Gabriele Mantegna, having just climbed up the stairs from the basement, came to an abrupt halt.
Where the hell had that come from?
He switched off his torch, plunging the chapel into complete darkness, and listened hard.
Had that been a woman’s scream? Surely not? Tonight, only the armed security crew inhabited the island.
Closing the basement door carefully, he walked to the one small window of the chapel not made of stained glass. It was too dark to see anything but after a moment a faint light appeared in the distance. It came from the Ricci house where at that moment an armed gang were helping themselves to all the priceless works of art and antiquities.
The island’s security crew were blind to the gang, their monitors remotely tampered with and feeding them falsehoods.
Gabriele checked his watch and grimaced. He’d been on the island ten minutes longer than planned. Every extra minute increased his chances of getting caught. To reach the beach on the south side of the island, from where he would swim to safety, was a further ten-minute walk.
But he hadn’t imagined the scream. He couldn’t in good conscience make his escape without checking it out.
Swearing under his breath, Gabriele pushed open the heavy chapel door and stepped out into the warm Caribbean air. The next time Ignazio Ricci decided on a spot of peace and contemplation, he would find the code for the chapel alarm scrambled.
For a building designed for peaceable contemplation and worship, the Ricci chapel had been desecrated by Ignazio’s real purpose.
It had all been there, directly beneath the chapel altar, in a basement stuffed with files dating back decades. A secret trail of blood money, the underbelly of the Ricci empire, hidden from the outside world. In the short time Gabriele had been in the basement he’d uncovered enough evidence of illegal dealings to have Ignazio spend the rest of his life in prison. He, Gabriele Mantegna, would personally hand the copied incriminating documents to the FBI. He would be there every day of the trial, seating himself so that Ignazio, the man who’d killed his father, would not be able to avoid seeing him.
When the judge’s sentence was pronounced Ignazio would know that it was he who had sent him down.
But everything wasn’t sunshine yet. The most important evidence for Gabriele, the documents that would have cleared his own name and exonerated his father once and for all, had not been found.
The evidence existed. He would find it if it took him the rest of his life.
Putting the missing evidence from his mind, Gabriele set out into the thick canopy of trees and, crouching low, made his way to the Ricci house, a huge villa set over three levels.
Lights shone from a downstairs window. Any subterfuge by the gang had been abandoned.
Something had gone wrong.
The men in the house were led by a criminal mastermind who went by the moniker of Carter. Carter’s specialisation was in purloining high-end goods for order. Ming vases. Picassos. Caravaggios. Blue Diamonds. There wasn’t a security system in the world, so the legend went, that Carter couldn’t crack. He also had a knack of knowing where the shadier elements of high society kept their even shadier valuables, the type of valuables the owner most certainly would not report to the authorities. Carter took those items for himself.
The front door had been left ajar.
As he approached it, voices could be heard, muffled but undeniably angry.
Knowing he was taking a huge risk but unable to rid himself of the sound of the scream ringing in his ears, Gabriele pressed himself against the outside wall of the window nearest the front door, took a breath, and turned to look inside.
The main reception room was empty.
He pushed the door open a few more inches.
The muffled argument continued.
He crossed the threshold. The instant his neoprene dive slipper trod onto the hard lacquered wood flooring, a squeak rang out.
Swearing under his breath, Gabriele tried another step, placing his whole foot down in one tread. This time there was no squeak.
He took stock of his surroundings. The reception room had three doors. Only one, directly opposite him, was open.
He crossed cautiously, wishing there were at least a life-size statue to hide behind if needed. Reaching the door, he peered through it, taking in the wide cantilevered stairs to his right and craning his ears to the left in an attempt to determine what the men were arguing about. If it was a simple heist-gone-wrong scenario he would return to his plan and get the hell off this island.
But that scream...
It had definitely sounded feminine.
The arguing voices were all male. He still couldn’t decipher what they were arguing about. He needed to get closer.
Before he could take another step, heavy footsteps treaded down the stairs. A huge figure dressed entirely in black strode past the door Gabriele was hiding behind and joined the others. He must have opened the door widely because now everything they said echoed off the great walls.
‘The little cow bit me,’ he said in an English accent, sounding incredulous.
‘You didn’t hurt her?’ said another voice, this one American.
‘Not as much as I’m going to when we get her out of here.’
‘She’s not going anywhere. We’re leaving her here,’ said the other voice sharply.
‘She’s seen my face.’
Much swearing ensued before the first man cut through the noise. ‘I would still take her even if she couldn’t identify me—whoever she is, she’s got to be worth something and I want a slice of it.’
All the men started speaking at once, making it impossible to distinguish their words but the gist of it was clear enough. Upstairs was a woman, probably bound, and these men were arguing over what to do with her.
Suddenly the original man came storming back out, yelling over his shoulder, ‘You pansies can debate it all you want. That bitch is mine and she’s coming with us.’
The door was slammed shut behind him and the man hurried back up the stairs, taking a right turn at the top.
This was Gabriele’s chance.
Not pausing to consider his options, he strode to the stairs then climbed them three at a time.
Half a dozen doors lined the hallway he found himself in but only one of them was open.
He peered cautiously inside.
The man stood in the middle of a pale blue bedroom, his back to him. Before him, her hands tied at the wrists to a headboard, her mouth gagged, her knees raised tightly to her chest, was a woman with terror-filled eyes.
Not giving the man time to respond, Gabriele stepped behind
