The headline in El Periódico told the story by itself: Billionaire Moncada Apologizes, Joins ‘Giving Pledge’, Commits to Give Fortune Away.
Below the headline was a picture of Armando Moncada, his chin up, his thinning silver hair slicked back. He looked old and defiant and somehow brave, too, which was entirely untrue. Santiago Moncada saw the story at breakfast and had immediately cleared his schedule for the day, driving his Gullwing to their building and cursing all the while. On the way, he called Jo Braddock and told her to meet him there.
The Moncada excavation was in full swing, the soaring glass-and-iron building that Armando had built three decades prior now just an expensive topper to his current passion: excavating the Roman ruins beneath. Barcelona had once been Barcino, a Roman outpost. Vestiges were all around them: crumbling border walls, the columns at Temple Roma D’August, even the grid layout of the Barri Gotic… But so much more lay under their modern city. Barcelona had the most extensive subterranean Roman ruins that had ever been found, tunnels and homes and even factories. Armando had already spent a fortune on the excavation beneath their business headquarters, winning acclaim from the media and local politicians; a gift to their heritage, he called it, and Santiago had been proud of the work. But all he saw today was his father pouring money into a dusty hole.
Santiago carried the damning newspaper into the building, through the once pristine lobby where family portraits still hung on the walls in gilded frames. Now they were covered with grit from the excavation. The cleaners couldn’t keep up. He walked through the open gate at the east edge of the dig, where the Aoor fell away, revealing a crumbling town below that spread out from their building and west, into the neighboring lot. He ignored the worker who tentatively held out a hardhat, ignored the uniformed diggers armed with brushes and hammers who scurried out of his path, as was appropriate. Wasn’t it his name on the building?
Santiago found his father on one of the main catwalks that ran over the north end of the open dig, talking to his advisors, gesturing at the stone walls that rose from the dry soil below. A dozen-plus workers picked and clanged around the rocks in the vast, sprawling pit, ran small, noisy suction hoses over the sour dirt.
When he stepped onto the walk, Armando shot him a look while still talking, his eternally sharp gaze commanding his son to wait.
Fuming, Santiago leaned against the railing and reread the story of his father’s madness. When the advisors walked away a minute later, Armando raised a hand and beckoned him over.
Santiago gritted his teeth at the imperious gesture and marched toward him, struggling to keep his voice down.
“You said we were going to discuss this,” he said, holding up the paper. Father looked out over the dig. “I changed my mind. I’m allowed.”
“‘Our family has sinned’?” Santiago’s hand shook, the paper trembling. “What gives you the right to shame us like this?”
“Our family has participated in the most shameful chapters in our history,” Armando said. “What is that, if not sin?”
Father waved at the dusty portraits watching over them from the lobby’s eastern wall. “They’re not heroes, they’re villains. Our fortune is dipped in blood.”
“And giving it all away will erase the stain?” His father’s jaw stuck out. “It’s a start.”
He’d meant to stay calm, but the arrogance on Armando’s face was too much.
“It’s not yours to give, you built none of it,” Santiago hissed, pointing at the same paintings his father had so casually dismissed. “They did. But you enjoyed all of it, didn’t you?”
Armando Santiago had worked hard managing their empire but had easily spent what he’d earned, many times over. A long, full life of indulging every whim, servants at his beck and call, traveling, expensive things, beautiful women—using the Moncada fortune for whatever he liked. And now that he was dying, he wanted to wash his hands of the money, pass through the needle’s eye. Leaving his own son, his future grandchildren, and their progeny penniless.
His father looked at him with open disdain. “I should have cut you off years ago. Forced you to make something of yourself. Instead, you spend your life chasing after gold that never belonged to us. Gold our family stole.”
Armando drew himself up and walked away, head high.
Always the last word, eh Papa? That sanctimonious, hypocritical bastard. Santiago watched him step off the catwalk at the excavation’s far end and disappear into the south hall that led back outside. He wanted to scream, wanted to break something, but he’d been dismissed. His own father would throw him away as easily as he gave away their fortune, their name. His name.
He turned back for the front door, thinking furiously of what he could say or do to stop his father, a press release isn’t a contract, he can recant—
—and he saw Jo Braddock standing in their lobby, Aanked by her men. As always, she looked cool and dangerous, although he’d been singularly unimpressed by her performance so far.
He took a breath and forced his father out of his mind, controlling his anger via iron will. When he was ready, he raised his hand and beckoned her to join him. She stepped out onto the platform, her men hanging back. He would handle family business later; for now, he needed to ensure that his own business was well in hand.
* * *
Moncada had told them to meet at his building, of course, a not-so-subtle reminder of who was in charge. With his name plastered across the structure in letters a meter high, that was hard to miss. Braddock didn’t mind, she understood men like him, the kind of men created by immense wealth: straight narcissists with strangely delicate egos, always seeking to impress even as they declared their superior worth at every opportunity.
She and her team walked into the busy and extensive excavation that the Moncadas had financed, just in time to witness an exchange between the patriarch and his heir, standing on one of the catwalks over the dig. Armando Moncada walked away from the terse discussion, a look of disgust on his face… and Santiago was obviously furious, face red, shoulders up, fists clenched. Something to do with Moncada Senior announcing that he was going to give away their inheritance, presumably; she’d seen it on her newsfeed just after they’d landed. Tough luck for Santiago, although getting to the hidden gold would certainly mitigate the loss.
Santiago turned, snarling, and saw her waiting, Scotty and Hugo at her side. He took a breath, face working like he was trying not to vomit, then mastered himself. In the space of a few seconds he’d regained his haughty demeanor, and he gestured her over.
“Ms. Braddock,” he called, warmly, as she joined him on the catwalk. “Welcome to Barcelona as my ancestors knew it. Quite something, isn’t it?”
She’d half-expected another tantrum like the one he’d thrown after the auction—which, to be fair, she’d deserved, having underestimated Sully’s capacity for stupid tricks—but it seemed that today he wanted to play benevolent philanthropist. Fine by her. She scanned the excavation, the sturdy stone walls, the uncovered remnants of rooms and doorways, part of a cobbled street.
“An impressive restoration,” she said. She wasn’t the fawning type but did her best to seem interested.
Moncada pointed out an ancient portrait hanging on the lobby wall, a lean-faced man with piercing eyes. “Fulgencio Moncada, my great-great, great- great, great-grandfather.”
He smiled. “Give or take a few greats. He funded Magellan’s circumnavigation. Come, walk with me.”
They moved off the catwalk and he led her to steps cut into the dirt at the excavation’s northwest corner. Together they walked down into the dig, keeping to one of the marked paths that ran between two of the unearthed buildings, headed back toward her team.
“That voyage changed the way we understand the globe, changed all the maps,” Moncada said. “‘We gave the world to the world,’ is the family motto.”
They moved past three men working on an archway, picking packed dirt out of the stones.
“But great accomplishments come at a great price,” he continued. “Magellan’s gold is ours by contract. I will collect it. This will be my chapter in the family histories.”
Braddock nodded. “We’ll make history together, Mr. Moncada.”
She thought she’d struck the right tone, supportive and confident, but saw immediately that Moncada had taken offense. He stopped walking, turned to look at her with a dangerous gaze.
“When those eighteen starving men finally returned from their journey around the world, they were celebrated for their achievement. Fulgencio threw the party. But when it was over, he reminded those men that they hadn’t delivered what was promised. And they were punished.”
So, still angry about the auction, then. Goddamn Sully.
She didn’t cower, aware that revealing any weakness would set her up for further abuse. He was spoiled, yes, but also fully capable of crushing anyone he deemed a threat.
“There are no books written about my family, Mr. Moncada,” she said, carefully, reminding him that he was special, that she was but a lowly employee. “But I assure you, I want to succeed every bit as much as you do.”
He seemed mollified, and started walking again, leading them to another set of dirt stairs on the east wall, back out of the dig. He wasn’t quite done with smacking her down, though, waiting until they’d rejoined her team. He spoke in a light, musing tone. “This competitor of yours, the one who got away—Victor Sullivan? Maybe he’s the one I should have hired.”
She only barely managed to hang on to her professional demeanor. “Victor Sullivan is a pathological liar and a fraud. Any deal you make with him is worthless.”
“Perhaps,” Moncada allowed. “But I’ve been told Mr. Sullivan was seen in the Gothic Quarter. Maybe you should look into it.”
Without another word, he left her standing with Scotty and Hugo, inwardly seething. Sully was in Barcelona? He’d made a fool of her, and not for the first time… But if she had anything to say about it, it would be the last.
* * *
They spent the afternoon shopping, loading Chloe’s SUV with supplies. Besides some standard burgling-slash-spelunking equipment, torches and rope, rock hammers and chalk for marking trails, they’d hit the markets and splurged on the makings of a celebratory feast. They were all in a good mood, knowing that tomorrow night they might find whatever it was that Magellan’s keys unlocked. Chloe drove them back to her Aat as the sun started to drop over Barcelona, down the narrow street and into her “garage,” a portico on the east side of the apartment building. Home safe. Sully and Nate started carrying boxes upstairs, Sully commenting that she’d done “pretty well” for herself.
The apartment was beautiful, the upper corner of an ancient building turned into Aats. The result was an expensive mix of old world and new, rough brick framed by clean, modern lines; there were two bedrooms and a small balcony with a view of the cobbled street. It wasn’t home, but it was probably her favorite base of operations; the place in London was a dive, and the one in Mexico had roaches. The kitchen here was open plan, bold green and yellow tiles behind the stove, a wide counter overlooking a sunlit living room. She’d paid for the apartment with what was left from a piece she’d acquired a few years prior, a 1948 Yixing Zisha teapot that she’d happened across while traveling; never mind that the owner hadn’t known its value, and let it go for a pittance. Selling it had meant enough money for her to finally set up shop in a city she loved… with enough left over to keep her in the acquisition business, at least until her next big break. Most of what she did wasn’t strictly legal, and she’d been in a few jams, but she did, in fact, do “pretty well.”
Chloe changed into jeans, and Nate gave her the translated pages from Elcano’s journal. While he and Sully made another trip to the car, she tucked into the couch and started to read. She was instantly lost in the pages, each sentence a touchstone to events that had happened before the first Queen Elizabeth had ascended to the throne, when the world was just discovering itself and spice drove the economy. It was exciting, heady stuff… but she forced herself to skip ahead, to find the part about the keys. She could read it all again later, when she had the leisure to savor the history.
She looked up when Nate sat a box of bottled wine on the table. She pointed to the kitchen island—the corkscrew was in the top drawer—and went back to reading, but looked up again a moment later. Sully was digging through their bags from the outdoor shop, pawing through Aashlights and packs of batteries.
“You got your key at the auction in New York, yeah?” she asked, curious what they had to say for themselves.
Nate answered, using her corkscrew to break the foil on a La Rioja Alta they’d picked up. “Yep. We liberated it, in the interest of historical discovery.”
She smiled. Nate was a charmer, in an innocent, good-natured way. He was funny… and he reminded her of someone, although she couldn’t say who. It would come to her eventually. A boy she’d known back home, maybe.
Not too smart, though, if he’s in this with Sully.
“I found my cross in a crypt in Genoa,” she said. “Didn’t even know what I had, that it was a key to a much bigger fortune. But Sully knew.”
“Let me guess, he tried to lowball you.”
Sully was digging through another bag and looked up with a fake hurt expression. “I offered you a fair price.”
Nate opened the wine handily and carried it into the kitchen to snag glasses, opening the correct cabinet on the first try.
“He offered me fifty lousy K, when it could lead to five billion,” she said, ignoring Sully.
“How did you figure it out?” Nate asked, pouring the wine like a pro.
“I told him I had another offer, and he jacked up the price without blinking. That’s when I knew I had him.”
And hadn’t Sully gone berko, when he’d realized she was onto him? Good times. Chloe gratefully accepted the wine glass that Nate held out to her, taking a large sip. Yum.
“Did you?” Nate asked. “Have another offer?”
She smiled cryptically, turned back to the translation. A girl had to keep a few secrets.
“Doesn’t say much about what happens after we turn the keys,” she said, frowning, and then read from the translation: “‘Trust in your fellow man, for one will go to heaven, the other to hell.’”
“Ironic, since the whole point of having two keys was that the Eighteen didn’t trust each other,” Nate said, handing a drink to Sully.
“Good thing they didn’t, or we wouldn’t be here,” Sully said, and raised his glass. “Arriba, abajo, al centro y pa dentro!”
Always the pragmatist, Sully. They all raised their glasses and drank to their new partnership, yet another relationship in Chloe’s life that couldn’t be trusted as far as she could chuck it.
* * *
The jamón Ibérico Sully had insisted on was worth every penny, and even Chloe had admitted it was fan-fucking-tastic. They feasted from a whole slew of delicacies: brined olives and creamy cheeses, the jamón and talo, a Aat corn Aour bread, plus some peppers that Chloe had sliced up with basil and olive oil. They dusted off their best stories, Chloe telling a howler about finding a worthless painting with a priceless frame, Sully rolling out the one about the Egyptian mummy. Nate did some sleight-of-hand, lifting Sully’s watch, and told some funny anecdotes about working in a bar. They also killed three bottles of wine.
Or four? Sully started to count the bottles on the table, but lost interest when Nate got up to fetch another one. Sully picked up the bottle that still had wine in it and took a swig. The kid was a lightweight, but Chloe could knock ’em back almost as good as Sully. It was maybe her best quality, he decided.
As soon as Nate was busy in the kitchen, Chloe leaned over the remains on her plate, fixing him with a steady, critical look.
“I’m on to you, you know,” she said.
Sully put on his innocent face, not sure what she knew. He had plenty of excuses and alibis standing by at all times, and could apply them as needed.
“Nate,” she said. “He’s Sam’s brother. Isn’t he?”
Oh. Rather than confirm, he drank more wine. He’d kind of hoped she wouldn’t notice, but that had been wishful thinking. The Drake brothers both had the same careless sense of humor, harder to miss than just a similar facial structure or the set of their eyes.
Her voice dropped lower. “Does he know that—”
“Not yet,” Sully said. “I’m gonna tell him.”
“When,” Chloe said, not really a question.
“At a moment of my choosing.”
“Jesus, Sully,” she said, leaning back, and just then the kid walked back to the table, holding two more opened bottles. He was Aushed from all the wine, moving with the careful steps of a man who’d had just a bit too much.
Chloe played it cool, her expression of distaste melting away before Nate got to them, but Sully was ready for the party to go on without him. He took his bottle and wandered toward the couch.
Nate held up the new wine. “I’ve got red, and… red.”
“I’ll take maroon, please,” Chloe said, and held up her glass. Nate handed her one of the open bottles, both of them grinning like idiots.
Sully Aopped on the couch, cradling his wine bottle against his chest. “You think she’s okay?” he asked, slurring a little.
“What? Who?” Nate asked. “That damn cat,” Sully said. “You have a cat?” Chloe asked.
“The man from the app said he’d feed her, but he didn’t text back yet…”
Sully trailed off, closing his eyes.
“I don’t know what’s cuter, your concern, or that you just said, ‘the man from the app,’” Nate quipped, but Sully didn’t respond, already drooling on Chloe’s nice couch.
* * *
Nate prodded Sully with his foot, but the guy was out cold. He looked almost sweet, all drunk and dead to the world, with a faintly worried expression on his face. He’d passed out thinking about his cat.
Should put that on a Hallmark card, he thought, and then thought, maybe slow down on the wine a little. He wasn’t drunk, but it was in shouting distance. He had reached the apex of drinking, though: his body felt loose, his thoughts were stupidly hilarious, and he was chock-full of bravery. Why didn’t he do this more often?
Chloe walked to the balcony, looking back at Nate with a little smile, and he immediately followed her, thinking brave thoughts. They stepped through the open door, leaving Sully to his coma.
* * *
As soon as they were outside, Sully raised his head. If they turned around, they would see him through the window, but they were looking out over the street like a couple of dopes.
He started for the room Chloe had assigned to Nate, stumbling a little just in case they looked in, thinking he’d better work fast… but a last quick glance at the balcony, and he hesitated before stepping into the hall. They were standing way too close together.
Bad idea, kid. Chloe was only a few years older than Nate, but she had been around for long enough to know what she was doing, and would utilize every tool she had to get what she wanted. She was a nice enough person, but a self-actualized thief was a dangerous thing.
Sully set it aside for later, but he’d pull Nate to one side in the morning, say something about it. The kid couldn’t just go around trusting people. He slipped into the kid’s room, scooped Nate’s backpack off the Aoor by the bed, and unzipped it.
* * *
Nate and Chloe leaned on the railing and looked out at the ancient bricks, the narrow streets of the Gothic Quarter mostly quiet; scattered, muted voices of passing locals rose up from below, but they seemed far away. Cicadas sang their relentless song from every tree. The night was balmy, sweet with the smell of salt and warm stone. Sully was missing out.
“He’s an alright guy, when he’s passed out drunk,” Nate said.
“Don’t be fooled,” Chloe said. “He’s still dreaming of ways to cut us out.”
Nate raised his eyebrows. “Didn’t you steal the key to a priceless fortune from us this morning?”
Chloe shrugged and smiled a little, her expression almost shy. “I borrowed it. To prove a point.”
She looked at him for a moment, studying his face, her gaze dropping to his mouth for just a tiny split second before coming back up. Happy butterAies swarmed in Nate’s guts. That was definitely a look-look. It wasn’t like he was hideous, and she was supremely cool, and beautiful. He didn’t lean in, though, for a number of good reasons that were suddenly hard to remember.
She’s a thief and out of your league and you’re both drunk. How ’bout those?
Chloe made the move, stepping in to reach for Sam’s ring, her fingers brushing his chest. Nate watched her peer at the engraving, skin tingling where she’d touched. She wore three thin, colorful necklaces, resting at the hollow of her slender throat. She had a tiny scar hidden in her finely arched left eyebrow, and her eyes glowed amber, and her breath was warm and sweet. They were close enough for him to smell the faint perfume of her body, like soap and clean sweat. He wasn’t about to lunge at her like some teenager, but he realized he had zero intention of fighting her off. They lingered in the moment.
* * *
Sully went through the postcards quickly, reading Sam’s little notes, turning each one over to look for some pattern. Geography, maybe? No, they were a pretty random collection. And Sam didn’t say anything about any of his work, not a single word. There were no numbers except for the dates, and no obvious pattern to those, either.
Sully was careful to keep them in the order he’d found them. He finished the small stack, frustrated. He wanted to go over them again, but at a glance, the kid had been telling him the truth.
And, you don’t have time. The happy couple would come in soon, hopefully to separate bedrooms, and he was supposed to be passed out on the couch. He was working to rebuild trust with Nate after the auction thing, and he didn’t want to fuck that up.
He slipped the cards back into the plastic freezer bag Nate had packed them in, zipped the seal, and slid it back into the pack. Less than a minute later he was back on the couch, deliberately not looking toward the balcony as he resituated himself into his drunken sprawl.
Sully was wiped out, he’d slept for shit on Taglin’s plane, and he’d had more than enough wine. He tipped his head into position and closed his eyes, hoping to god that Nate had more sense than to fuck around with Chloe Frazer, but he wouldn’t have bet a nickel on it. When Sully had been twenty- one, he’d been a walking hormone.
Now you’re just an old cat lady.
Though he’d meant to hang on until the kids came in, the last few days caught up with him all at once. Sully fell deeply asleep, thinking about that stupid cat.
* * *
At some point over dinner, Chloe had realized exactly how lovely Nate was, funny and clever… and the vibe now was definitely more than drink-fueled lust. He had a passion for history that matched her own, an appreciation for the past that most in her line of work didn’t bother with; for all of Sully’s faults, he was competent at recruiting talent, and Nate’s fundamental goodness shone from his deep brown eyes. He wore it like a second skin. He was handsome and interested and right in front of her, and he took care of his body, as she did hers; it was impossible not to think about what they could do with each other. Whatever Sully thought about her, she didn’t use sex to get her way, she wouldn’t demean the pleasurable act or herself like that… and Nate was so close, and he smelled like sweetness and man, with just a touch of fountain bleach, and the chemistry between them was almost too much to bear.
She reached for the silver band he wore on a strip of leather around his neck, using the pretense to move in a little closer. His chest was solid as a tree trunk.
There were words engraved on the ring, dark against the shining silver. “What’s it say?”
“Sic Parvis Magna,” Nate said, his voice a bit hoarse.
Chloe had picked up some Latin here and there. “Greatness from… small things?”
“Close,” Nate said. “Small beginnings.”
Chloe smiled. “Who gave it to you? Some crazy ex?”
“No. My brother Sam gave it to me.”
Chloe froze for a beat, and the mood she’d been enjoying was suddenly gone, like water down a drain. She’d been dreamy for a bit of fun, entranced by his openness and optimism—not to mention his very fine body—and the reminder that he was a nice boy with feelings, with a past at least as shitty as hers, slapped her back to Earth. She let go of the ring and pulled back, though it was almost a physical ache to shift away from him.
“Hey, big day tomorrow,” she said, and put on a friendly smile. “Reckon we better get some sleep.”
Nate took it on the chin, the Aash of confusion in his gaze there and gone before she could blink.
“Yeah, I was thinking the same,” he said, convincingly, and smiled back, turned for the door.
She followed him inside, disappointed but relieved too. Nathan Drake was a good guy but he was also Victor Sullivan’s partner; he was headed for heartbreak regardless of what she did or didn’t do, and sex was a complication neither of them could afford.
Damn it, though… They parted at the door to his room, Chloe continuing to her own, her whole self aware of his warm presence behind her in the hall. Just damn it all.