Page 55 of Murder on the SS Leviathan
21
As the figure stepped into the open doorway, Cecile recoiled.
There was the hooked nose and the prominent brow, though the face was not as it had been. The flesh was misshapen, the left eye pulled downward, the lid almost entirely closed. The other’s film was dull, but a spark of excitement lit there, as her gaze met his.
‘You!’
Panic swept her but, before she could scream, one great hand was about her neck. With her chin forced upward and her feet barely touching the floor, she gasped for breath.
Her mind returned to another time, months ago, when he’d dragged her through the library window at Scogliera. There was no arguing with the strength in his arms, and his smile told her what she already knew.
This was no warning, but a victorious end.
One by one, he intended to pick them off. Lucrezia should have been dead already, and Maud. Now it was Cecile’s turn. Like a frightened mouse, she’d come running to the very place he’d been hiding.
Feebly, Cecile kicked her feet, but his thumb and forefinger were crushing her throat. The room was growing dark. A dull roar was overtaking her.
And then, she was falling, landing in a heap on the metal floor.
Gasping, she clutched at her bruised throat.
There was a grunt of pain—not hers, and the crash of someone hitting the wall. The room was filled with feet and legs and fists.
‘Get out of here!’ The voice might have been in her head but, looking up, she saw it was Lance.
Staggering, she found her feet, just as the two men propelled to the other side. Lance groaned as his head connected with the pipes, but he hooked his foot to the back of Serpico’s leg.
The next moment, they were both on the floor, rolling over, and she couldn’t tell who had the advantage.
‘Go!’ Lance blinked through the crimson coursing over his right eye. ‘For God’s sake, Cecile!’
With her heart pounding, she ran.
* * *
Serpico kicked the American with his foot. The last crack of his skull against the floor had done the job, though he’d have saved himself the trouble if he’d finished him off the first time.
Passing his sleeve over his face, he wiped away blood. Only some of it was his, but he’d taken a clout when the yellow-haired fool had burst in on him.
Damn his eyes!
And damn that little trollop!
The passageway was still empty. With all the noise below, no one had noticed the fight; or, if they’d heard anything, they hadn’t thought it worth the bother of investigating. There was no time to lose, however.
The girl had a head start, and the burns on his left leg stopped him from making haste as quickly as he’d like. He’d have to hope she tired half-way up the stairs.
It had been the will of the Almighty to snuff out the life of his brother, his master—but human hand had cast the flame that devoured Lorenzo di Cavour, and that hand had not acted unaided.
This being so, only one path remained. Only one desire.
To avenge.
He’d finish the girl, then his ungrateful bitch sister.
The slut who’d refused his brother’s advances in London could wait until last. He’d make the husband watch while he broke that pretty neck, and hear the Englishman beg for his life before he snapped him in two.
He’d have added Livia to the list if she weren’t already dead.
