Free Pure Dead Frozen by Debi Gliori Page B

beans,” he muttered dreamily before Ludo broke into his reverie with the news he’d been dreading.
    The only tape player Luciano could find at short notice belonged to Damp, its cheery pink and sparkly exterior singularly inappropriate for the ghastly content of the tape currently spooling inside it. Fabbrizio’s voice was faint and whiny, but both Ludo and Luciano could make out most of what he was saying.
    â€œâ€¦
si.
A pact. Don Lucifer made an agreement with Il Diavolo to destroy his half brother.”
    â€œIl Diavolo? Is this another gangster?” Luciano whispered, almost to himself. Fabbrizio’s voice continued, the subject matter under discussion bringing Luciano out in a cold sweat.
    â€œThe only name I ever hear Don Lucifer call this Diavolo was Stan. I do not know this Stan, but I do know that he is…pfff…very powerful. Like a gigantic octopus,
si? Capisce?
He has his tentacles dipped into every little pond and pool. There is nothing and nowhere that this Stan doesn’t know about. I do not meet this Stan, for which I am very grateful.”
    Luciano’s eyes were closed, almost as if he thought he could blind himself to what was going on—as if by denying the evidence of his eyes he could avoid the whole ghastly mess. Fabbrizio’s voice whined on.
    â€œNo. Stan was going to take care of this. Of all of them.
Si.
The wife and kids too—”
Here he broke off to give a mirthless snicker, as if the Strega-Borgias’ lives were of no consequence, an amusing bit of target practice.
“Yeah. No one left standing. No one left alive to breed, to continue that branch of the
famiglia
Borgia. The end of the line. Who was going to do the job? All these questions,
signore.
I do not know—not Stan himself. No. No
way.
That would be
stupido.
Il Diavolo wouldn’t risk getting personally involved. No, that’s not how we do things. Stan would get one of his minions to do the dirty: a consigliere, a capo, a hired killer, some guy who’s already in place in the area—”
    Ludo stopped the tape, his eyebrows raised, his hand hovering on top of the pink tape player as if he were about to ask a child whether another wee sing-along before lights-out would be a good idea.
    â€œâ€˜In place in the area.’” Luciano’s voice quavered. “But…but…”
    â€œYes,” Ludo murmured. “He’s here already. Presumably he knows exactly where you are. Where Baci and—”
    Luciano was on his feet. Moments later, the Volvo spun off across the drive, scattering rose quartz in all directions. Latch stood in the great hall, duster in hand, his puzzled expression reflected in the breastplate of a suit of armor he’d been polishing when Luciano had bolted past. Now Mr. Grabbit was running downstairs, taking the steps three at a time, obviously in a tearing hurry as well. Watching this reflected in the suit of armor, Latch saw the lawyer stop at the foot of the stairs, take a deep breath, and, as if he’d come to a decision, clear his throat and speak:
    â€œLatch. Could we have a word? In private?”
    â€œRight away,” Latch replied, poking his duster into the suit of armor’s codpiece and turning round to face the lawyer. “Might I suggest the Discouraging Room, Mr. Grabbit? That way we can be assured of absolute privacy.”
    This was no exaggeration. So depressing and meanly proportioned was this room that the whole of the present generation of the family had never once set foot over its threshold. Not once, not even out of curiosity. Consequently, it was freezing cold, smelled of mold, and lived up to its name admirably. Following Ludo inside, Latch pulled the door closed behind them.

That Ring Thing
    F fup knocked respectfully on Mrs. McLachlan’s bedroom door and, without waiting for an invitation, barged straight inside, in her haste allowing the door to slam behind her. Sitting at