Six months ago Anastasia Fiore, an officer in Italyâs foreign security service, led an even more secret life on the side. She ran off-the-books missions with her friends Olivia and Beta, American and Czech intelligence officers. The three women shared the same goal: take down predators.
After a complicated, surreal mission that went sideways, Stasia learned that she has angel blood, making her an Elioud. Sheâs seen what Elioud warriors are called to do, and sheâs not interested. Stasia can handle herself with a number of weapons. But she prefers crafting a cover identity so compelling she can charm what she needs from her target instead. In fact, sheâs so skilled that the Carabinieriâs Art Squad requests her help tracking down a stolen Rembrandt painting.
Thatâs what she was doing when MirĂł Kos, a Croatian Elioud sheâs already chained, slashed, and drugged, showed up. He was there tracking the buyer, and whether Stasia likes it or not, sheâs now inside another surreal mission. One that will make her question what her Elioud blood means. And what the quiet, intense warrior means to her. For his part, MirĂł cannot let another woman come before his duty. Or near his heart.
Six months ago Anastasia Fiore, an officer in Italyâs foreign security service, led an even more secret life on the side. She ran off-the-books missions with her friends Olivia and Beta, American and Czech intelligence officers. The three women shared the same goal: take down predators.
After a complicated, surreal mission that went sideways, Stasia learned that she has angel blood, making her an Elioud. Sheâs seen what Elioud warriors are called to do, and sheâs not interested. Stasia can handle herself with a number of weapons. But she prefers crafting a cover identity so compelling she can charm what she needs from her target instead. In fact, sheâs so skilled that the Carabinieriâs Art Squad requests her help tracking down a stolen Rembrandt painting.
Thatâs what she was doing when MirĂł Kos, a Croatian Elioud sheâs already chained, slashed, and drugged, showed up. He was there tracking the buyer, and whether Stasia likes it or not, sheâs now inside another surreal mission. One that will make her question what her Elioud blood means. And what the quiet, intense warrior means to her. For his part, MirĂł cannot let another woman come before his duty. Or near his heart.
In bocca al lupo. Into the wolfâs mouth. The unknown Italian who coined that phrase wishing performers luck before facing an audience had no idea how accurate it was. Then again, whoever coined that phrase had no idea that inhabiting a cover identity during a covert operation qualified as performing. But Anastasia Fiore, the descendant of opera divas and theater leads, knew better than most what facing the sharp teeth of hostile foreign agents and brutal criminals entailed: fail to convince an audience filled with killers and sociopaths that you were who you said you were and there were no second acts.
Fortunately, Anastasiaâknown as Stasia to her colleagues in the Agenzia Informazioni e Sicurezza Esternaâhad inherited her acting chops from some of Italyâs finest performers on her motherâs side. On her fatherâs side, sheâd inherited a moral code to uphold the law and a talent for fighting. She knew in her bones, in fact, that it must have been a Fiore progenitor who had supplied the traditional comeback to the colorful idiom: Crepi! May it die. In other words, when your acting fails to convince criminals and enemies, abandon pretense, and take the bastards down. Or out. Whatever was most expedient.
It was her ability to excel at both operational modes that made her such an invaluable asset to her countryâs intelligence services.
The fact that she could wear a swimsuit and sarong with the enviable allure of a model only added to her usefulness. That and the skill to use any number of weapons hidden in said sarong (and on her body) at a momentâs notice.
Yet Stasia preferred to avoid violence. Much better to charm the wolf and keep her blade sharp than to go for the wolfâs throat only to find herself surrounded by the pack. Much easier to outmaneuver an enemy than to outfight him. And much more satisfying.
The key to adopting a cover identity was believing that your legend was an alternative you without forgetting who you were in the process. The closer the cover identity to your real life the better. In fact, the closer to your imagined life, the life you had dreamed about in your heart of hearts, was the ideal.
This afternoon, as Stasia made her way to the bar pavilion at the Hula Hula Beach Club on the Croatian island of Hvar, she appeared to be nothing more than a beautiful, confident woman who had spent untold hours relaxing on the beach among other beautiful beachgoers. It was easy enough for her to play this role because she was indeed a beautiful woman who had grown up on the coasts of Calabria. No one needed to know that the wealthy, refined woman that she seemed to be came almost entirely from her teenage imagination of being Sophia Lorenâs granddaughter.
Looking at her, many of the older beach visitors might have been forgiven for thinking that she was indeed related to Italyâs most famous film star. Stasia did what she could to encourage that perception. She wore her luxurious golden-brown hair held back in soft waves by a silk scarf tied at the side of her neck. Her high, arched brows emphasized large, almond-shaped eyes, which sheâd lined with black before brushing black mascara on her naturally long lashes. Other than some sheer coral lip gloss, she wore no makeup. The dimple in her chin, however, sheâd been born with, unlike her imaginary grandmother, whose chin was chiseled by shrapnel during World War II.
Her swimsuit, a black one-piece with thick shoulder straps and a square neckline, added to her resemblance to the grand dame of the golden age of Italian cinema. However, Ms. Loren never wore a miniature dagger hidden in a large crystal pendant nor a garrote hidden in a sterling silver snake wrapped around her upper arm.
And Stasia, smiling to herself like the Mona Lisa, thought that it was highly unlikely that the most beautiful woman in the world had ever strapped a Kel-Tec P32 9mm handgun to her thigh or hid a World War II-era BC-41 fighting dagger in her tote bag. Then again, Ms. Loren had never sought to infiltrate an Albanian art theft ring responsible for stealing a Rembrandt and a Renoir. The most dangerous men that Ms. Loren had ever had to face in her career were love-struck leading men such as Peter Sellers, whoâd grown so infatuated with his glamorous co-star that heâd left his wife for her.
As Stasia strolled toward the Albanians in question, she felt a tingle on the back of her neck. Her stride never changed, but she glanced around. There was something about this tingle that was familiar. It had the same quality as the sensation that had danced along her spine a few weeks ago when sheâd been in Brigittenau, Viennaâs Twentieth District, following up on a lead for a personal investigation. Perhaps she had her own romantic stalker.
Stasia frowned at that thought.
Of course she didnât. The irritating Elioud couldnât possibly be here at the same time as she was and watching her.
But then, he was a Croatian with angel blood.
Although the crowds at the beach club had diminished since the high season of August, there were still plenty of people enjoying what had been deemed Europeâs best island vacation. Stasia observed everything with the practiced thoroughness of a trained operative, all while looking as though she hadnât a care in the world beyond finding a seat where she could enjoy her cocktail, a negroni. The classic Italian aperitivo featured orange-flavored Campari liqueur, gin, and sweet red vermouth, stirred not shaken. So basically a lush, dark version of James Bondâs martiniâappropriate for an Italian spy on a covert mission.
And the current mission required her to channel her inner bombshell to catch the eye of two bold con men whoâd brazenly stolen famous paintings worth nearly thirty million euros from an Italian art dealer. Theyâd run a long con, meeting with the art dealer multiple times to negotiate a price, and then taking the paintings while he sat in a conference room waiting for them to bring him coffee to enjoy as they finalized the sale.
Stasia rather admired the nerve of these criminalsâtheir con was the dark side of her own exploits. That was why she was going to relish sending them to prison and returning the art to Italy. So when the Carabinieri Command for the Protection of Cultural Heritage, better known as Italyâs Art Squad, contacted her boss and asked for her help, sheâd eagerly agreed.
Unfortunately, all of the tables near the Albanians were occupied. Fortunately, the closest, and therefore most prime, table seated four young men wearing unbuttoned short-sleeved shirts, swim trunks, and slide-on sandals. In front of them were four empty glasses. As she approached, one of the young men signaled to a waitress wending her way through the lounge chairs overlooking the Adriatic.
Stasia got to the table first.
âCiao,â she said, smiling. She felt genuine warmth for these targets of her attention, and it oozed from her.
They sat up straighter and smiled back. âCiao.â
Croatians. Better and better. Though there was a complicated history between her country and theirs, often Stasia could find and exploit a love, especially among younger Croatian men, for Italian culture. She shifted her stance slightly to highlight her curves, holding her negroni almost level with her breasts. Her targetsâ gazes tracked her movement. She smiled to herself. Of course, she defined the epitome of Italian culture that Croatian men loved.
At that thought, a vivid image of MirĂł Kos flashed into her thoughts like lightning. There was a Croatian male who hadnât drawn any amount of affection from her, though there had been plenty of heat of the annoyed and impatient kind. True, he hadnât seemed at all duped by her external charm. Perhaps that explained her very strong desire to throttle him. That and the fact that heâd destroyed her surujin, a type of martial-arts weapon consisting of a weighted stainless-steel chain. A chain the infuriating Elioud had melted on their first meeting. Never mind that sheâd wrapped it around his body during a street fight.
Stasia shoved the memory away and focused on the men before her, whose eyes all looked a little glazed alreadyâand not a little scared. She consciously let her irritation go. Perhaps theyâd seen something of it in her expression. She aimed her smile at the man at the far side of the table and the closest to the Albanians. In that moment, she imagined that he was her beloved and she bent to kiss him, her fingers sliding through the gray frosting his temple. âŚ
Reality intruded on her and threatened to break the spell she wove. She felt her smile dim.
The young man did not have any gray hairs.
No matter. She was a professional. What mattered whether it was affection or irritation that heated her expression? But her pace was off. She was in danger of losing her opening hook.
âI am meeting a friend. I would prefer to sit out of the sun while I wait.â She gestured at the thatched roof shading their table. Her smile grew, warmer than ever. âWould you mind very much that I join you?â
The young man on the other side of the table to whom she spoke swallowed heavily and stood. âPlease, sit here. I will stand.â
âGrazie,â she said, infusing that one word with even more warmth and laying her hand briefly on his forearm as she passed him to sit. Most peopleâthose who had empathy anywayâwould be bound by a sense of obligation for the gratitude theyâd inspired in others. It was a much more effective weapon most of the time than the actual weapons she carried. She wanted to keep it that way.
She made a show of dropping her tote bag at her side and crossing her legs so that her sarong slipped open, revealing smooth skin and shapely thighs and calves. The collective breath intake around her was gratifyingly audible, but Stasia had accomplished more than enthralling her male companions: sheâd freed her legs, whose allure owed not a little to hundreds of hours spent kicking the stuffing out of a weight bag. And bad guys. Lots of bad guys. Like the ones at the VIP table next to her.
Keeping said bad guys in her peripheral vision, Stasia lifted her negroni in a toast to the Croat whoâd given her his seat.
âAlla nostra! We have missed the crowds of turistas.â She emphasized the word we, as though she were a native Croat. This spurred a round of comments to which she paid little attention. Instead, she discreetly tapped the almost-invisible earbud in her right ear. She was blessed with acute hearing, but these earbuds from a friend at the American CIA had been programmed to match the speech frequencies of the Albanians while muting those next to her. They also functioned as comms with the Art Squad, whose members waited outside the club for her signal.
While she smiled at her newfound friends and murmured a few comments here and there, Stasia mentally reviewed what she knew about the Albanians in question. Brothers Abdyl and Agron Dervishi had a thick file at Interpol where they were suspected in more than two dozen confidence schemes ranging from selling sub-standard generic prescription medicines manufactured in the Ukraine to unsuspecting clinics in France and Germany to hawking defective pacemakers produced in Poland to small hospitals in Italy and England. Until now, the Dervishi brothers had trafficked in shoddy fakes in the medical industry. Agron had been caught four years ago selling expired prescription contact lenses to an Austrian pharmacy chain and had spent the intervening years in prison. When he got out last April, he and Abdyl had disappeared only to surface two weeks ago in northern Italy negotiating a sham art deal worth a hundred times more than their previous scamsâand leaving them with the goods instead of the cash.
It was a perplexing turn of events. Why would these con men switch their game at this stage? They had the contacts and the experience to handle harried hospital administrators and naive retail managers in small metropolitan areas. And the cons were endless, as endless as the variety and demand for all things health related. As long as people got sick or needed help with the vagaries of life, there would be snake-oil salesmen selling them false hope.
The change in modus operandi suggested that the brothers had a new partner or partners with the means to move expensive and identifiable artwork stolen by more expendable thieves. The Art Squad believed that Abdyl and Agron had come to Hvar to meet this canny partner and exchange the paintings for cash.
The waitress that the Croats had signaled halted at their table.
âWhat are you drinking?â The Croat next to her gestured with his chin toward Stasiaâs untouched cocktail. Unlike James Bond, she never drank alcohol while on a mission, but appearing to drink aided her cover at the moment.
Just then, Agron spoke. âI donât trust this ropqir.â Stasia almost winced at the crude Albanian slang for loser from the mouth of the older, harder-looking brother with the hawk-nosed profile. âHe has kept us waiting too long.â
Ah ha! The Art Squad was right about the mysterious partner in crime.
Stasia smiled at the Croat and leaned toward him, letting her fingertips touch his where they lay on the table. She held his gaze for a fraction of a second, suggesting that they had a connection. It allowed her to listen to Abdylâs response.
âYou worry too much.â The younger brother lifted his beer glass and drank. His file said he was something of a strutting peacock who, unlike his brother, wore designer clothes and paid hundreds of euros for his haircuts. As far as Stasia could tell, that assessment was accurate.
âNegroni Sbagliato, per favore.â She blinked and looked down, tilting her cocktail glass. Let the Croat whoâd asked about her cocktail think that she preferred the âbungledâ version with its bubbly Prosecco. It added to her innocuous image.
Abdyl went on. âOf course he is not trustworthy. Who steals paintings only to have a closer look? It is no matter. We will never let him or them out of our sight.â He laughed. âUnlike that idiot art dealer.â
As Abdyl finished saying this, his roving gaze intercepted hers. He sat across from his brother on a cushioned bench where heâd been ogling the beachgoers around him as they waited. Now he trained that assessing look on her. Stasia controlled her reaction and returned his frank appraisal, lifting an eyebrow and inclining her head.
As vain as Abdyl appeared to be, she counted on him assuming that her extended regard signaled interest. While it was true that she was interested in him, it wasnât true that she found him at all appealing. He slouched, his shirt open to display a muscular, tattooed chest that seemed more courtesy of hours in a gym than due to hours in honest physical labor. Or honed against a sparring partner or opponent.
Unbidden, an image of MirĂł dressed in a tight black t-shirt, unshaven and with shadows under his arctic blue eyes, overrode Abdyl Dervishiâs smirking, well-groomed image. For a moment, Stasia recalled the muscular strength of the Elioud lieutenantâs body as he restrained her from assaulting him more than once. Sheâd seen him fight bogomili, minions of a dark angel who killed with a wicked dagger called a subulam. MirĂł had earned every single hard plane and clear definition on his sculpted frame.
Stasia blinked and Abdyl came back into focus. To her amazement, he no longer smirked. Instead, he looked filled with longing. He straightened and stood, his regard locked onto her. Showtime. Apparently sheâd managed to capture Abdylâs attention without actually performing.
Agronâs disbelief bellowed through Stasiaâs custom-tuned earbud. âWhat are you doing?â he asked as he swiveled to look at the object of his brotherâs stare. âWe are not here for you to find a woman.â
Abdyl ignored his brother and crossed the few meters between him and Stasia. He stopped and openly scrutinized her from head to toe, his bold study lingering on her breasts and exposed thigh before returning to her face. Stasia quelled the irritated nausea his examination had caused and, picking up her cocktail, tilted the glass so that the liquid touched her lips. She smiled and said nothing, again imagining that she was the Mona Lisa, enigmatic and coyâa woman he would be compelled to know.
âSignora,â he said, impressing her with his ability to discern her nationality but not with his rough accent, âjoin me. I will take care of you the way you are meant to be taken care of.â As he said this, he let his gaze slide over the Croats, who had stopped talking and bristled at his tone.
Stasia sensed a microcosmic shift in their posture, a spike in their breathing, and an almost measurable rise in temperature. She sighed. She didnât need a fight to ensue to prevent something that she had orchestrated. Her ability to charm her targets had its drawbacks, and one was that sometimes they didnât want to let her go.
She turned and smiled at the young men. The tension eased. They relaxed. âThank you, my friends, for sharing your table with me. I have enjoyed making your acquaintance.â She stood and watched as their gazes devoured the movement. âAlla prossima.â An encouraging promise: until next time. But there would be no next time.
Then, remembering that she was walking into the wolfâs mouth, Stasia bent, lifted her tote, and, tossing her hair, slid it onto her shoulder. She stepped next to Abdyl, whose gleaming eyes and shoulder-length dark hair were definitely lupine. Agron glowered behind him.
Crepi, she prayed, raised her chin, and let Abdyl guide her toward the cushioned bench.
Like a warning, the tingle sheâd felt earlier returned as a sharp jolt down her spine.
Stasia channeled the frisson of awareness into the smile she aimed at Abdyl when he slipped his fingers under the straps of her tote to carry it the few steps to his table. The man blinked, looking dazed, and his gait hitched. She didnât know if the maddening Elioud somewhere in the vicinity meant to throw her off her game, but she welcomed his observation of her performance. Though the inherent danger of most of her missions always added an edge to her delivery, playing to her hidden audience of one electrified her in a way she couldnât remember since her first covert operation.
Unexpectedly, knowing that MirĂł watched somewhere nearby comforted Stasia as Abdyl sat next to her, dropping a heavy arm across her shoulder. She was used to operating alone, except for when sheâd teamed up with Olivia Markham, then a CIA officer, to rescue a group of women held as sex slaves by a Serbian arms dealer. Olivia had already recruited AlĹžbÄta ÄernĂĄ, an officer in the VZ, the Czech military intelligence, to help her with other off-the-books rescues. In the succeeding two years, they had grown as close as three women from different countries and in different, sometimes competing, intelligence organizations could. In fact, she counted Liv and Beta as her two closest friends, friends who would come to her aid without stopping to ask questions.
Nevertheless, Stasia relied on herself for her official missions. Now, inhaling the heavy musk Abdyl favored laced with his sweat and favorite Albanian foods, she recalled MirĂłâs complex scent of bergamot and ash, leather and sage. And it hit her: as vexing as the taciturn Elioud warrior was, she knew in her bones that heâd have her backâwhether or not sheâd asked him. For the first time outside of her friends, Stasia felt as though she had a safety net during a dangerous operation.
She shoved that feeling aside and focused on Abdyl.
Twisting toward him (and refusing to inhale through her nose), Stasia put her right hand on his chest and smiled, ignoring the feel of his hot skin. Time to ease out on the tightrope. âBello, per favore, I have left my drink behind with those pasticcinos.â
She refrained from cringing as Abdyl squeezed her tighter against his side at her flirty usage of Italian endearments. It surely helped that sheâd chosen ones that aligned with his views: he was handsome, and her former tablemates were indeed nothing but puppies.
Agron, growing impatient, leaned across the table. His sharp gray gaze speared her. Stasia felt ice slide down her spine. Here was one who wouldnât be charmed not matter how she smiled. âYou do not belong here. We are waiting for a business partner.â
âWhat harm can it be for her to have a drink with us while we wait?â Abdyl asked, cajoling. âAnd what does it matter if the American arrives before we are done? I am sure he appreciates beauty as we do.â
To Stasiaâs surprise, Agron seemed to relent and sat back. So. The hawk-faced criminal could be charmed by his younger brother. Â
âBesides,â Abdyl said, leaning forward as if to conspire with his brother, âshe will be a useful distraction.â
Agron scowled and said nothing to this, simply lifted his beer and drank.
An American. It wasnât much, but it was more than the Art Squad had managed to discover before this. As Abdyl raised his hand to beckon the waitress, Stasia edged farther out over dangerous territory.
âAmericans ⌠they have no culture. They cannot tell a Bellini from a Bernini.â She waved her hand dismissively.
A threatening glint lit Agronâs gaze, but Abdyl sat back and laughed. âSignora, all Italians have art in their blood. It is to be expected with so much of it around you.â
âBut you speak as if you know more than your typical Italian,â Agron said. It sounded like an accusation. After a few minutes with the Dervishi brothers, Stasia had a pretty good idea which brother had pulled off conning the art dealer, and why Agron had gotten caught selling bad contact lenses: his hostile wariness set off internal alarms in anyone dealing with him. He might be paranoid, but he wasnât wrong to be in her case. She would have to tread carefully around him.
âI am guilty,â she said, subtly addressing his suspicions head on, and accepted the cocktail that Abdyl had finagled for her from the waitressâs tray. How kind of him, she thought sarcastically. It looked like it tasted blandly sweet. âI teach art history and Italian culture at the UniversitĂ Cattolica del Sacro Cuore in Milan. Many of my students are exchange students from the United States.â
The gleam in Agronâs eyes turned speculative. âPerhaps you are right,â he said to Abdyl. âAnd our American friend will appreciate your little Italian beauty and her art knowledge.â
Abdyl nodded and sipped from his beer. Looking at Stasia, he asked, âSignora, what do you know about Rembrandt and Renoir?â
Stasiaâs heart began to beat faster. No turning back to a safe perch now. âRembrandt was a prolific Dutch artist of the Seventeenth Century. He never studied in Italy, but the Italian Renaissance painter Caravaggio influenced him indirectly. Renoir was a French Impressionist painter who celebrated beauty and feminine sensuality. Both these artists are known for how they paint the quality of light and their interest in ordinary subjects. Their paintings are worth millions of euros.â She paused. Surely that was enough to establish her bona fides with these two. âBut I am far from an expert on these artists.â
The brothers shared a look. Abdyl grinned. âSee? You worry too much. Every man is the smith of his own fortune. She is going to help us negotiate a better deal.â
The second book in Liane Zane's 'Elioud Legacy' series, The Flower and the Blackbird follows intelligence agent Anastasia (Stasia) Fiore and Miro Kos as they become embroiled in a rapidly-thickening plot that only begins with the theft of a stolen Rembrandt painting, and that has not inconsiderable implications for their own equally thorny relationship.
As the investigation unfurls, it becomes clear that this is no mundane art theft, but instead a small cog in a much larger heavenly war. Bad news for Stasia, who is in a tricky position. As one of the Elioud (children of angels and humans), her chosen policy of non-involvement only does so much; as effectively neutral, she is vulnerable to influence from either side.
The combination of fantasy elements with the intrigue of an art theft is really effective. While the Elioud characters benefit from a range of superior supernatural abilities, they're also hampered by the necessity of surviving in a world largely ignorant of their existence - in basic practical terms, this means hiding their presence unless it would be more beneficial not to. This ramps up the stakes, while also ensuring that characters with the potential to be unbeatable instead have a clear advantage alongside some drawbacks.
Additionally, in an effort to unmask those responsible and uncover their true motives, Stasia and Miro travel to a range of far-flung locales, from France and Italy, to Albania, Croatia and even North Macedonia. Zane's depictions of these locations are admirably vivid, ensuring that even the most fantastical elements of the novel are grounded in flawless and opulent vistas rich with detailed imagery.
The characters are given equal attention. As The Flower and the Blackbird is the second book in the series, the reader meets the protagonists on their journey of self-development rather than at the beginning, but their depictions are nonetheless expertly well-rounded. Their (many) specialisations and competencies are balanced by challenges to be overcome, which includes, in Stasia and Miro's case, the specific frustrations of working with someone that you are (unfortunately) attracted to. The magnetism that they both experience is, in a world, unwelcome, as Miro's allegiance to Mihail seems largely incompatible with Stasia's stubborn independence.
That said, both Stasia and Miro, as well as the other featured characters, have a considerable number of skills in their repertoire, as well as being explicitly described as beautiful and alluring - and even irresistable to the point of inconvenience.
Her ability to charm her targets had its drawbacks, and one that was sometimes they didn't want to let her go."
While it is undeniably satisfying to read about Stasia holding her own in a plethora of situations, including against characters with immense strength and combat ability, I would have enjoyed perceiving greater vulnerabilities beyond what came across as simple inconveniences in the full ensemble of characters.
Additionally, the plot is simple, and Ziane's use of multiple points of view in the telling of the story means that the reader is usually in a position of knowledge. In some places, this reduces some of the mystery - but this is balanced by brilliant clarity of prose, ensuring an enjoyable reading experience with nothing lost to an overtly obscure turn of phrase.
Ultimately, this is a well-balanced novel and a reliable and fun addition to the series, with vivid imagery, clear and enjoyable prose, and an array of interesting characters. It is likely to appeal to fans of Ilona Andrews' 'Kate Daniels' series, and readers who aren't opposed to a little angelic interference in recognisable, real world settings.