Chapter 90: How to Steal a Bride

At last she leaned into him, with no cushion left between her shoulder and his chest, and gave him his first proper look at what she had actually chose to wear.

The underdress beneath her open wrap was silk thin enough for the lamplight to linger over every curve beneath it. The bodice gathered loosely over the ample swell of her bosom, the fabric rising and falling with each gentle breath.

Over it hung a length of dyed silk, open down the front and draped carelessly from her shoulders, leaving much of her body tantalizingly exposed. Each shift of the cloth revealed another warm glimpse of skin, the soft fullness beneath the silk impossible to miss.

Gold sat heavy at her throat and both wrists, and now circled one ankle as well. Her slipper had slumped halfway off without her seeming to notice or care, and her hair hung loose, spilling dark and heavy past her shoulders. The kohl around her eyes was darker than the last time he had seen her.

A warm scent rose from her skin, cardamom.

None of it was accidental.

Vito’s eyes dipped briefly to the sudden glimpse of skin beneath her wrap before he caught himself and brought them back to her face.

That was when the door admitted the man they had been waiting for.

He entered exactly on schedule, the way a debt comes due, and one server met him on the third step with a cup already poured. He then gave a merchant one nod, like he had accepted a compliment nobody had actually offered.

Theophylact Argyropoulos outfit reflected his family business, cotton dyed richly enough to make most silk look poor. Small glass beads spread through his belt where a lesser merchant might have made do with a plain buckle.

Two men followed a pace behind him, broad in the shoulders and silent.

He drank half the cup standing there, in no hurry, then let his eyes gaze over the wine house in an idle inspection.

His gaze reached their couch and stopped.

The cup remained a hand’s width from his lips and went no farther, while the wine crept toward the rim and stayed there, forgotten. He looked like a hare that forgot how to run when a hound spotted her.

Theophylact’s free hand hung at his side, still raised halfway through whatever compliment he had been trying to fish out of some nearby merchant.

Vito watched it discreetly.

Athanasia saw it too from the corner of her eye, and her voice fell almost to nothing against his neck.

"He’s watching." She barely moved her lips. "Now."

Vito needed no second warning.

One hand slid from the small of her back and came to rest over the lush curve of her backside, drawing her firmly against him until her body fit flush to his. She offered no resistance, only folding into the embrace, her chest warm against his as the loose silk shifted softly over them.

As she snuggled against him, the fold of her open wrap fell across his shoulder and buried the lion on his mantle beneath the silk.

He lowered his head toward her ear, his lips brushing her neck on the way. What he actually whispered there was anything but sweet.

"Easy, bella."

He kept his voice low, for her alone.

"Why shake so much? I didn’t think anything got you this worked up except a fair price."

A laugh tried to escape her and she caught it behind her teeth. To anyone watching, it looked exactly like a woman being overcome by a man’s attention.

Her cheeks blushed regardless, warm and genuine.

Vito let the moment to linger, warm and easy, while both of them knew perfectly well what they were doing. Theophylact remained rooted in the same spot, caught between fury and what, from Vito’s seat, looked considerably more like helplessness.

Then whatever held him there broke, and he walked through the floor at a furious pace, his silent shadows keeping a step behind him.

He reached their table breathing hard and planted both hands flat on the wood between their drinks.

"Athanasia."

Her name came out clipped and furious. "What is the meaning of this? In the middle of the fondaco, before every gossiping merchant on this street? I am Theophylact Argyropoulos, and my house does not send its bride out to be handled like cargo in a wine house."

Several tables away, Orso’s drink stopped halfway to his mouth.

His eyes went straight to the two men beside Theophylact, taking in the breadth of their shoulders and the position of their hands. He set the drink down and left one palm flat on the table, close enough to his belt, just in case.

Vito raised his head just enough to look the man over properly, his arm still around Athanasia’s waist.

"Relax, amico."

He said it easily, as if they were friends. "There’s no cargo here, only simply a woman enjoying good wine and better company. Sit, if you like, I don’t mind an audience."

Enraged flush rose up Theophylact’s neck and spread across his face, as his dignity walked out the door without waiting for him.

"Sit?" The word came out a full octave higher than the first.

"This woman is promised to my house, before witnesses, blessed by both our families. And you."

He turned on Vito now, jabbing one finger through the space between them.

"I don’t even have a name for you, or know which gutter of a ship dragged you into my harbor."

He drew breath. "Do you have the smallest notion who you are insulting? House Argyropoulos moves four hundred bales of cotton through this fondaco every season, and enough of the Sultan’s glassware besides to fill your galley twice over. Three caravans a year come up from Cairo carrying nothing but our goods, and I have the harbor magistrate’s ear over supper twice a month. Merchants with more guts than you bow when they see my seal on a manifest."

His finger remained pointed at Vito.

"So I will ask you once. Who are you?"

Athanasia lowered her eyes to her drink and tightened her fingers around the stem, pretending she would much rather be anywhere else than caught between two men quarreling over her.

Vito took his time to answer. He reached for his own drink with the hand not holding her, drank half of it, and set it down again.

"Vitale."

He offered the name like tossing a coin to a beggar.

"That’s what you’re getting today, Cotton, so make it count. Capisci?"

His eyes dipped once to the beads in the man’s belt, then returned to his face without interest.

"Nice belt, by the way. Very shiny. I’m sure the ladies love it."

Then he turned toward Athanasia, warm and easy, as though Theophylact had already become part of the furniture.

"Cara, were you consulted about any of this, or is this a common nuisance?"

Behind Theophylact, one of his men shifted his weight forward.

At the nearest table, two merchants suddenly found their accounts much less interesting than the free drama.

Theophylact’s voice climbed again.

"You’ll regret that tongue, merchant, whoever you are."

The tremor beneath it hadn’t yet turned into a crack. "My family’s name opens doors in this city whose streets yours will never find. Cross me, and I will see that no customs officer in this harbor stamps your manifest with my seal. Not this season, and not the next ten."

He leaned forward over the table. "I could have you thrown into the water with the rest of the week’s rubbish, and not one man in this room would blink."

Vito let out a short laugh, more entertained than impressed. For the space of one breath, coldness showed behind his eyes, then vanished as the grin swallowed it.

"Ma va’." He set his cup down slowly enough to make Theophylact wait for him.

Even the nearby servers had stopped moving.

"All that noise over one woman."

He said it almost kindly. "You clearly like your numbers, Cotton, so let’s talk numbers. Name your price for the bride, and I’ll double it enough for your magistrate to fall down on his knees."

He offered the man a small, pleasant smile. "Since you’ve already told half this street she’s a shipment, might as well let the highest bidder take her."

Theophylact’s lips parted open, but nothing came out for a full breath.

When his voice finally returned, it broke into some cry closer to a shriek than a shout, half words and half whatever fury was left in him.

Every conversation in La Sirena died at once.

A server’s hand stopped in mid-pour, wine still dripping in an unattended stream across the tray balanced on his other arm. A dropped date rolled from some plate, and not a soul bothered to catch it.

Heads turned from every couch and corner of the wine house. The whole fondaco seemed to hold its breath around the spectacle of a merchant scion coming completely apart in public.

Directly in front of the bride he had insisted nobody was allowed to touch.

Off to the side, Orso’s hand finally closed around his hilt. His attention never left the two silent bodyguards standing beside the noise.

Every face in the wine house, servers, merchants, guards, all of them, had turned toward their table.

Not a single one looked away.