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"Often times, a person will think they know you by piecing together tiny facts and arranging those pieces into a puzzle that makes sense to them. If we don't know ourselves very well, we'll mistakenly believe them, and drift toward where they tell us to swim, only to drown in our own confusion." --Victoria Erikson
.
Volterra glitters like a crown of stone above the valley. A city on a hill, in all senses of the phrase.
The Associated State of Volterra is renowned, among many others things, for its intensive security. Surrounded by massive walls, there are only five public entrances, all with rigorous security checkpoints that can take up to five hours to pass through even with the proper visas. This has drawn criticism in the past, especially with the popularity of the St. Marcus Day Festival, but as a sovereign, independent nation associated with Italy, the city is free to govern itself as it sees fit, to establish its own laws, extradition processes, defense, and entry procedures.
This is both a very good and very bad thing for Takara Lee.
Bad, because intense security makes it damn hard to enter with her fabricated documents. Good, because no one expects an assassination in the safest city in the world.
Takara slips into the crowd of festival-goers and lets it pull her along like the tide. She pauses to purchase a red cloak and claps it at the base of her neck, to blend into the sea of crimson washing through the winding alleyways and spilling into quaint shops and gardens and, eventually, leading to the Palazzo dei Priori. The heart of Volterra. The clock tower tolls noon over the cheerful music and laughter. Takara focuses on the gleaming castle, sunlight reflecting off its white towers.
Volterra is widely acclaimed for its zero crime since 1497. A pity that she’s about to break that. For Aro Turi, at least.
The weight of a mission resting on her shoulders is familiar. Comforting. Maybe under different circumstances, she would stop to take her time, to revel in the festivities of St. Marcus Day, to enjoy the beautiful city steeped in history and prestige.
“Un aranciata rossa?”
“Sì, grazie.” She takes the drink with a dazzling smile, and pulls out her phone to snap a photo of the blood orange glowing in the sunlight. Behind it, a tall figure stands draped in shadows. Marcus Turi. Joint owner of Eclipse Holdings, and the most elusive of his brothers. His portfolio is almost entirely empty.
Takara posts the photo to Instagram as she also walks over to the shade. Still scrolling on her phone, her foot catches on a crack in the street and she goes stumbling forward into Marcus. Her drink flies from her hand and spills all over him.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry!”
“It’s quite alright.” Marcus’ voice, just barely touched by an accent, is as smooth and sweet as warm honey. “This wouldn’t be the worst thing spilled on me.”
As far as double entendres go, that isn’t the worst she’s heard. Takara makes a vague gesture. “Can I help you with--”
Marcus agrees. That certainly makes things easier. As she blots at the stain, her eyes flick up briefly at him. He’s watching her intently, and Takara breaks eye contact at once, forcing a blush to rise to her cheeks. All the while, her mind races. His stance -- the looseness and casualness of it, countered by the perspicacity in his eyes. A panther waiting to strike.
He’s going to be a fucking problem.
Shit.
“Thank you,” he says, when Takara steps back. The tiny recording device is now attached to his clothes, invisible unless you’re looking for it. There’s two quiet beeps from microscopic, flesh-colored comm hidden in her ear canal: Central Command has seen the Instagram post, and confirmed the placement of the microphone.
Step one, check.
Marcus holds out a hand. But instead of a handshake, he bows at the waist to press his lips to her knuckles. “I am Marcus. It is a pleasure to meet you.”
“Himari Lee. It’s nice to meet you, too.” She lets her hand linger in Marcus’ before it falls back by her side. “I really am sorry. What can I do to make it up to you?”
“Nothing at all. This is hardly anything to worry about.”
“I insist.”
“Well,” Marcus says, “if you are truly insistent--”
“I am.”
“--then may I have the pleasure of your company for lunch?”
He sounds hopeful -- strangely so for someone who just had a drink spilled all over him -- but Takara plays along, crossing her arms and swiveling back and forth as she taps her chin playfully. “Well, if you insist--”
“I do.”
“--then yes.” She smiles. “I’ll have lunch with you.”
He returns her smile with one of his own. It might take her breath away, if she weren’t used to this song and dance: Marcus offers his elbow, like an old-fashioned suitor, and Takara giggles and accepts it. People are easy to read. They broadcast everything, their dreams, their fears, their desires. You can mold yourself into whoever they want you to be. It’s as easy as breathing.
Marcus shows her to a restaurant off the main street. The waiter recognizes him immediately and ushers the two of them to the private balcony overlooking the festivities. “Is this your first time in Volterra?” Marcus wonders, as they peruse the menus. It’s a special menu today, with delicacies and traditional foods in honor of St. Marcus Day.
“My second. I’ve visited once before, for my 18th birthday.” The best lies have a hint of truth. “It’s a beautiful city.”
The waiter returns to take their orders and pour them each a glass of wine.
“So the legend is true,” Takara muses, taking a sip. “On March 19th, wine glasses are always filled to their brim.”
Marcus is amused. “Yes, it’s been tradition since the third century BCE.”
“Really? Tell me more about St. Marcus Day. I’m guessing you’re named after him.”
His lips twitch again. “Indeed I am. It is quite a story.”
“We have time.”
“Yes. We do,” he murmurs, and despite the strange undercurrent to his words, there’s a soft look in his eyes.
Marcus’ explanation, punctuated by the occasional question and interest in her thoughts, gives Takara time to watch his features and learn his tells. To her frustration, he has very, very few. But for all his refined manners and gentle demeanor, there is still that lethality simmering just below the surface, subtle and insidious. It reminds her of standing on a boat, the ocean churning beneath her but knowing all she can do is brace for the inevitable surge.
“I feel bad for making you talk this entire time,” Takara says after a while. “You’ve barely touched your food.”
Marcus glances down at his cacio de pepe as if just remembering it is there. “Ah. Do not worry about it. Perhaps I will bring it back for my brothers to enjoy.” There’s that trace of humor again, like he knows something she doesn’t.
They argue briefly over the bill, as might be expected of an American tourist, and Takara’s victory is undermined when Marcus offers to show her their private art collection in return.
She thought it would be harder than this, honestly. So far it’s been too easy -- ridiculously easy -- and that sets off alarm bells in her head. Marcus Turi is the most reclusive of his brothers. She’s adapting on the fly, donning the persona of the woman he would find most intriguing, and it’s working so well that it’s more suspicious than anything else.
Marcus was right: the Turi brothers’ collection is truly unparalleled. As expected, the security checkpoint to enter even the public wing of the castle rivals that of the Vatican. Fortunately, Marcus shows her through a private entrance. None of the officers standing at attention bat an eye. Their stances are professional, with the confidence borne of years worth of experience.
“There is someone I'd like you to meet,” Marcus says, about an hour later. He turns away from the display of Ancient Roman weapons he has been telling her about to face the entrance. Takara does the same, taking the opportunity to further catalogue the various cameras and motion detectors on the far side of the room, where a man has entered with quick, purposeful steps. Like Marcus, he has pale skin and the most peculiar shade of burgundy eyes. Unlike Marcus, however, he wears an expression that could melt stone.
“Marcus, what is the meaning of--”
He cuts himself off, staring at Takara. She gazes back at him, hiding her assessment behind a veneer of confusion and discomfort.
Every report on Caius Turi has described him as arrogant and immature. Easily the most antagonistic of his brothers, but ultimately harmless. More like an annoying fly than anything else. Command thought Marcus the best Turi to honey trap -- Caius was deemed too reckless and difficult to control -- but Takara reconsiders that. Right now, Caius doesn’t look like the cold-blooded, hot-headed man he is. He just looks shocked.
Marcus shifts, breaking the frisson of tension between them. “Ms. Lee, may I introduce you to my brother, Caius. Caius, Himari Lee.”
Caius is still staring at her with that unnerving intensity. He wheels on Marcus. “Frater?”
“Yes,” says Marcus simply.
Caius’ gaze darts between Takara and his brother. “Num illa--?1”
“No.”
The two share a look and half a conversation.
“Uh,” Takara raises a hand, “translation, please?”
Marcus and Caius turn to her with matching expressions of contrition. Caius approaches her and bows. His voice, wiped of any previous hint of annoyance, is like a plucked bass string. “I apologize. Allow me to start over. My name is Caius. I am honored to meet you, Ms. Lee.”
Neither man answered her question. Fuck them. Takara understands Latin just fine.
“It’s nice to meet you, too. You have a lovely collection.” She makes a show of turning and admiring the artwork. After all these years, her built-in radar is like a finely-tuned instrument: she is hyperaware of the silent exchange taking place behind her back.
“Not as lovely as you, carissima,” Caius says, without missing a beat.
He’s a smooth bastard. Takara tips her head back and laughs. “I’m going to go out on a limb and guess you say that to all the girls you meet.”
“No,” says Marcus, “only you."
She laughs again.
They’ve just finished the tour of this first wing when the doors are thrown open and in walks a man with jet-black hair and a three-piece suit. Takara recognizes him in an instant: she has seen enough telephotos of Aro Turi to pick him out of a crowd of a thousand. Even in the stills, he oozed charisma. In person, he is magnetic. She can see now why so many people have been drawn into his orbit.
It’s a shame he’ll be dead by tomorrow morning.
“And you must be the magnificent Himari Lee!” Aro strides across the hall. His arms are opened grandly, a beatific smile on his face.
“Magnificent does not begin to capture it,” Marcus says, stepping forward to touch his hand. For some reason, Aro brightens. But what does Takara know about the Turi brothers. Maybe they get off on that shit.
“Yes,” Aro breathes. “Miraculous.”
Fucking A. She shakes his hand. “I’m Himari, it’s nice to meet you.”
In a millisecond, Aro’s eyes meet hers, dart down at their joined hands, and then move back up to her face. Her instincts tell her she’s managed to catch him off guard, although, searching his face, she can't imagine why. Her acting is immaculate. But maybe something in the primitive part of his hindbrain has kicked in. It’s happened before, a mark abruptly straightening, looking over his shoulder for the predator on his heels. It’s always too late.
“Ms. Lee,” Aro says, releasing her hand and clasping both of his behind his back, "welcome. I hope you will enjoy your time here in Volterra. Perhaps the city will enchant you to stay forever.”
“Perhaps. I might be persuaded by other means.”
“Why, is that an invitation?” he replies, equally coy.
There’s a burst of static from the hidden earpiece. Only years of training keep her from flinching.
“Contact confirmed, target Aro Turi. Status has been changed to pending. Do not engage. Remain in position and await orders from Command.”
Takara forces down the flash of irritation. She despises drawn-out missions. Still, her flawless smile gives nothing away.
“Not to you,” Takara replies, glancing at Marcus. He is calm and composed, still as a statue, but he seems vaguely distracted by something.
Aro hums, unperturbed. “We’ll see about that.”
Again, a strange choice of words. Takara almost narrows her eyes. But it matters very little. Aro is a businessman. Caius is harmless. Marcus is the one to watch for, though she is confident of her ability to take him in a fight if he stands in her way. Very soon, Command will clear Aro for elimination, and the moment they do, she will be leaving the safest city in the world with another red-inked name on her ledger.
“Yes,” Takara says, “I think we will.”
After all, they don’t call her the best for nothing.
- Latin translation: Does she--? [ ▲ ]