The King's Gold Read Online Free PDF Page B

mass murderer. In the war—”
    “As could you,” he interrupted.
    “As could I, what?”
    “Finish your father’s work.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “I told you Tomas de la Rosa died in Italy, not Guatemala.”
    “Which doesn’t make any sense. Everyone says he was buried in the jungle—”
    “Of course it makes sense. Tomas de la Rosa was always a secretive bastard. Montezuma’s gold? What lie wouldn’t he tell for that?”
    “I don’t understand.”
    “He died researching this .” Marco pointed at the letter. “Soto-Relada told me its provenance—which of course made it so interesting to me! I have the documents to prove his prior ownership. And I’ve seen his grave. I know exactly where he died, and how. It’s very interesting. Not exactly what you’d expect of a ‘hero’ like old Tom.”
    I just looked at him, silent and not breathing.
    Marco began to pet my hair. “Look at her face.” He tilted my chin so that Blasej could see me. “Look at that. I told you. She can’t resist it. I told you she was bats. All the de la Rosas are!” He lifted the bangs from my forehead. “Yes, that’s why I think that I’ll be able to forego snapping your neck and otherwise mussing your hair, Lola. Because you’re coming. Aren’t you, darling?”
    Marco’s teeth were very white as he now truly smiled at me. He leaned away, unlatched his arms, and tugged the letter from my hands. Then he opened the door.
    He and Blasej got out of the car. Domenico had been standing by the trunk with the luggage. Now he began walking swiftly out of the car park, muttering, “We’re already late.”
    “Man,” Blasej was saying to Marco. “This is stupid. She’s a casualty.”
    “Blasej, don’t be hasty. If she doesn’t come with us, we’ll visit her when we get back.”
    “Unless I call the police on you now, you idiot !” I yelled.
    Marco continued smiling at me, walking backward, as I remained sitting in the backseat.
    He held the letter by his fingertips, teasing me by shaking it back and forth. I could see the delicate paper, the gorgeous puzzle of it.
    “Come on, poppet,” Marco sang. “Come on, kitten. Go ahead. Call the police.”
    I stayed in the backseat, refusing to move, and chattering to myself: “No, no, no. Get a grip, Sanchez. Run away. 911. There’s nothing here for you. All he’s got is a…map to Montezuma’s gold and maybe your father’s— agh!”
    He had been right about me. I couldn’t resist it. A steady diet of Alexandre Dumas novels and a flaming Electra complex had twisted my wits. He talked about pipe bombs and slapped me? He qualified for a solid dose of Thorazine and probably double life sentences in federal prison? Didn’t matter.
    For another few minutes I stayed on the backseat, quietly cursing as I watched Marco flutter the letter at me. I stepped out onto the concrete. I slammed the car door shut.
    “Told you,” I heard him sing out.
    I followed Marco Moreno out of the parking lot, my throat so tight I could choke.
    “That’s it, Lola…”
    Two hours later, I was sailing over the wine-dark sea to Florence.
5
    “Hello! Handsome boy! And you must be Lola…what was it? De la Rosa, wasn’t it?”
    More than forty-eight hours after my abduction/psychotic break, an enthusiastic woman in vibrant midlife greeted Marco, Domenico, Blasej, and me upon our bustling into the dream scape of the Palazzo Medici Riccardi. Sandwiched between the goons, my priestess gown was bunged up, and my hair exploded all over my head as I blinked derangedly at the art sparkling all around us.

    We were in Florence, Italy. This was my first time. And I was discovering that Italy is so beautiful it can arouse the senses to a deliciously painful inflammation, even when those faculties have been dulled to near catatonia by exhaustion, terror, digestive troubles, and a hypnotic focus on historical puzzles.
    In other words, I loved it, insensibly and irrationally under the circumstances.
    But I