Fire Maidens Venice (Billionaires & Bodyguards #7) - Anna Lowe Page 0,2

done-up carnevalisti. Rocco was right. It was the perfect time for him to sneak in to Venice, drink his fill of the city he loved, then sneak out again.

His inner lion growled. Shouldn’t have to sneak.

And just like that, the old ache was back. He was tired of hiding his identity, and he never wanted to leave. Venice, for all its problems, was home, and it was his duty to guard the place. At least, it had been, until everything had gone wrong.

He fiddled with his mask. “Maybe this isn’t a good idea.”

Rocco laughed. “Definitely not a good idea. But come on. Live a little.”

In many ways, Rocco was the twenty-year-old Tony had been a decade earlier. Bright. Hopeful. Invincible, or so he believed, because destiny was on his side.

Now, Tony knew better. In life, things could go badly wrong.

“The palazzo isn’t far now.” Rocco steered him forward. “Trust me. It will be fine.”

Tony wasn’t so sure, but an inexplicable sense of purpose propelled him along.

We have to see this through, his inner lion growled. We have to be there tonight.

His animal side had insisted on that for days, even weeks. It had started as a vague hankering for the sights, smells, and tastes of home. Of winding canals, briny air, fresh seafood, and good wine. Gradually, those vague wishes became images — not just of the past, but of the future. Of something terrible happening if he weren’t there to stop it. Gradually, those images had become more and more concrete, until he’d succumbed to the urge and covertly entered Venice. Not at any random time, but exactly that evening and at that exact address.

We have to be there, his lion insisted.

He scowled. That’s just what the beast had said a decade ago, and look how badly that had gone.

Wouldn’t change it even if I could, his lion growled. Would you?

Tony sighed. No, he wouldn’t. Saving three innocent lives had made it all worthwhile. If only he could have done so without the personal cost.

Still, he hated that sense of being a puppet to destiny — or that voice that sometimes drifted through his mind. The low, earthy one that growled, You, warrior, have not yet completed all I require of you.

Would he ever be done with destiny’s cruel games?

“Just a little farther…” Rocco led him across the piazza and under the arches of the Museo Correr. A few tight turns later, they stood before the brilliantly lit facade of the Palazzo Marsetti.

“Rocco, so good to see you,” the woman at the door gushed, waving the security men aside.

Rocco bounded up the steps, grinning. “The pleasure is all mine. Allow me to introduce Valentino, a friend of a friend from out of town.”

Tony coughed into his hand while growling into his cousin’s mind. Valentino? I thought we agreed on Alfredo.

Rocco shrugged. Whatever.

Tony ground his teeth. Obviously, his cousin didn’t understand how critical a consistent — and inconspicuous — identity was in undercover work.

“Valentino…” The woman slid her eyes slowly along Tony’s body, then touched her lips. “Piacere.” A pleasure to meet you. Her voice dropped to a sultry purr. “Enjoy the ball.”

Tony’s heart pounded as he stepped inside. God, this was it. He really was back among shifters he knew.

A dozen familiar figures jumped out at him right away — even some hidden by masks, because he knew them so well. Agosto Soranno was there, as were Franco Tucci and several others Tony used to hang out with as a kid. They looked older, of course, but still as carefree as the boys they’d once been. Then again, every civilian appeared carefree these days. A decade of service in one of the world’s elite military forces had a way of doing that to a man.

Tony peered closer. Was that Claudia Perrelli, hanging on Agosto’s arm? No surprise, he supposed — she’d always been a flirt. Giulia Cervelli was there too, flashing her trademark smile.

There were older folks he remembered too. Some hadn’t aged a day, while others looked shockingly old. And those were just the handful Tony recognized at first glance. There were others he recalled without being able to name, and still others that only sparked hazy memories. Of course, there were guests he didn’t know at all. The city’s nouveau riche, from Russian oligarchs to American socialites and French jet-setters, judging by the mix of accents all around.

Most of the guests were human, but some were shifters. Many were easy to identify, others tricky due to all