TWENTY (II)
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The building rose from the cobbled ground like a behemoth of shining glass, spires and intricate stone carvings. A dark red carpet appeared from its entryway, rolled out all the way to the edge of the canal. The straight line of the carpet was broke only by a bevy of photographers, who vied for the attention of various profiles who posed before a wallpaper of various logos.
Gavin climbed out of the water taxi, while Quinn paid the driver. They'd luckily fetched a water taxi which edged toward upper-class, as it blended in among the other private boats whose owners were attending the gala of Mr. Fabio Ricci. Slowly, they eased toward the entrance, shuffling in with the other guests. As they neared the entryway, Quinn felt her heartbeat increasing to an almost hummingbird-like frequency.
Breath caught in her throat, Quinn watched as the guards by the entryway to the gala peered at their tickets. With a curt nod not even a second later, they were ushered inside. The glitz and glamour continued inside of the grand building, the red carpet guiding them further into the belly of the elegant beast. Tons of guests milled around, carrying flutes of champagne of dainty canapés, satin skirts swishing past the shining floors.
There were at least three larger-than-life chandeliers dripping with shine from the ceiling, with crystals casting light across the cavernous roof. Barely — just barely — Quinn could see the intricate paintings detailing the roof of the gala hall.
"Bloody hell," muttered Quinn, tone low. "It's even ... fancier than I'd imagined."
Gavin glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, "Never been to a gala before?"
Quinn scowled at him, "You —" she glanced around, lowered her tone," — you special agents."
The emphasis on special was enough to clue Gavin in on the fact that it'd been less of a statement and more of an insult to his character and choice of profession. Taking the snide comment in stride, Gavin straightened up and offered his arm to Quinn.
Raising her brow, Quinn eyed his offered arm.
"We are married, after all." A rare grin breezed past Gavin's face, one that stunned Quinn to the extent that she rocked forward on her heels, grasping his arm lightly. They strode forward as a unit, eyes scouting the elegant guests floating past.
Quinn had to force a steely posture to keep her head from whiplashing everytime she thought she'd spotted Fabio Ricci. Instead, she had to paste an artificial smile across her face as people glanced at the two of them, inclining their heads in greeting.
They strode past the band, whose light, strumming music floated across the entire ballroom. Apologies fell out of their mouths as they brushed past several more of the guests. Quinn turned her head, let her eyes roam the cavernous room once more.
"We'll never find him like this," came her analysis, " — it'd be better to find higher ground."
Gavin had craned his neck, eyes fastened in the opposite direction from where Quinn had been looking.
"I don't think we need to search for him."
As if on queue, the Also sprach Zarathustra by Richard Strauss started echoing through the room, although not courtesy of the band. Instead, hidden speakers started belting out the familiar chords, to which Quinn listened with half an ear. Instead, she noted how the lights of the chandeliers dimmed, before a spotlight was turned on, a circle of light beaming down onto a set of sweeping marble stairs. The stairs ended in a flat, marble-floored balcony, before splitting up in two different sets of smaller stairs who led down to the floor on which the guests were mingling. However, Quinn's eyes were no longer on the stairs themselves.
A man had appeared atop the stairs, a hand raised at the crowd. Right as the music picked up tempo, he started down the red carpet trailing the steps, waving to the crowd.
Gavin leaned down, breath whispering across Quinn's ear: "Want to bet that's Fabio Ricci?"
Quinn shook her head, almost imperceptibly. If the man strolling down the extravagant stairs to Strauss' composition was anyone but the host, she'd be infinitely surprised.
The man took the last few steps, the music crescendoing then silencing as he lowered his hands, an almost feral grin adorning his face. In the harsh light of the spotlight, he looked almost impossibly plastic — a bright tint to his face gave off an unrealistic sheen, while his skin was uncomfortably stretched across his face.
He wore a basic, black suit, though his tie was a deep red. As the music died down, a servant clad in muted colors rushed forward to deliver a microphone to his hands.
"Welcome, welcome." He smiled again, showing off impossibly straight teeth, " — my name is Mr. Ricci, your host."
A polite clap rung out across the room, a startling difference to the dramatics previously illustrated by the host in question.
"Not only do I wish to welcome you, but encourage you to contribute with a friendly donation to the various charities this gala benefits — "
Quinn listened semi-attentively, eyes shifting to the row of people at the foot of the stairs, all clad in dark suits, hands folded across their chests. She'd bet her right arm they were all wearing various holsters, stuffed with weapons or knives. From what Quinn had gleaned during research — and from what Signore Castiglione had said, if presumed true — Ricci was not a man who would voluntarily step outside without ample protection.
Ample protection, indeed. Quinn counted at least a dozen people huddled by the bottom of the grand stairs, whose dark eyes shifted across the crowd as if any of the guests was about to toss a flaming canapé at their boss.
As none of the guests seemed inclined to do so, Ricci finished his speech to the tune of a hundred manicured hands clapping gallantly, before weaving his way down the stairs, his entourage trailing behind him. Quinn itched to move forward, but held herself back.
"What do you suggest, primary analyst?" Came Gavin's low question, whispered right by Quinn's ear. She swallowed heavily, eyes touring the room once more before returning to Ricci.
He's the best protected man in here, as the spotlight is on him. He'll be making his rounds to various of the bigger donors, pleading his cause, while his entourage trails behind him. He will most likely only speak to the quote-unquote bigger fish in here, and pay anyone else little attention. However, as Signore Castiglione is his supposed acquaintance ... he will know something is up as we're obviously not the couple he knows. As such, he might call the guards on us — or give us a moment alone.
Locke merely watched as the cogs in Quinn's head turned, interest drawn by the sharp, calculating look which had settled upon her face. He let his eyes linger for seconds only, before shifting them away once more.
"We will become wealthy donors, Locke," started Quinn semi-confidently, watching Ricci bend to kiss a fancily coiffured woman's hand, diamonds sparkling, " — and speak directly to him."
Gavin quirked a brow, "You don't think he will suspect we're not Mr. and Mrs. Castiglione?"
"Oh, he will certainly notice it immediately. I'm counting on it." Quinn looked up at Gavin, hand tightening around his arm, " — he'll either call his dogs on us, or give us a moment alone as he won't wish to discuss sensitive economical matters in front of his security."
Locke watched her closely, "They're his security. You don't think they already know what he's up to?"
Quinn's eyes tracked Ricci, mouth moving rapidly as she responded to Gavin: "They might. However, Ricci won't know why we're here in Castiglione's stead. As we present him with the opportunity of new developments he's unaware of, he will be unwilling to involve anyone else as he is not in control of the flow of information."
Bloody hell, Tibble. Locke's eyes grazed Quinn's side profile. Fucking O'Reilly is a bloody pro.
"What's to say he still won't arrest us on the spot, as we're impersonating his dear friend?"
"Simple," said Quinn, eyes fierce, "We'll frame it in such a way that Castiglione's fate appears to be in jeopardy, if he is unwilling to believe we are Castiglione's messengers. We have his tickets, after all." Quinn shrugged, eyes pausing longingly on a passing tray of champagne-filled glasses.
"Besides," Quinn added, turning to face Gavin head-on. They stood eye to eye thanks to Quinn's heels, faces level, " — aren't you supposed to be our insurance?"
Taken aback by Quinn's sudden brashness, Gavin was rendered mute as she started toward Mr. Ricci. He could only follow the click of her heels as she paved a direct path through the glittering crowd, heading right toward Fabio Ricci and his gaggle of adoring followers, which had grown steadily since he descended the grand stairs.
However, not even the group of fluttering fans could deter Quinn O'Reilly from her straight path to Mr. Ricci. Even the man himself looked up, eyes catching on the woman in the silky black dress who speared right for him.
Noting this, Gavin sped up, appearing shoulder-to-shoulder beside Quinn. O'Reilly herself came to a slow stop right in front of Mr. Ricci, eyelids fluttering semi-convincingly.
Bloody hell, Gavin thought.
Oh, mother of matter, help make me convincing, Quinn thought as doubts crept in.
She was no swaggering special agent. She couldn't do this. She was nothing but a paper-pusher, after all — an analyst had no place in the field. Not like this. Quinn tensed up, thoughts running rampant.
Gavin glanced Quinn's way, saw the rigid set of her shoulders, the brief glimpse of panic clouding her eyes, and made the decision for her. Locke lifted his other hand, placed it lightly atop the one gripping his arm like a vice. The brief contact made Quinn look up, and their eyes met for one split second as Locke nodded, then turned to Mr. Ricci.
"And who is this lovely vision before me?" asked Mr. Ricci, straightening up. Gavin was the one to smile easily, glancing at Fabio.
"Mr. and Mrs. Castiglione," said Gavin easily, noted the flicker in Ricci's eyes, " — nice to see you again, Fabio."
"Signore," started Fabio. His eyes were hard, voice hardening into steel, " — how different you look. Tell me — you didn't happen upon the serum for eternal youth, did you?"
"Just a new face cream," replied Gavin, well aware he lacked the 20 - 30 years that the real Signore Castiglione had on him.
At Gavin's words, Mr. Ricci's eyes shot to his security, who had fanned out in a semi-circle around him.
"You do not look like yourself, Castiglione. Is something the matter?"
"In fact, it is," replied Gavin easily, already aware of the security's shifting pattern of movement, " — something of the utmost urgency."
Fabio looked around, saw that some of his adoring fans looked questioningly to him. He eased the charming smile back on his face, waved off their suspicions. Lilting Italian flowed out of his mouth as he beckoned them to leave him alone, evident by the way they begrudgingly trudged away from him.
"Seems we must speak in private, Signore." Mr. Ricci's eyes then slid to Quinn's, grazing her figure, " — I am certain the Signorina would not wish to be left alone, would she?"
Quinn bravely met his sharp look. She squared her shoulders, then shook her head.
"I believe I am to accompany my Signore."
Fabio's nostrils flared, the only indicator of his annoyance.
"Very well. My colleagues will show us the way."
His beefy security muscled past us, one brushing right by Quinn, allowing her to feel the sharp edge of a holster. Swallowing heavily, Quinn forced a semblance of calm into her now racing heart.
This is fine. This is absolutely fine. Davidson is perched on a rooftop a block away, in case anything goes completely bloody wrong. But it shouldn't. Right?
Quinn looked at Gavin, whose face remained impassive as they followed Mr. Ricci. They slipped through the crowd easily, the security forming a veritable shield surrounding them as the guests parted smoothly.
They neared a towering double-door of detailed oak, the entourage slowing briefly as the security guy in the front grasped the handles, heaving the big doors open. Quinn, Gavin, Signore Ricci and at least a dozen armed security guys passed through.
The doors swung shut behind them, the sound definite. For better or worse, they were locked inside.
"Now — " A dangerous smile curved Ricci's lips as he smiled, loosening his tie, "I am a firm believer in love. Lovers should remain together, no?"
No one responded. Quinn's eyes flicked around the room, noted the dusty furnishings and pale tapestry. There was only one window, but it was covered with a heavy set of drapes. The only light came from the weak lamps fastened in the walls, whose glow served only to discern some of the deeper shadows haunting the grand room.
"However — liars should not." Ricci's voice was like ice, "Therefore, I believe it would be best to separate the Signore and Signorina Castiglione."
Unnaturally straight teeth flashed as Ricci grinned, then barked an order in Italian to his henchmen. At once, the one nearest Quinn grasped her arms roughly, before she felt the cold barrel of a gun pressed against her temple.
Locke managed only half a step before the gun cocked, and his fist clenched as he forced himself to remain still, eyes stormy. Quinn gulped, felt her skin shift beneath the unrelenting pressure of a gun into the side of her temple. She was all too aware of the power that lay within its mechanism — and had much too good a fantasy to keep herself from imagining what her brain would look like, splattered across the walls of that very room.
Her eyes flicked to Gavin again, willing herself to let some backbone keep her rigid and straight, to keep from imagining herself safe and at home in London, hunched over a desk.
For better or worse, you're here now. It's time to stop cowering, Quinn. It's time to fight back.
The shift in her stance was evident, not that she could act on it. Not yet. She met Gavin's hard eyes, saw his knuckles whiten as his fist clenched harder, muscles twitching. She was unaware of it, but there was a cold, hard fury burning within him — as well as the lure of the gun he'd stashed in his ankle holster.
Quinn closed her eyes for seconds only, willing some strength into her voice.
"Signore Ricci —" Quinn started, finding solace in the fact that her voice did not shake despite the weapon someone was pressing halfway into her prefrontal cortex, " — if you hurt any of us, Signore Castiglione will feel the repercussions. You best believe that."
Ricci's eyes narrowed, turning into slits as he watched Quinn.
"Who do you think you are — coming to my gala, as imposters, threatening me and those I know?" He scoffed, " — you are lucky to not be shot down right as you stand, Signorina."
"Castiglione sent us," started Quinn, voice finding the right footing as her brain caught up, cogs whirring as logic worked at an almost relativistic speed, finding the right arguments, " — he wanted us to warn you."
Ricci's brow quirked, "Of what? Yourself?"
"Castiglione did not dare show his face here tonight, fearing it." Quinn lifted a brow, "We have his tickets to prove it. Check the Signore's pockets."
Ricci looked at Quinn, skeptical, but finally he nodded to one of the guards. A brief frisk of Locke's chest pockets unveiled the two tickets.
"How am I to know you did not steal this off Castiglione's cold, dead body?" Ricci's eyes hardened.
Think, Quinn. What does Castiglione have that he wishes to keep safe, above else? Something he would move heaven and earth to keep from harm?
"You don't," Quinn said simply, mouth dry as she felt the barrel press harder into her temple, " — but he wanted to keep himself safe. His family, safe."
At the mention of Castiglione's family, the doubt froze on Ricci's face. Signore Ricci remained silent for mere moments, before he nodded reluctantly.
"Were you in contact with Castiglione personally?"
Inquiring whether I was trusted enough to visit him in person, at a listed address that was no ghost font. Smart, Ricci.
"I was," said Quinn.
Ricci's eyes narrowed, "Where?"
Quinn rattled off the address like an overconfident 12-year old at a spelling bee, but was still happy her voice had not cracked even though the pronunciation had been atrocious.
Nodding slowly, Ricci eyed her closely once more.
"Very well, Signorina. It seems we must speak."
Gesturing to the door at the other end of the room, Ricci inclined his head.
"Follow me. Although .. —" Ricci turned to Gavin, " — I do believe it is best if the Signore stays here."
Locke looked to Quinn, slowly shaking his head. Quinn met his eyes with a long, hard stare — then mouthed a silent apology, turning to Ricci. Locke suppressed a sigh, briefly closing his eyes as he realized what Quinn meant to do. This was a new sensation, one he had never quite understood — worry.
Fucking O'Reilly. Don't go get yourself bloody killed.
The gun remained pressed to her head, but with the addition of having a hand forcefully shove her after Ricci. Quinn didn't look at Gavin — couldn't look at Gavin — as she was led away from the room at gunpoint, separated from the special agent sent to safeguard her.
Well, Chief Tibble. If only you could see me now.
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a/n: hello all of you lovelies! from now on, updates to this book happen on the following days: wednesdays and sundays. that's the dealio :) i might update between those days, but expect updates on those days. i really feel like i'm on a roll with plot-planning atm, which i hope to translate into actual writing as i sit down throughout the month to grind out chapters, which, hopefully you'll enjoy and vote and read and comment on which in turn, makes me delighted :)
questions of the chapter:
1. quinn + gavin separated ... what will happen now?
2. will mr. ricci + quinn reach an agreement? will a fight break out?
3. is davidson on standby? will he help?
4. what do we think mr. ricci has to say about the specific set of transactions from the accounts in venice? think they will lead to anyone familiar?
as always,
xo, cleo