Beneath the Skin

27 WHEN EVENING FALLS

ROME, ITALY

March 26

CURLED ON A CUSHIONED wrought-iron chair on her terrace, Renata basked in the moonlight. She drank in the night, the first breath of spring chilling her face. She imagined she tasted brine and surf-washed sand from the Mediterranean some thirty kilometers away.

Beyond her vined black railing, the city bustled in the gaily lit evening: beeping horns and screeching brakes; the high-pitched drone of scooters; voices lilting in laughter or spiked ire-sharp, or in greetings warm as a hug; the spicy odors of broiling shrimp, grilled garlic chicken, and baking pastries, saturating the air.

Renata sipped at her cup of espresso, dreaming.

A True Blood. And maybe a whispered bedtime tale come to life—a Fallen creawdwr. Ah, but if so, Dante Baptiste belonged to vampires as much as he did to the Fallen—more, given that his mother had been vampire. Renata held to the ancient matriarchal belief that a mother’s bloodline was the only lineage that mattered.

Giovanni padded onto the terrace, brushing both hands through his Sleep-wild burgundy hair. Dark whiskers shadowed his face. “Buona sera, bella,” he said, slouching into a red rose-patterned chair. He wore tight black slacks and a white A-shirt, his feet remained bare.

Renata smiled. “Just the person I wanted to see.”

Giovanni looked at her for a moment, then wagged his index finger. “I know that smile. You want something.” He slouched deeper into his chair. “I’m not ready for requests. I just got up.”

“Ragazzo pigro,” she teased. “You always say that.”

A smile twitched up one corner of Giovanni’s mouth. “True.”

Florentina, plump and pretty in her white-lace apron, her hair pulled into a neat, dark chocolate–colored bun, walked out onto the terrace. She nodded a greeting to Giovanni—ignoring, as usual, his smoldering smile—then gave her attention to Renata.

“Wine this evening, signora?”

“Sì, Florentina, grazie. Merlot for both of us. And bring me my phone as well.”

Nodding, the young mortal housemaid left the terrace for the kitchen.

A sour expression crossed Giovanni’s face and he waved a dismissive hand in Florentina’s direction. “She must be a lesbian.”

“Una lesbica? Because she’s immune to your charm? No, Vanni mio, she has a boyfriend she loves very much. Her good common sense has told her everything she needs to know about you.”

Giovanni now flapped a dismissive hand at Renata. “She knew what we were when you hired her.”

“Not that.” Renata laughed. “She knows how you play with … hearts.”

Giovanni snorted. “With hearts. Delicate phrasing, bella.”

Renata nestled her little white espresso cup into its rose-bordered saucer on the table. Rising to her feet, she stepped over to Giovanni and settled herself in his lap. Her knee-length blue toile dressing gown slid up to her thighs. She tipped his chin up with her index finger. The pout slipped away from his lips.

“Have you ever been to New Orleans, Giovanni?”

Amusement skipped like a stone across the surface of his hazel eyes. “No. But I have a feeling that will change soon.”

“The jet will be ready for you tonight. I want you to speak to Guy Mauvais, the lord of the head household in New Orleans, see what he knows about Dante Baptiste.”

“Ah.” Giovanni straightened in his chair without disturbing Renata. “To get a feeling for the True Blood in his hometown, speak to those who know him, sì?”

“And to meet Baptiste once he’s home again. I’ve made sure that he and his companions can travel unmolested,” Renata said. “But before I approach the Cercle, I need to verify Caterina’s statements. I don’t doubt she believes every single word that she’s told me. But …”

“But she’s mortal,” Giovanni finished for her, “and could be fooled by a True Blood with very little effort on his part, eh, bella?”

Renata sighed and trailed her fingers through her curls. “Sì, esattamente, caro mio. Given what Caterina told me about how Dante was tortured and twisted by mortal monsters …” She shook her head. “I need to be certain.”

“How much is this Mauvais to know?” Giovanni asked, twirling one of her dark ringlets around his finger.

“You can let it slip that Dante is True Blood, but say nothing about the other. Mauvais doesn’t need to know.”

Giovanni nodded, face thoughtful. “And what do I say to Baptiste?”

“Tell him the truth—that you are Caterina’s frère du coeur.”

Florentina walked out onto the terrace, two half-filled wineglasses and a slim ruby red cell phone on a handled wood tray. Renata caught the tantalizing smell of black cherries and plums drifting from the glasses.

“Magnifico,” Renata said, accepting a glass and her cell phone from the girl. Giovanni murmured his thanks.

Once Florentina had left the terrace, Renata said, “When evening falls in New Orleans, I will call Mauvais and let him know that you are on the way.”

“Buono.” Giovanni took a long swallow of wine. “I’ll get ready to go.”

Renata rested her hand against Giovanni’s cheek. Felt the scratch of his whiskers against her palm. “Grazie, caro mio. When I hear more from Caterina, I’ll pass it along.” Leaning in, she pressed her lips against his in a tender kiss. “Just one thing, Vanni mio …”

He looked at her through his lashes. “Sì, bella?”

“Make sure that Mauvais understands that Dante Baptiste is to be guarded.” She patted his cheek, allowing a wicked smile to play across her lips. “Oh, and be sure to shave. Those whiskers could be lethal.”