Stolen: Dante's Vow

My lover. Should I correct him? “I’m a person. Not a transaction.”

He has the grace to look away. “I know that.”

“Dante knows and he allowed it?” My heart twists.

“Not exactly, no in fact, he was adamant you wouldn’t be sacrificed.”

Relief floods through me but it doesn’t last long as I put two and two together. “So, the dagger is in case Dante doesn’t make it.”

He nods gravely. “Believe it or not, I’m sorry to do this to you,” he says, studying me. I wonder if he’s waiting for me to tell him it’s okay because it’s not. When I don’t say anything, he checks his watch. “Ten minutes.”

With that he leaves, and I turn to pick up the dagger. I take it out of its sheath and press the flat of the blade against my palm. I could kill myself. Here and now. I could put this through my heart and be done with it. But I won’t do that, and he knows it, or he wouldn’t have left me alone. When I hear Angelique’s giggle float up the stairs, I understand why he’s doing this. I understand why he will sacrifice me even if Dante won’t. I would do the same if I had a child. I have no doubt.

But instead of all that, I think about something else.

I think about what I’ll do with this dagger tonight. How I’ll bury it in Felix Pérez’s stony heart. Because monsters like him don’t deserve to live. And if I get the chance, I’ll leave one less in this world even if it costs me my life in the process.

47

Dante

Faust is well attended. When Matthaeus and I walk into the grand lobby of the opera house the fifth act is underway. We made good time. Better than I expected.

Few people are left milling about the lobby, but most attendees are inside. They won’t open the doors again until it’s over.

“Cameras were already disabled,” Matthaeus says.

I look at him.

“Just got the text from Charlie,” he says. “Someone beat us to it. Pérez or the buyer, I guess.”

Our shoes echo on the marble floors as we make our way to one of the two sweeping carpeted staircases. Two men take the stairs across the large space and a text comes through on my phone confirming that Pérez’s men are on site. He could be too for all I know.

Matthaeus reads the text. “The man in Box Four hasn’t moved. He’s still alone.”

“Fuck.”

“He’ll come.”

“Describe him again.”

“Nothing has changed, Dante,” he says. I know this. We went over this as soon as our men got on sight.

“Humor me.”

He sighs. “Late 40’s, early 50’s. Well dressed. We’re too far to hear any identifying accent.”

“What about facial recognition?”

“Sent several photos to Charlie but he hasn’t been able to get anything yet. Too much shadow or, more likely, he knows how to keep himself in shadow.”

“I’m willing to bet the latter. But it doesn’t make any sense if St. James was telling the truth. That he paid over a million dollars for her. She’s not Elizabeth. Anyone knows that. And after five years with Petrov…” I trail off. I don’t want to speak the rest aloud. But this buyer? It doesn’t make sense. “We’re missing something.”

We reach the first-floor landing and rather than proceeding up via the elaborate main staircase, we take a right to where one of my men opens a door to an emergency exit. There’s nothing glamorous about this one and our steps echo too loudly on the concrete. We slow as we reach the door and from here, I can faintly hear the sounds of the soprano.

It’s a shame Faust will be ruined for me after tonight. I like the story.

Matthaeus sends a text, and we wait for the response. It comes just two minutes later when a door opens, allowing us entry to the third floor and the box entrances. More people mill around the hallways here, men standing at the bars set up at every few intervals drinking. With the private box entrances and the prices associated with them, the rules are different for these people than they are for the general public.

We walk along the rounded corridor toward the box at the far end, where a staircase identical to the one we just climbed, is guarded by two men.

“Perez’s men,” Matthaeus says, not that I needed him to confirm. We don’t slow our steps as we approach Box Three, the one Charlie arranged. The owners of the box had decided to skip this opera which was lucky for us. We show our forged electronic tickets to the man standing outside and he only hesitates for a moment before opening the door to let us in.

Just as the door closes behind us a text comes in. It’s Charlie.

Charlie: Did some digging. Found out who owns the box. I need to call you. Now.