When it was time, she boarded the train. But just as the train was getting ready to leave the station, she exited, limping as quickly as she could to the train that stood just across the platform. She climbed aboard and found a seat in a crowded second-class compartment, intent on pretending to be a hapless Anglophone tourist who had no idea how to use an automated ticket machine. When the conductor arrived, she played her part and paid for a ticket in cash.
As she endured the four-hour train ride to Vienna, she thought about her encounter with Borek. She thought about Father Kavanaugh quitting the Curia and returning to Florida. She wondered if his actions were a sign that he regretted what happened to William. Mostly, however, Raven meditated on her anger with the Curia and plotted revenge.
The shock of losing William was finally wearing off, and she was no longer content to accept her current fate with passivity.
The Curia had killed William by accident, allegedly. She didn’t remember everything that had transpired after the ambulance came to take William away. But she remembered the shock on everyone’s faces, including Father Kavanaugh’s. She remembered Father whispering to her that it shouldn’t have happened.
But they’d killed him. No matter their intentions, William was dead.
As she watched the scenery flash by her window, she thought about revenge. Her unguarded words to Borek played over and over in her mind. She wondered if she could travel to Rome and start a war.
Borek was right. It was far more likely that Aoibhe’s spies would find her first. Then she’d be dragged back to Florence to face God knew what.
If she wanted to start a war, she needed allies and a plan. She needed relics and weapons. It would cost a great deal of money to fund such an undertaking.
That’s when she remembered the bank. Sarah had told her to present the number stamped on the charm around her neck at the Trivium Bank in Geneva. She was pretty sure the Trivium was the bank William had mentioned.
If she could travel to Geneva, perhaps she could withdraw enough money to finance her revenge. Perhaps Borek would help her if she paid him enough.
Aoibhe had known to look for her in Geneva. That had been some time ago, however—before Borek visited Budapest and Prague. Hopefully any other spies she’d sent would have quit Geneva and begun looking for her elsewhere.
To Geneva she would go.
Chapter Sixty-One
RAVEN ARRIVED IN VIENNA, and after a short layover and a last-minute change from one train to another, she was bound for Geneva.
The trip from Vienna to Geneva was long. She spent the night on the train and arrived at the station just before seven o’clock the next morning. She secured a taxi and asked the driver to take her to the Trivium Bank. He gave her a strange look but pulled away immediately.
She slipped the necklace Sarah had given her over her head and looked at the number stamped on the charm. The numbers were very small.
She took a photo of the charm with her camera and then looped the necklace back over her head.
Using the photo application on her phone, she enlarged the image so the numbers were visible. She withdrew a piece of paper and a pen from her carry-on and quickly copied the digits.
Some time later, the taxi driver pulled up in front of an impressive building that sat behind a high wall. The bank was located on Rue des Alpes, near Lake Geneva.
“I can’t pull in.” The driver pointed to the enormous iron gates and the security guards posted on either side.
Raven thanked the driver and paid him, exiting the taxi.
She approached the gates, but the guards stopped her immediately.
“Bonjour,” she greeted them nervously. She handed one of them the piece of paper.
The guard indicated that she should wait, and he entered the guardhouse, leaving her with his companion. She watched as the first guard lifted a telephone and began speaking to someone.
In short order he returned, and one of his associates appeared on the other side of the iron gates.
The gates opened, and the associate, who was armed, addressed her in Italian. “This way, please.”
Raven shuffled behind him, following him to a large, metal door that led into the central stone building. The door swung open, and she followed the guard inside.
“Good morning.” An attractive woman wearing a white lab coat greeted Raven, once again speaking Italian. “Before we can admit you, we need to conduct a DNA test.”
Raven’s mouth dropped open. “DNA? Is that necessary? I gave you the number.”
“We need to know you are the person associated with the number.” The woman’s tone was firm.
“What about my passport?”
The woman’s forehead wrinkled, as if Raven was asking a very silly question.
“Will you take blood?” Raven asked, beginning to feel squeamish.
“Just a mouth swab.” The woman pointed to a small office and ushered Raven inside.
Raven sighed. She’d come this far. Presumably, she was safe inside the bank. At least for the present.
The woman snapped on a pair of latex gloves and opened a small kit while Raven sat in an armchair.
She was very tired. She hadn’t slept much on the train, fearful as she was of someone accosting her.
“Open,” the woman instructed.
Raven opened her mouth, and the woman scraped the inside of her cheek, placing the sample in a plastic tube. She sealed it, placed tape over the top of it and wrote something on the label.
“How long will it take?” Raven asked.
“Not long. Wait here.” The woman took off her gloves and placed them in a waste can. She took the tube and the kit and disappeared down the hall.
Raven leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes, just for a moment.
A throat cleared above her.
“Madame?”
Raven startled awake. “What is it? Who are you?”
She looked up into the face of an older man with neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper hair, who was wearing small, wire-rimmed spectacles and a very expensive-looking suit and tie.
He extended his hand. “Good morning, madame. Welcome to Trivium. I am Henri Marchand, the director.”
Raven shook his hand, still in a daze from having been fast asleep only a moment before.
“I’m sorry it took so long for me to greet you. Because it’s Sunday, I was not in the building when you arrived. And we had to confirm your identity. This way, please.” He waved his arm toward the corridor.
“What were you testing my DNA for?” Raven struggled to her feet.
“We were matching it against the sample your husband provided some time ago.” The director lifted her bag to his shoulder and paused as she got her bearings.
She leaned on her brace. “My husband?”
“You and he are our most important clients, and I do apologize for the invasive measures. But they are necessary, as I am sure you can appreciate.” He waited for her to enter the hall and followed her.
“I should mention immediately that the artwork your husband had transferred from your home has arrived. Everything is in excellent condition. We have an art conservation specialist on staff, and he matched the items with the inventory sent by your husband. It appears the entire collection has arrived safely.”
Henri smiled down at her. “Of course, with your expertise in art restoration, you will probably want to assess the condition of the collection yourself. Would you like to see it now?”
Raven stopped. She closed her eyes, more confused than she’d been in a long time. “When you say my husband, you mean William?”
“Of course, madame.”
“And when you say art collection, do you mean the pieces from Florence?”
“Yes, madame. As I said, everything appears in excellent condition, but of course we defer to yo
ur expertise.”
“You spoke to William?” she whispered.
The director pushed his glasses up his nose. “We have always spoken through his staff, which is why your presence here is a great honor. We’ve been expecting you.”
They continued walking down the hall.
“When did the art begin to arrive?”
“Two months ago. The last piece arrived yesterday. The shipment was divided up and sent via different routes for security reasons. Can I offer you breakfast or some sort of refreshment before we visit the collection?”
Raven stopped, the wheels of her mind turning over this new revelation. William had been murdered over two months ago, which meant Ambrogio and Lucia must have begun transferring the art collection to Geneva around that time.
Raven wondered if the Geneva protocol she’d heard William mention before his death included the evacuation of his artwork.
“Monsieur Marchand, I’ve been traveling for twenty-four hours. I need a shower and a change of clothes. Could some of your guards escort me to a hotel and escort me back?”
“Forgive me, madame. I’ll take you to the private apartments that have been prepared for you and your husband.” He led her down a side corridor to an elevator and promptly placed his hand flat on a fingerprint reader.
The reader glowed green, and the elevator opened.
He gestured for Raven to precede him into the elevator.
“William has an apartment here?”
“Indeed.” The director removed his spectacles and positioned his eye for a retinal scan. The scan glowed green and a keypad appeared below it. He pressed a series of numbers.
“But William never used the apartment?”
“No, madame. You are its first occupant.”
“How safe is the bank?”
Monsieur stood tall with pride. “Extremely safe, madame, and from all kinds of threats. Should you need to leave the bank, we can provide you with safe transport anywhere in the world.”
“I don’t believe it,” she muttered.
The director frowned but didn’t reply.
When the elevator doors opened, Raven found herself in front of a pair of tall, gilded doors. Once again, the director submitted scans of his palm and retina and used an additional code. The sound of something loud and metallic echoed in the vestibule. The director placed his hand on the doorknob and opened it.
Inside, Raven found an opulent sitting room, featuring blue carpet and gilded walls. The furniture was also gilded and upholstered in blue velvet. It was a room for a king.
“This is Simone.” The director motioned in the direction of a woman wearing a black uniform. “She will provide you with what you need.”
Henri transferred Raven’s bag from his shoulder to Simone. “If there’s anything I can do, please let me know. I can show you the inventory at your convenience. If you’d prefer to view it tomorrow, we can do so.”
Raven shook her head. “No, I’d like to see it today. Perhaps in a couple of hours.”
“Very good.” He smiled and retreated, closing the door behind him.
Raven heard the sound of a heavy lock snapping into place.
“This is the strangest bank I’ve ever visited.” She turned to take in her surroundings.
Given the thoroughness of Sarah and her network, Raven wasn’t surprised that William had taken other detailed measures to preserve his art collection and her safety. Clearly, the bank staff had no idea he was dead. She wasn’t about to tell them, for they might withdraw their protection.
She wondered what the staff knew about William and the world of vampyres. She wondered if the bank simply viewed him as a wealthy, eccentric client, or if they understood he had been the Prince of Florence.
“I can show you the other rooms, madame,” Simone’s voice intruded on Raven’s musings. “Shall I draw a bath?”
“Yes, please.”
“Shall I unpack for you?”
“No, that isn’t necessary.”
“Very good, madame.” Simone escorted her through a side door and into a large bedroom decorated in a similar fashion to the sitting room, except the velvet was red. A large canopied bed stood in the center of the room.
The room reminded Raven of the bedroom she’d shared with William in his villa.
Simone placed Raven’s bag on the bed and walked to one of the side walls, pushing a button to reveal a concealed door, which swung inward to a spacious marble bathroom.
“Your clothes have already been cleaned, pressed, and unpacked.” Simone moved to another wall and pressed another button. This time double doors opened.
“My clothes?” Raven tried very hard to hide her shock.
“Your husband’s things are over here.” Simone crossed to the other side of the room and opened the matching closet.
Raven stared after her.
Rows and rows of black shirts, trousers, and jackets hung neatly in the large closet. Rows and rows of black shoes rested below on a series of racks. It looked exactly like William’s closet in his bedroom in Florence.
“If there is anything you would like pressed or freshened up, please let me know. It can be done immediately.” Simone gave Raven a little smile and disappeared into the bathroom. The sound of running water echoed through the apartment.
Raven walked to William’s clothes and grabbed the first shirt she touched, tugging it carelessly from its hanger and pressing it against her nose. There was still a trace of his scent. She waded into the closet, disappearing into the shirts and inhaling deeply. Tears filled her eyes. She clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a sob.
By the time Simone returned, she was seated on the bed, one of William’s shirts lying next to her. She’d tucked several of his handkerchiefs into her bag.
They were small things, but they were all she had left of him.
Chapter Sixty-Two
“I TRUST BREAKFAST was to your satisfaction?” Monsieur Marchand smiled as he escorted Raven into an elevator in a remote area at the very rear of the bank.
“Yes, thank you. You’ve been very kind.” Raven toyed with the tie to her green wrap dress. She felt funny dressing up, but it was comforting to wear one of her favorite outfits. William had always praised it.
“The artwork is stored in a series of subterranean vaults. The vaults are controlled for light, temperature, and humidity. We used the Uffizi’s specifications, but everything can be adjusted.”
“And the inventory?” Raven followed the director out of the elevator once they’d reached the lowest level.
“I’ve prepared a paper copy for you.” The director repeated the security measures before entering a narrow, white-walled hall.
He performed the palm and retinal scan at the first door on his right.
When they entered the room, dim lighting shone from overhead. A desk and chair stood nearby, along with a leather folio.
“This is the inventory.” The director handed it to her. “It’s alphabetized by artist, and each work has a corresponding location. I can assist you in viewing the vaults. Or perhaps you’d rather proceed item by item?”
Raven leafed through the inventory to the letter B.
Botticelli—Illustrations of Dante’s Divine Comedy. Vault A9C.
“I’d like to see these first.” She pointed to the entry.
“Very good.”
Within a few minutes, they were inside one of the temperature-controlled vaults, and Monsieur Marchand was lifting a wooden box from a labeled shelf. He placed it on a nearby desk and gestured to Raven to take a seat behind it.
She put on a pair of white gloves he’d provided and carefully opened the box. There, in a series of folios, were the illustrations that had caused so much trouble; illustrations William had acquired from Botticelli centuries earlier, and that had somehow been stolen from him b
y Lorenzo, the lieutenant who’d betrayed him.
Raven leafed through the folios until she found the drawing of Dante and Beatrice in the sphere of Mercury. She removed it carefully.
It was so beautiful. So fragile.
“Assessing their condition may take time.” Raven spoke without lifting her head, hiding her emotions.
“Of course, madame. There is an intercom to your right. Please contact me if I may be of assistance.” The director left her in privacy.
She replaced the illustration in the box, closed it firmly, and removed her gloves. Leafing through the inventory, she discovered the prized Michelangelo on the list, along with Botticelli’s alternative version of Primavera. William had even arranged to have some of her own sketches transferred. It was a bittersweet revelation.
A tear streaked down her cheek.
She continued reading the inventory, so engrossed that some time later she barely heard the door open and close.
Raven twisted away from the door, clutching the inventory to her chest.
“I need more time,” she faltered.
“More time?” a familiar voice asked.
“Yes.” Raven held the inventory more tightly.
“Cassita,” the voice whispered.
Chapter Sixty-Three
NEXT TO THE DOOR stood a man dressed in black.
His hair was fair and tinged with gray at the temples. Laugh lines radiated from his eyes. A scar marred his chin.
His eyes were familiar—a light and beautiful gray—and so was his voice.
“Cassita.” He smiled, like the shining of the sun, and held out his arms.
The pages of the inventory fluttered to the floor. Raven shrieked and put the desk between them. “How did you get in here?”
“It’s me,” he said, his smile vanishing. “It’s William.”
“William is dead.”
“Look at me. I am not dead.” The man began unbuttoning his dress shirt.
“Stop!” she cried. “What are you doing?”