Chapter 10: The Perfect Bride

Raffaele was in his study with a glass of whisky and the lights off.

He looked up when she came in barefoot with the card held out in front of her.

"Fiammetta's coat had this sewn into the hem," Gemma said. "Suite 1104, Harbor Crest. She wrote *come when it's done*."

He took it, and turned it over.

His face did not change, but his hand did.

It closed on the card hard enough to bend it.

"She's in Florence."

"Then someone's using her handwriting in a hotel across town."

"It could be a trap."

"It could be," Gemma said. "Come with me or I go alone."

He looked at her for one long second.

Then he put down the glass and took a gun out of the drawer.

They went in the car with two men behind them, and nobody spoke.

The Harbor Crest was lit up and quiet at one in the morning.

A night manager saw Raffaele's face and let them up in the private elevator without a word.

The eleventh floor smelled of carpet cleaner.

At the end of the hall, a line of light showed under a door.

Raffaele pressed the card to the lock, and the lock opened.

The room was warm.

Music played from a speaker, low and slow, and candles had been lit on the table by the window.

A man sat on the sofa in his shirtsleeves, a glass of wine in his hand, a thin gold chain at his throat.

He was about thirty, and he did not look surprised.

Beside him, with her legs curled under her and a silk robe over her shoulders, sat Fiammetta.

She was twenty years old, and her honey hair was pinned up with a pearl comb.

She looked perfectly well.

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