Bruno just stared at him. “Little ones,” he repeated. “You mean . . . you mean . . . oh, Jesus, don’t tell me you’ve made more of the—”
“Yes!” He beamed. “A boy and a girl. Twenty months old. Their test scores are off the charts. More promising than their predecessors, even you, Bruno, but don’t be jealous! Hobart, hook up to the Pod Fourteen-Twenty-two webcam and show Bruno his little siblings. I can hardly wait to start programming, but DeepWeave prelim begins at twenty-four months. I’ve discovered that beginning earlier causes . . . well, let us just say the results have proven to be unfortunate. One simply must be patient.”
Hobart clicked onto the pad. He held it in front of Bruno’s face.
He saw a bright, colorful room, like any day care center, full of toys. Two children played there, dressed in identical blue smocks. The boy, racing around on a toy motorcycle, looked like his own baby picture. The girl, playing a xylophone, looked like his mother. His throat ached. His numbed hands clenched against his bonds. “She knew, right?” he asked. “Mamma found out about you messing with helpless kids. She knew you were growing her embryos in vitro. She was trying to stop you. That was what she was doing when she sent me away. That was the evidence she was gathering against you.”
King looked wistful. “I gave her the option of joining me. Once I realized the potential in our genetic combination, I wanted to continue the classic, old-fashioned way.” He leered. “She was lovely, after all.”
“Don’t go there, ever, unless you want me to vomit on you.”
King’s brows snapped together. “Magda was limited, though. Like you. I wanted to create supremely realized human beings, and she wanted to stop me. I did not see it coming, when she started gathering information on me through Rudy. I wouldn’t have thought she’d have the stomach to get so close to such a brutal thug. But she managed it.”
“I don’t want to hear your comments,” Bruno said.
“She was sneaky,” King mused. “And he was stupid. Never even noticed her following him, documenting his activities. Not until the very end. At the time, Rudy was on loan to me from Michael Ranieri, helping with the disposal of culled trainees and other details of grunt work. It’s been years since I’ve had to use those thick-necked criminals, thank God. I apologize for robbing you of your mother so young. I would not have done it if it hadn’t been absolutely necessary. Such a blow.”
“You can shove your apology up your ass,” Bruno said.
King shook his head sadly. “Such potential.”
Bruno had to look away. He couldn’t let himself be taunted into a screaming freak-out. That served no purpose. All he could do for himself right now was gather more information. Even if he choked on it.
“One thing you haven’t told me,” he said. “One very important detail. What the fuck do you want with me?”
“Well, I’m afraid you do have to die,” King said, with an apologetic air. “You’re past saving, no chance of reprogramming at your advanced age, and even though you never did find your mother’s evidence, you know too much to run around loose. I was so disappointed about that.”
“About what?”
“That you didn’t find the jewelry box. I wanted to recover it. It annoys me that there is information that could be inconvenient for me, floating around out there somewhere. That was one of the reasons I let you live so long. So you could solve that mystery for me, tie up that loose end.” He sighed. “But I’ll just have to let it go.”
Bruno stared at the guy. King wore a noble, martyred look.
“But before I dispose of you, I want input for my next generation of DeepWeave programming,” King went on. “The events of the past week have shown me the limits of my current programming. It’s frustrating, but I must be humble, learn from my mistakes. And you will help me.”
“Humble? You.” Bruno grunted. “Right.”
“Yes, Bruno. It baffles me that you, in spite of your disadvantages, in spite of your deprived upbringing, completely lacking in intellectual stimulation, you have come out ahead of my superbly trained operatives in every single encounter. Even your genetic siblings.”
“What if I did? You got me now, right? Aren’t you satisfied?”
“It’s not that,” King said. “Don’t trivialize. My operatives are missing a crucial component that gives you some mysterious edge. When I understand what that component is, I’ll synthesize it. It’s just a matter of creating conditions, be they environmental, chemical, what have you. I’m an artist, you see, and I will not rest until my technique is perfect.”
Bruno stared into the guy’s eyes. Bottomless pools of madness. King was looking for a golden egg, and Bruno was the unlucky magic goose laid out on the slab. “I hate to break it to you, but I don’t think it’s something you can synthesize,” he said. “You’re talking about intangibles.”
“Nonsense,” King said. “An intangible is simply a thing that has not yet been adequately understood. I assume it has to do with human connection, relationships. I’ve already noted that operatives who bond with their podmates are more successful on every level. And I’ve created the conditions for passionate love. My operatives love me to distraction.”
Bruno looked at the blank, slavish hunger in King’s creatures’ eyes. “That’s not love,” he said quietly.
“You think you know what love is?” King laughed. “That’s funny. Love can be a strength or a weakness, depending on how the chips fall. Like Magda. She did superhuman things for you and for her unborn children. But you were her weakness, Bruno. I could have controlled her easily with you, if the Ranieris hadn’t started throwing their weight around. And Lily is your weakness, isn’t that right? Would you be here, facing certain death, if not for her?”
Blood drained out ohis head, leaving him dizzy and faint. “Where is she?” he asked. “What have you done to her?”
King patted his cheek again. “I’m afraid you’re in for a shock.”
Part of him wanted to howl with laughter. As if anything could shock him now. The rest of him was frozen in fear for the one shock he could not face. “Wh-what?” he croaked.
The door opened. A young woman burst into the room. Her excited babble didn’t penetrate. Then he saw the look on King’s face. It suddenly occurred to him that anything that could wipe that smile off that asshole’s face was something he was interested in hearing.
“. . . at the airport,” she was saying. “They picked her up at the Newark airport, and they’re headed to Gaetano Ranieri’s house, right now! I checked the tags, and Michael Ranieri is there! Do you want me to warn him to get away?”
King stared into empty space for a moment. “No,” he said.
The young woman exchanged startled glances with the guy who did the computer stuff.
“No?” she repeated.
“No. We’re streamlining. My partnership with the Ranieris has ended, as of this moment. I no longer need them. Zoe, my bloodthirsty love—are you up to bringing a turf war to Gaetano Ranieri’s door, while Rosa Ranieri and the McCloud brothers are there?”
Bruno’s guts flopped. The woman’s sunken eyes lit with joy. “You want all of them dead?”
“All,” King purred. “Mow them down. I want carnage. Blood everywhere. But move fast. This is a fleeting opportunity. When you come back . . .” He gave her a seductive smile. “We will dine together.”
Her face turned an unwholesome blotched red, eyelids twitching. “Yes. Yes, I’m on it.” She scrambled for the door.
Melanie and Hobart turned to King as the door clicked shut behind her, their faces indignant and betrayed.
The young man burst out, “Sir, excuse me for arguing, but are you sure Zoe is right for this assignment? Alone? The McClouds are extremely competent, and I’m not sure that she’s capable of—”
“Trust me, Hobart. I’m streamlining in more ways than one.” He gave his minion a pat on the back. “Zoe’s usefulness has come to an end. That’s why I’m not sending backup. When she fulfils it . . .” He squeezed the young man’s shoulder, with a conspiratorial smile.
Hobart tentatively smiled back. “Ah, yes, I see. Of course.”
“Of course.” Then he leaned forward and murmured a phrase into Hobart’s ear in a foreign language that Bruno could not catch.
Hobart seemed to grow three inches taller, his eyes dilated, and his cheeks flushed, as Zoe’s had done. He started to pant. Disgusting.
“Thank you,” Hobart said, his voice choked with emotion.
Bruno’s hands jerked against the cuffs. Every significant piece of his life was being destroyed. Kev, Zia Rosa, Lily. Even Sean McCloud.
King noticed him again. “Oh, you’re upset? About your great-aunt, your adopted brother? Don’t worry,” he coaxed, patting Bruno’s shoulder. “It’s not like you’ll be needing them anymore.”
Bruno twisted to sink his teeth into the back of King’s hand.
A hoarse shriek jerked out of King’s throat. A fist came flying, connected with Bruno’s face. His chair tipped, toppled. He careened in a slow arch, slammed to the ground, heacracking against cold tile. The world went wonky. A booted foot slammed into his thigh, then his gut . . . and the world swung and slid, pulling against his bonds as he slid this way and that. They were tilting the chair up, hoisting him into place.
King stood before him, whacking his face. Blood flew from the guy’s fingertips. “Now where were we?” The mocking tone was gone. King was growling. “We were going to discuss your lady friend, right?”
Bruno cringed. He’d lost it. He’d mouthed off, and he was going to pay. Whatever this monster had in mind as punishment, it was going to be bad. He just hoped it wasn’t Lily who paid. Let it be him. Not her.
“There are some things that I think you might not know about your lover, Bruno,” King announced. “Most notably, the fact that she is one of my programmed operatives. One of the best, too.”
That phrase had no effect on Bruno. It bounced right off his skull like a hard object, leaving him dazed, thick-headed, confused. Bewildered.
“Huh?” he said, stupidly.
“Hobart, set the video to play, please,” King said. “Show him.”
31
K
ev killed the car engine with a jerk. “One more time, Zia, from the top. Keep the gun in your purse. Stick to the point. We talk about Bruno and the jewelry box. Only. Do not call Don Gaetano a pig. Do not call Costantina a whore. You go
t that straight?”
“But she is!” Zia protested.
“We don’t have time for this!” he flared. “This is about saving Bruno, OK? You care about him, right? So you will be
good!
”
Zia did the big hurt-eyes thing, and Kev turned away, drumming his fingers on the dash in a staccato tattoo. His feet twitched, and there was a stone-hard core of fear in his guts.
Petrie and Sean were quiet, but he could tell that Sean was trying not to give in to nervous laughter, his standard coping device. If Sean got the giggles, Kev was shooting his ass up, no mercy.
He flung the door open. “Let’s get this over with.”
They marched through a big landscaped garden in front of the ostentatious house, around a marble fountain surrounded by rosebushes. The fountain was silent and dry but for the dots of rain on the marble rim. At least it was gray. Sunshine would be an insult.
Once on the porch, they rang the bell. An insultingly long amount of time passed, during which they were assessed by whoever was studying the security cameras. One was pointed right at them, mounted under the cornice of the porch roof. The door opened. A burly, dark middle-aged man peered out.
“May I help you?” he asked.
Kev opened his mouth. Zia blared. “I come to see Don Gaetano.”
The man gazed at her blankly. “That would be my father,” he said. “I’m sorry, but he’s not well enough for visitors today.”
“He’s well enough to see me,” Zia Rosa informed him.
“Oh?” The guy’s eyes sharpened. “And you are?”
“I’m the woman he shoulda married,” Zia announced. “The one who shoulda been your mamma. Tell him that, Michael.”
The guy rocked back as if she’d hit him. The door slammed in their faces. Aw, shit. Great. “Zia,” Kev ground out. You promised.”
“I didn’t call no one a pig or a whore, did I?”
He didn’t have time to answer before the door jerked open again. This time a much older man stood there, a guy in his eighties. Thickset like his son, but balding, with pitted skin and heavy jowls. He peered through horn-rimmed glasses with a scowl that knit his bushy brows.
“Rosa,” he said. “It’s you.”
“
Ciao,
Gaetano.” Her voice rang out. “Nice to see you looking so fit.”
“You’ve looking well yourself, Rosa.”
An elderly woman, small and stringy thin with a pouffy coif of hair dyed white blond and lots of bling, appeared behind him. “Who on earth is . . . oh. It’s you. My God, Rosa. You got so big.”
“
Ciao,
Tittina,” Zia Rosa replied. “You shrunk.”
“Nobody calls me Tittina anymore,” the other woman said.
“Not for the last sixty years. I never liked it. I’m called Connie now.”
“Call yourself what you want,” Zia said. “I know who you are.”
“Zia,” Kev hissed. He gave her arm a warning squeeze.
“You haven’t introduced your friends, Rosa,” Don Gaetano said.
Zia Rosa flapped her hand in their direction. “The two blond ones are my nephews,” she said. “The other one is a friend.”
“So.” Michael gave them a smile. “What can we do for you folks?”
Zia Rosa ignored him. “I need to talk to you ’bout something important,” she said to Gaetano. She paused. “You gonna invite us in?”
Don Gaetano stepped back, with ill grace, and gestured for them to enter. Zia Rosa stepped into the towering foyer, which had a three-story ceiling with vast solarium windows and skylights on the top. From an iron brace about fifteen feet up, a huge wrought iron chandelier hung, full of electric candles, all of which blazed in the day’s gloom.
“Ehi.”
Zia Rosa stared up at the chandelier. “That’s Nonno’s
candeliera.
The one from the
salone
in the country house, back home.”
“It certainly is.” Costantina’s voice was triumphant. “Gaetano and I went to Brancaleone on vacation nine years ago. I brought it back.”
“Who said you could have it?” Zia Rosa demanded.
Costantina bristled. “Who said I couldn’t?”
“Zip it, goddamnit, Zia,” Kev hissed. “Focus!”
“Come into the
salone,
” Don Gaetano said, waving them into a lavish living room furnished in blazing white with touches of gold, bronze, and beige. Don Gaetano seated Zia Rosa at one end of a couch and looked at the rest of them. “Sit down, all of you,” he said, dropping into the chair nearest Zia Rosa. “Connie, could you get us some coffee? And some of your delicious
pitta ’nchiusa?
”
Costantina flounced out of the room, muttering to herself. Petrie declined to sit, situating himself behind the couch. Sean stood beside him. Kev checked out Michael Ranieri, who had also stayed on his feet. He stood behind his father, rocking on his heels, hands clasped behind him. No doubt fondling the pistol under his shirt, Kev figured. A fair enough guess, since he himself was doing the same thing.
“This ain’t a social call,>