Stolen: Dante’s Vow by Natasha Knight
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.
Me: Can’t talk. We’re in the box now. I don’t want to take a chance we spook the asshole.
Charlie: Shit. Okay. The box is registered to a company by the name of Gray and Associates. As far as I can tell, there’s no single Gray. Or not anymore at least. Anderson Gray died about fourteen years ago and since then it’s been run by his children. Three brothers. The name changed to Gray and Associates then. Before that, when Anderson Gray was alive, they went by a different name. It’s why I didn’t make the connection.
Me: What connection?
Charlie: This group isn’t exactly clean, Dante. You want to be careful. They have interests across all continents. Not all are on the up and up.
Me: What do they do exactly?
Charlie: Imports and exports. It’s all very vague. The family is associated with IVI.
Me: What the fuck is this Secret Society bullshit? Grown men playing at some game?
Charlie: I don’t think they’re playing games.
Me: What else?
Charlie: Gray and Associates has ties on all continents, as I said, but the European sector only started to really grow about twenty years ago. And this is where the interesting piece comes in. The connection.
Me: Twenty years?
Charlie: I could be wrong, but I don’t think so. It’s the only thing that adds up.
Me: What?
Charlie: The oldest brother, Drake Gray, was charged with the Europe project. And somehow, he came into contact with David.
Me: David?
Charlie: Yes. He was in Naples for a meeting with him. I remember this because your father happened in on the meeting and David was beside himself angry. He was trying to make a deal without your father’s knowledge.
Charlie has never stopped referring to the man who raised me as my father. He has not once called David that.
Charlie: Because David had gone behind your father’s back, your father punished him but cutting him out of that particular business altogether.
Me: You’re losing me. Who cares what happened twenty years ago?
Charlie: It’s exactly that. The timing.This could be a longshot but the million dollars… Gray, and I’m assuming it’s Gray in that box, he put up a million dollars for Mara. Why? It can’t be coincidence.
Me: What the hell are you talking about?
But as I ask it, my mind is working, doing the math. As impossible as it is.
Charlie: Your father had several secret meetings with Gray at the house. I don’t know much more because the business never came to fruition. Gray spent some time in Naples vacationing, or so he said, and he was gone.
Me: Twenty years ago?
Charlie: I’m going to send you a photo of Drake Gray from back then. The shots we have of the man in the box next to yours aren’t great quality but it’s not unreasonable it’s the same man and it’s the only thing that makes sense. Keep in mind, he’d have been thirty or so then.
A ding signals the photo and I open it. It’s a shot at a restaurant and Gray clearly doesn’t know it’s being taken. He’s sitting at a table with a woman. Her back is to the camera and she’s a little fuzzy because the photographer had focused on him. She has long dark hair draped over her shoulder. And I only recognize her because the strap of her dress has fallen off her shoulder exposing a familiar birthmark.
I shift my gaze to the man sitting across from the woman. He’s a big guy. Blond hair cut short wearing an expensive suit and a Rolex watch, pouring from the bottle of wine into the woman’s glass. And he’s smiling at her like he’s smitten.
I zoom in on his face. The pixels slowly come together. And I see it. The connection.
And all the pieces fall into place.