The Final Cut (A Brit in the FBI 1)

But she was young then, and foolhardy. She thought herself infallible, as did all kids her age.

If not for Mulvaney, she might have gone straight to the ninth circle and died there.

She’d roamed the piazzas with the others, dodging in and out of unventilated tourist traps, keeping an eye out for possibilities. The stores in this part of Naples were full of kitschy treasures, designed to suck in tourists and overcharge them for souvenirs made in China.

She spied one decent piece, a square sapphire ring surrounded by brilliants, and she made up her mind on the spot it would be hers. Once everyone had left for lunch and the proprietor had gone to his daily siesta, she went back, easily picked the lock, and waltzed inside.

Unfortunately, the store owner came back to fetch a hat, for the day was warm, and caught her in the act. Despite the fact his stock was mostly fakes and junk, he wasn’t going to be ripped off, especially by a teenager who didn’t even have the common sense to break in after dark. After screaming at her in unintelligible Neapolitan Italian, the local security showed up, an ape of a man, possibly the man’s brother or cousin, but instead of taking her to jail, he dragged her around the back of the jewelry store, the owner following closely, cursing at her.

She saw the building’s sidewalk abruptly stopped and the chalky cliffs plunged down into the Bay of Naples. Two more men were waiting there, unsavory men. She began to doubt the ape was a police officer. He held her arm in an iron grip while they all argued among themselves. She finally caught a few words. They were arguing about whether to toss her over the cliff or have some fun first. The owner wanted to strip her down, see if she had any cash hidden in her underwear.

She was debating the wisdom of trying to kick one where it counted and dive off the cliff herself when she heard a man’s voice.

“Kitsune? Kitsune? Where are you? The boat is leaving. Come, my dear, where are you? We really must go.”

She saw a tall beautifully dressed stranger wearing a panama hat come around the building and stare at the four men surrounding her. He paused, then said, “What’s this, then, lads?” His Italian was impeccable, and he spoke in the Neapolitan dialect. But he wasn’t Italian, she thought, he was too fair, too tall, despite his jacket draped casually over his shoulder, hooked on a finger, like all the European men’s. Maybe he was American. Or British. His pale skin was slightly sunburned, and despite the shock of too-long white hair covered by a straw fedora, she made him in his early forties. Old enough to be a father, but this man didn’t look like anyone’s beloved daddy.

The four men stood stock-still, wondering what to do.

The man turned to her with an avuncular smile and said in charming English, “Kitsune, what have you done, my dear? Didn’t I tell you to join us for lunch at Palazzo Petrucci? You shouldn’t be out wandering the piazzas by yourself.”

She shook her head, unsure of his game, cursing herself for her stupidity. To get caught over an insignificant trifle, she was disgusted with herself. She’d been thinking about running, she was fast, really fast, but the apes had formed a half circle in fr

ont of her. Her back was to the sea, so if she jumped, she’d be swimming, not running, if she survived at all.

The stranger began speaking again, directly to the foursome. Bless the gods, within moments, they were all laughing like old friends. She saw money pass among the men, a larger amount to the owner.

The stranger turned to her. “Come with me, you naughty girl.” He took her arm and led her away. What should she do? Fight? Run? Come along quietly?

No, better to wait. One man, this was much better odds. When they were a block away, she began to struggle, and he stopped abruptly. He turned to her, his smile gone. “Listen to me, you silly girl. You owe me your life. You must trust me.”

“I owe you nothing. I would have jumped and swum back to the ship. No problem.”

He’d stared at her, his thumb cutting into the soft flesh under her biceps. And he laughed. “Sorry, my dear, but you would have landed in a heap of rocks.” He snapped his fingers. “Then there’d be no more Kitsune.”

“Maybe so, but I won’t go with you. You’ll rape me like those men wanted to.”

He looked sad for a moment, then shrugged and knocked her on the head with his fist. She was out cold, then she was floating, rocking. She slowly awoke. She was on a small sailboat, baking in the afternoon sun.

Now she knew what he was. He was a slaver and he was going to sell her to some sheik. She rolled to her feet and dove off the side of the boat into the Bay of Naples.

The man was above-decks, drinking an espresso and reading. He heard her go in, dashed to the side of the boat, and called after her, “It’s more than a mile back to shore. I’m not going to hurt you. Swim back. I have a business proposition for you. See the white villa up there? It’s my home. We’ll go up and eat. If you don’t like my idea, you may leave. I want nothing from you but an hour of your time. You have my word.”

There was humor in his voice, and the fact was, she wasn’t the best swimmer. She looked up at the house he’d pointed to—a huge sprawling monolith, all white stucco, four stories, set into the cliff. She assumed this was Capri, seventeen nautical miles west of Naples.

She swam back and climbed the ladder. She sat her dripping self on the deck and stared at him.

He threw her a towel.

She said, “No sex.”

He touched his chest as if wounded. “Certainly not. I am an honorable man. I could be your father.”

Father? Yeah, right. “Then what do you want?”

He smiled. “Lunch. Are you hungry?”

She nodded. She was still young enough to be bribed with the offer of food, particularly after her very busy morning.