The Adriatic Sea was a heartless mistress, but she had delivered them safely to the crumbling docks of Brindisi. From there, it had been a blur of trains, fake papers provided by Dimitris, and the constant, itching paranoia that every person in a suit was one of Silas's men.
Now, as the sun began to set over the canals of Venice, Eleni stood on the balcony of a secluded apartment in the Cannaregio district. The air here didn't smell like the dusty pines of Athens; it smelled of ancient stone, salt water, and expensive history.
"You're doing it again," a voice rasped from the shadows of the room behind her.
Eleni didn't turn around. She knew the sound of Ben's footsteps better than her own heartbeat now. "Doing what, Benson?"
"Staring at the water as if it's going to give you back your flower shop," Ben said, stepping out onto the balcony. He looked different. The dirt and blood were gone, replaced by a crisp linen shirt and dark trousers. He looked like the prince he had once been, but the way he kept his hand near his waistband told a different story.
"I don't want the shop back," Eleni said, her voice surprisingly cold. "The shop is ash. I want to know when Mia and Leo arrive. Dimitris said they'd be on the ferry to Ancona three days ago."
Ben leaned against the stone railing, his eyes scanning the gondolas passing below. "They're safe. Sofia is with them, and Sofia makes Silas look like a choir boy. They're being moved through the mountain passes. It's slower, but it's invisible."
"Invisible," Eleni repeated, finally looking at him. "Is that what we are now? Ghosts in a city of tourists?"
"For now," Ben said. He pulled the silver drive from his pocket, tossing it lightly in the air and catching it. "This little piece of plastic is the only reason we're allowed to breathe Italian air. I've already made contact with a middleman here. A man named Lorenzo. He used to be Silas's biggest rival in the shipping business before Silas ran him out of Greece."
"And you trust him?"
"I trust his hatred," Ben corrected. "In my world, hate is more reliable than love. Lorenzo wants Silas's head on a platter. I'm going to give him the menu."
Eleni looked at the drive. "What if Silas finds out we're here? We're far from home, Ben. We don't have the mountain paths or the salt caves anymore."
Ben stepped closer, his presence suddenly overwhelming the small balcony. He reached out, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw—a gesture that was becoming dangerously familiar. "We have something better than caves, Eleni. We have a story. And tomorrow night, at Lorenzo's masquerade, we're going to tell the first chapter."
"Another party?" Eleni sighed, but she didn't pull away. "You really only have one move, don't you?"
"It's a classic for a reason," Ben smirked. "But this time, you're not the florist-turned-queen. You're the investor. And I'm just the man holding your coat."
"And Sebastian?"
"Sebastian died in Athens," Ben said, his eyes turning serious. "Here, I'm just Ben. And you're just Eleni. But to the rest of the world... we're the end of an empire."
Suddenly, the door to the apartment rattled. Both of them were moving in an instant—Ben's hand on his holster, Eleni reaching for the heavy iron fire poker she'd kept near the door.
A slip of paper was slid under the door.
Ben approached it cautiously, picking it up with two fingers. His face went pale.
"What is it?" Eleni whispered.
Ben turned the paper around. It wasn't a message. It was a photograph. A grainy, long-distance shot of Mia playing with a doll in the back of a van. And across the photo, written in elegant, flowing script, were two words:
"Benvenuto, Benson."
The color drained from Eleni's face. "He found them. Silas found them."
"No," Ben hissed, his brain already working a mile a minute. "This wasn't sent by Silas. The handwriting is wrong. And the stamp on the back... it's from a local Venetian courier."
"Then who?"
"The game just got bigger," Ben said, his voice a low, lethal vibration. "Silas isn't the only shark in the water. It seems the Italian families have been waiting for us to arrive."
Eleni felt a surge of that cold, crystalline rage again. She looked at the photo, then at Ben. "I'm tired of being the bait, Ben. And I'm tired of people using my daughter as a bargaining chip."
"What are you saying?"
Eleni grabbed her coat and checked the small knife she had hidden in her boot—a gift from Sofia. "I'm saying we don't wait for the masquerade. We find out who sent this photo, and we show them what happens when you threaten a florist."
Ben looked at her, a dark, appreciative grin spreading across his face. "Spoken like a true partner. Welcome to Venice, Eleni. Try not to drown anyone too important."