Page 167 of Devoted

I found Emilia in her study and borrowed ink, a pen, and a sheet of her good paper.

“Are you certain about this?” she asked, leaning over my shoulder to look at what I was writing.

“My uncle’s biggest Achilles heel is his pride. I’m just giving him some final motivation. Think of this as a pep talk,” I said pleasantly and kept writing.

I kept the note short. Too many details and I’d trip us up.

Dearest Uncle,

As I’m sure you know by now, your Basin is the fake.

We still have the real one. Too bad you’ll never find it—though you can try.

Once Blackwood discovers your latest failure, perhaps you’ll learn what it’s like to have the Drax suck out your soul. I doubt he has the patience for another mistake.

Your beloved niece, Emberline

P.S. Freedom tastes even sweeter the second time around. Better luck next time.

I folded the paper in half, put it in a plain red envelope, and wrote Giovanni’s name on the front. He’d recognize my handwriting. Emilia’s messenger would hand this off to Valeria’s network, who would make sure it arrived at the palazzo within the hour.

“How fast can you get this into the city?” I asked Emilia.

She smiled and called for one of her warrior priests.

CHAPTER 63

GABRIEL

We didn’t have to wait long for the wheels of the mafia’s underworld to grind into motion. Valeria’s network worked with the quiet efficiency of a complicated mechanism built over the centuries, running on bribes and secrets. Add in a generous reward and by nightfall, the Venice rumor mill was in overdrive, and Giovanni DiRavello was on the warpath.

Gossip swirled around the city—the real Basin was in play.

There was a king’s ransom up for grabs for its return. Whispers of catacombs and an abbey, a haunted island in the lagoon circulated, exaggerated and embellished by greed and rumor mongering.

Everything was unfolding exactly as we’d planned.

Just before midnight, under a full moon, a stranger disappeared through the DiRavello palazzo’s side door, his face hidden beneath a hooded robe, much like the one Giovanni constantly wore.

Nico, Emberline, and I watched from two streets over, the three of us crammed like sardines into a cramped cupola covered in layers of pigeon shit, the floor beneath us so soft, I kept expecting it to give way. Since Nico had the sharpest vision, he was giving us minute-by-minute reports, complete with his annoying commentary.

Gods, he was insufferable.

“He’s inside,” Nico murmured. “Your uncle looked constipated when he answered the door. He should probably work more fiber into his diet.”

“Stick with the facts, godsdamn it.” I ground the words out as if they were made of broken glass.

“If you want my job, have at it.” Nico lifted a brow, nostrils flaring. “Otherwise, I’m doing this the way I want.”

Of course he was, the pushy bastard.

“At least we know Giovanni got my note.” Emberline gingerly shifted her weight, the damp, sagging boards beneath us creaking like old bones.

“He got your note,” Nico confirmed. “Now let’s hope the mage is as useless as we’ve been told.”

Emilia had thoroughly vetted the mage—one Fausto Orsini from Rome—purportedly, he’d come highly recommended by Blackwood.

“A fraud and a charlatan,” she’d scoffed drily, waving a hand in the air. “He possesses a fraction of the magic needed to access the Basin, but his incompetence is good news for us. Giovanni’s doubts will only increase when the Basin remains inert. He’ll be convinced he has the decoy.”