The Mephisto Club

gnarled undergrowth. She saw the brief red reflection from a rabbit’s eyes. Then the trees opened up, and they were stopped at an iron gate. A security camera glowed above an intercom. The driver rolled down his window and said, in Italian, “We have the package.”
    Blinding floodlights came on, and there was a pause as the camera panned the occupants of the car. Then the gate whined open.
    They drove through, followed by the Mercedes that had tailed them all the way from Rome. Only then, as Lily’s vision readjusted back to the darkness, did she see the silhouettes of statuary and clipped hedges lining the drive. And ahead, looming at the end of the gravel road, was a villa with lights blazing. She leaned forward in astonishment, staring at stone terraces and enormous urns and tall cypresses, like a row of dark spears pointing at the stars. The limo pulled up beside a marble fountain, now dry and silent for the winter. The Mercedes parked behind them, and the German stepped out and opened her door.
    “Ms. Saul, shall we go into the house?”
    She looked up at the two men flanking him. These people were taking no chances that she might escape. She had no choice but to go with them. She stepped out, her legs stiff from the ride, and followed the German up stone steps to the terrace. A cold wind swept leaves across her path, scattering them like ashes. Even before they’d reached the entrance, the door swung open and an elderly man stood waiting to greet them. He gave Lily only a cursory glance, then turned his attention to the German.
    “The room is ready for her,” he said in Italian-accented English.
    “I’ll be staying as well, if that’s all right. He’ll arrive tomorrow?”
    The elderly man nodded. “A night flight.”
    Who was coming tomorrow? Lily wondered. They climbed a magnificent balustrade to the second floor. As their party swept past, hanging tapestries stirred, trembling against stone walls. She had no time to ogle the artwork. They hurried her up a long hallway now, past portraits with eyes that watched her every step.
    The elderly man unlocked a heavy oak door and gestured for her to enter. She stepped into a bedroom that was ponderously furnished with dark wood and thick velvets.
    “This is only for tonight,” said the German.
    She turned, suddenly realizing that no one had followed her into the room. “What happens tomorrow?” she said.
    The door swung shut, and she heard the key turn, locking her in.
    Why will no one answer a single damn question?
    Alone now, she quickly crossed to the heavy drapes and yanked them aside, revealing a window secured with bars. She strained to pry them apart, pulled and pulled until her arms were exhausted, but the bars were cast iron, welded into place, and she was nothing more than flesh and bone. In frustration, she turned and stared at her velvet prison. She saw an enormous bed of carved oak, covered with a wine-red canopy. Her gaze lifted to the dark wood moldings, to carvings of cherubs and grapevines that laced across the tall ceiling.
It may be a prison,
she thought,
but it’s also the nicest damn bedroom I’ll ever sleep in. A room fit for a Medici.
    On an exquisitely inlaid table were a covered silver tray, a wineglass, and a bottle of Chianti, already uncorked. She lifted the lid and saw cold sliced meats, a salad of tomatoes and mozzarella, and unsalted Tuscan bread. She poured a glass of wine, then paused as she brought it to her lips.
    Why would they poison me when it’s just as easy to fire a bullet into my head?
    She drank the entire glass of wine and poured another. Then she sat down at the table and attacked the tray of food, ripping apart the bread, stuffing chunks into her mouth and washing them down with Chianti. The beef was so tender and sliced so thin, it was like cutting into butter. She devoured every sliver and drank almost the entire bottle of wine. By the time she rose from the chair, she was so clumsy she could barely stumble her way to the bed.
Not poisoned,
she thought.
Just plain old drunk.
And beyond caring what happened tomorrow. She did not even bother to undress but collapsed, fully clothed, onto the damask cover.
             
    A voice awakened her, a man’s voice, deep and unfamiliar, calling her name. She opened one aching eye and squinted at light glaring in through the barred window. Promptly she closed her eye again. Who the hell had opened the drapes? When had the sun come up?
    “Ms. Saul, wake