemini Syndicate, but she hadn’t taken him up on the offer. He wasn’t going to stop trying, though. She knew things about the Syndicate that he wanted to know.
Needed to know if he was going to stop them from hurting people and ruining lives.
The water of the Grand Canal gleamed like diamonds as it lapped the walls below. The city reclined beneath a full moon like a satisfied lover, her languid form soft and beautiful. Behind him, the noise of a party in full swing drifted through the open terrace doors. He took a swallow of Scotch and let it burn its way down his throat.
He didn’t care for the people here tonight, but that was the job. Since BDI operative Brett Wheeler had failed at his quest to infiltrate the Syndicate’s human trafficking arm last year, they’d gone deeper underground. Tonight wasn’t about human trafficking, no matter how much Ian might have wished it.
One day he’d make it so hard for them to trade in human lives that they’d stop doing it, but this wasn’t the day. Not yet.
Tonight was about the global demand for illicit weapons. Ian was himself—the wealthy founder and CEO of Black Defense International. On the surface, a legit businessman.
Beneath the surface, he was a known trader in guns and a major backer of causes the real him despised. But it was the job, and Ian believed in getting the job done. Whatever it took, even if he sometimes felt like the job was crushing his very soul.
He adjusted the mask over his eyes. It was the barest of black silk eye-masks, but it did the job. He wasn’t precisely anonymous, but he also wasn’t as obvious as he would have been without it.
It was nearly Halloween, not Carnival, but the people attending tonight appreciated the opportunity to hide their faces. It made some of them bolder than usual.
Ian’s people circulated, working as serving staff or pretending to be guests, watching the crowd and making careful notes of any conversations or interactions that needed to be examined later. Unless something needed his immediate attention, they had it under control.
As if on cue, Tyler Scott strode outside holding a tray. “May I offer you an appetizer, sir?” he asked, sticking to his waiter persona for the night.
“No, thanks.” There was no one on the terrace but the two of them at the moment. “How’s it going in there?”
Ty lowered his voice. “You’ve got scumbags eating your food and drinking your liquor, but other than that, I’d say it’s okay.”
Ian snorted. “Part of the job, my man.”
“I know, but I still don’t like it.”
Ian swirled the Scotch. “It’s not the Marine Corp, is it?”
Ty shook his head. “Not in the least.”
“You regret leaving?”
“No. It was time. I’m proud of being a Marine, but this feels bigger. Not more important, but different.”
“Understand.”
Ty gazed into the distance. “Do you think we ever learn to forgive ourselves for our mistakes? Or are we doomed to keep replaying them over and over?”
Ian considered the question. It was something he grappled with often. “I think it’s possible. But not always. Some things stay in the back of your mind forever. You learn to live with it, but you don’t get over it. You don’t forget.”
Ty nodded and hefted his tray again. “Sure you don’t want an appetizer? I hear they’re fucking delicious. This is Italy, after all.”
Ian laughed. “Okay, sure, when you put it that way.”
Ty strode inside again and Ian popped the small tart into his mouth before washing it down with Scotch. It was probably time to mingle, but before he turned to go, a gondola caught his attention. It glided across the canal toward his palazzo, cutting through the water with purpose. The gondolier stood on the rear of the craft, dipping and swirling his oar in that magical dance with the water that only seemed to happen in Venice.
A woman sat in the middle of the gondola, back straight. He could tell it was a woman because of the way she held herself. She was covered in a cloak that hid her defining features, but then she lifted her gaze and her hood fell back, revealing an ornate mask that obscured most of her face.
A late comer to his little party, then. Perhaps the wife or mistress of one of the powerful men who’d gathered here tonight.
Or, hell, perhaps she was the wife or mistress of one of the powerful women. There were a few, though they weren’t as numerous as the men. Ian watched the craft glide up to the small inlet beside the palazzo, and then he heard the muted sounds of voices as the woman disembarked.
He finished the Scotch and turned to stride inside again. The woman didn’t matter. His mission tonight did.
Ian entered the palazzo with its soaring, vaulted ceilings painted with Renaissance frescoes that never ceased to delight him. Sparkling Murano glass chandeliers reflected the light off gilded surfaces, illuminating bodies dressed in silk and fine-spun wool. No one had worn a mummy costume or arrived as a witch, but elaborate masks in the Venetian style decorated many of the faces. Some wore silk masks like he did, but most took their opportunities to sport the custom paper mâché beauties that Venice was known for.
Where else could you do such a thing?
Ian worked his way through the crowd, chatting amiably with people who supplied weapons to terror groups and didn’t blink at genocide so long as they weren’t included, and felt his insides grinding with anger. The CIA would make sure the weapons didn’t fall into the worst hands, and perhaps take down some of the middle men while they were at it, but there would always be guns that slipped through the cracks.
Always guns, always deaths. It couldn’t be stopped completely.
The woman he’d seen stepping onto the dock a few minutes ago entered the room. He knew it was her from the mask. She’d shed the cloak, and her body was encased in a form-fitting white sequined dress that covered her from neck to mid-thigh. Her legs were long and lean, and she wore heels that gave her a good three inches of height. Her hair was dark, falling in a sleek waterfall over her shoulders.
A hush descended for a moment as men and women alike sized her up. She surveyed the crowd like a queen, and he felt a flicker of interest stir deep inside. It stunned him, that flicker, because he hadn’t felt it in a long time.
Except for the times he’d encountered Natasha.
The woman tossed her hair and lifted her chin as she sauntered into the room. The crowd parted like the Red Sea for Moses. A buzz started in the back of Ian’s brain as he watched her progress and the room’s reaction. It worked its electric path through him, raising all his senses into high alert.
Would Natasha come here so blatantly, exposing herself to scrutiny? To discovery?
Except it wasn’t blatant, was it? She wore a mask and her arms were covered to her wrists, which meant there was no mermaid tattoo to give her away. She could literally be anyone. Or she could be Natasha, here to assassinate someone. Or just to taunt him with her presence.