Isabella could barely breathe. The corset fit so tightly around her middle her lungs worked at only half their capacity. All in the name of Carnival, the annual festival held in Venice. Thousands of tourists would be crowding the waterways and streets, dressed in elaborate costumes, singing and dancing.

All she had to do was make it through the parade of boats and the march through Piazza San Marco. Her father would make a short speech, and then they could all go back home, get out of their costumes and relax for a few hours before the ball.

If she survived the heavy layers of russet fabric in the one of the most elaborate Renaissance dresses she’d ever worn. Her headpiece alone must have weighed fifteen pounds with yards of ribbon trimmed in gold glitter. She had chosen not to wear the full porcelain face mask, opting for one that covered only the top half of her face.

The gown was stunning, the mask was even more elaborate, but she would rather be wearing her blue jeans and a comfortable T-shirt. Even a roomy burka would be preferable to the corset and heavy clothing.

She sat in the boat beside her father as they floated slowly along the Grand Canal in a procession of hundreds of boats, their destination the square at San Marco where the opening ceremonies would herald the official beginning of Carnival and its week of festivities.

Her father sat beside her wearing a long purple velvet coat. Beneath it, he wore a white shirt with full sleeves and lace at the cuffs. On his head was a long wig of white curls and a tri-corner hat. He looked so handsome and distinguished, like the American George Washington on his way to a fancy gathering.

Isabella glanced behind her at Ronin, wearing a black cape, black tights and a long red tunic. His face was partially covered by a strip of black fabric Andre had fashioned into a mask.

Isabella’s heart fluttered. He was just as handsome in this more elaborate costume, as he had been in his hastily thrown-together costume of two years ago. The clothes weren’t what made him so attractive. It was the way he held himself, straight and proud.

If only she were just another tourist, perhaps a French woman there only for the festivities before she returned to her home in rural France, where no one would chase after her to claim the price on her head. If only she could lead a simple life, work as a baker or an accountant.

What would it be like to be married to a US Navy SEAL and live in the U.S.? That fantasy seemed so far from Italy and her life here. They could live in an apartment or maybe a cottage in Virginia. That’s where Ronin had said his unit was based.

She could get a job as a waitress or volunteer at soup kitchen. Wasn’t that what Navy wives did? Or she could go to college in the U.S. and get a certificate to teach children.

She sat up straighter. Would the school directors allow the Angel of Mercy, who’d fought against ISIS, to teach small children to read and write? Would they learn of her involvement in Syria and ban her from being anywhere near a school?

Isabella sighed, her gaze constantly sweeping over the occupants of the other crafts and the people lined up on the docks and landings along the Grand Canal, witnessing the procession.

Were there ISIS operatives hiding among the Carnival-goers, waiting for their moment to strike her down, or capture her to return her to al-Jahashi? Wearing this dress, she couldn’t begin to outrun anyone, and she doubted she had the flexibility to effectively defend herself. She’d be an easy target, waiting for someone to take her out. Her only saving grace was the width of the cloak and the skirt. Sure, they could hit the costume, it was large enough. The shooter would have to be completely incompetent to miss. But whether the bullets would hit her person was another question.

Lorenzo sat on the other side of her father and two bodyguards, whose names she couldn’t recall, sat in the front of the boat.

Andre steered the craft while Ronin and Matteo sat on the rear bench, covering Isabella and her father’s backs.

The water parade went off without a hitch. One by one, the passengers in the boats pulled up to the dock, the passengers disembarked and the boat drivers poled the boats away to tie them up alongside the rows of buildings. Andre pulled their boat up to the landing and waited as Lorenzo and Ronin assisted Isabella and her father from the craft.

Once steady on her feet, Isabella hooked her father’s arm and led the way into Piazza San Marco. A huge crowd had gathered. With the upcoming costume contest looming, people filled the square wearing some of the most flamboyant costumes in every color under the rainbow. Most wore fine, white porcelain masks and elaborate headdresses.

The music was as loud and boisterous as the people playing and dancing to it.

Carnival was Isabella’s favorite time of the Venetian year. The outfits were outlandish and many times garish. But she didn’t care. The people were there to have fun.

Getting through the crowd proved to be more difficult than she remembered. With the wide spread of her gown, she couldn’t get close enough to people to jostle them out of the way.

Her father, in his much narrower costume had no difficulties at all elbowing his way through the crowd. He had Lorenzo at his side, guarding him from unanticipated attacks.

“Go on,” she urged. “You have to get to the dais to make your speech. I’ll only slow you down.” She released her father’s elbow and nodded toward the stage. “Go and dazzle them with your brilliance. I’ll catch up.”

“I won’t leave you,” her father said.

“I have Ronin.” She held out her hand.

Ronin took it and slipped his other hand around her waist, beneath the cape. “I’ll keep her close,” he promised.

Her father frowned, glanced toward the dais and nodded. “I will only be a moment.” With Lorenzo’s help, he nudged and edged his way through the crowd, finally making it to the platform with the podium.

With Lorenzo close at his side, he climbed up the stairs to the dais and waited to be announced.

Isabella panned the crowd, searching for anyone with a gun, praying her father would get through his speech quickly and get down off that stage. When he stepped out in front of the crowd, he would be at his most vulnerable.

The master of ceremonies waved him forward. Isabella held her breath and listened for any sound even vaguely similar to the pop of gunfire. The crowd cheered, and then quieted while her father spoke.

He made his statement clear, short and to the point. When he finished, the crowd cheered, the music played and her father left the stage on his own two feet. He hadn’t been shot. He hadn’t even been heckled.

A smile slipped across Isabella’s face. So far, so good. They just had the trip back to her father’s mansion to navigate, and they could get out of the costumes and breathe.

As her father and Lorenzo slowly made their way back toward Isabella and Ronin, the music grew louder and the people twisted and turned, dancing and laughing.

For a moment, Isabella lost sight of her father. “Do you see him?”

“No,” Ronin responded. He rose on his toes. “I can’t see anything past the headdresses and hats.”

For a brief moment, she caught sight of Lorenzo in his white, Elizabethan gentleman’s tunic and tights, and then nothing again.

Her pulse sped, and her hands grew damp as she twisted them in front of her. Isabella was near the point she was ready to strip out of the dress and dive into the crowd to find her father when he emerged and she caught sight of him.

He was smiling and laughing at something Lorenzo said.

A jester in a bright green and purple costume danced by her father swinging his arms like a propeller. His costume and the colors were so engaging, Isabella found herself watching him as he passed her father, instead of keeping an eye on the older Pisano.

When she looked back at her father, he was leaning heavily on Lorenzo, one of his hands clutching at his belly where a bright red stain spread across the crisp white shirt beneath his purple coat.

Isabella cried out and ran toward him, tripping over her massive skirts.

Ronin slipped a hand around her waist and steadied her, running at her side.

When they reached Lorenzo and her father, her father had pulled the mask from his face and slumped against his bodyguard, his own face as white as the mask he’d removed.

“Lay him on the ground,” Isabella commanded. She shot a glance at Ronin. “Find that jester.”

Ronin shook his head. “I won’t leave you.”

“Find him,” she bit out.

Andre appeared beside Ronin. “Go. I think he headed toward the north entrance to the square.”

Ronin hesitated a moment longer.

“Please,” Isabella begged. “He cannot be allowed to do this again.”

Ronin left Isabella and ran into the crowd.

“Apply pressure to the wound,” she ordered Lorenzo.

He hesitated.

“Do it, or he’ll bleed to death!”

Lorenzo pressed the palm of his hand into the bloody gash.

Her father winced and passed out.

Good. At least while he was out, he wouldn’t be in as much pain.

Isabella lifted her skirt and ripped fabric from her white petticoat, making long strips. She folded one of the strips into a neat square and nudged Lorenzo aside.

The man lifted his bloody hand away from the wound and more blood spilled out onto the ground.

Isabella ripped open her father’s shirt, quickly assessed the injury and pressed the pad of fabric over the slice in his belly. Holding the pressure steady, she glanced around at the onlookers.

A policeman pushed his way through the crowd and dropped to his knees beside her. “An ambulance is on the way.”

“Thank God,” she whispered. She fought back the ready tears pooling in her eyes. This man was her only relative. If he died, she’d have no one else in the world.

Her thoughts went to Ronin. He wanted her but, given the situation, she couldn’t wish her life on him. She prayed she hadn’t sent him into the jaws of danger.

As the minutes dragged on waiting for the paramedics and the water ambulance to arrive at the landing, all Isabella had were her thoughts to keep her company. Her father remained unconscious, and Lorenzo seemed to be in shock over the amount of blood.

Isabella’s time in Syria had hardened her to the sight of blood, but when it was someone you loved, it was still pretty horrific.

Please let Ronin return alive. Please.

Ronin ripped the mask from his face and ran, pushing and shoving his way through the crowd. Twice he thought he’d found the jester, and twice he’d been wrong. The colors in the costume weren’t right. They needed to be purple and green, not orange and red or yellow and blue.

He was about to give up and return to Isabella and her father when he spotted a man wearing the green and purple pantaloons he’d seen on the jester who’d attacked Marcus Pisano. The man had shed the jacket and wore a white shirt. He’d ditched the headdress he’d been wearing somewhere along the way, leaving his head bare but for a dark swath of hair.

He glanced over his shoulder again and again, while running toward the north entrance.

With the majority of the revelers occupied at the center of the square, the crowd thinned on the northern edge.

Ronin raced after the attacker, dodging women in voluminous dresses and men in big hats.

The jester ducked down an alley, disappearing into the shadows.

Determined to capture the man who’d stabbed Isabella’s father, Ronin burst free of the throng and ran full out, charging into the alley, wishing he held his M4A1 rifle. The only weapons he had were his hands, but he’d do whatever it took to stop the man from harming Isabella and her family. With drums pounding, cymbals clanging and music blasting through loudspeakers behind him, Ronin blocked out the noise and focused on his target.

Coming from the bright Italian sunshine to the darkness of the alley didn’t give Ronin’s vision time to adjust. He couldn’t see anything but the archway at the end.

He didn’t want to lose his target in the twists and turns of the maze-like alleyways and canals. Ronin shot ahead, racing through a tunnel of darkness to the opening at the end and nearly plunged over the edge of a drop-off into a canal. He stopped short, teetering on the lip of a landing his hands going up to catch the arched bricks overhead. When he had his balance, he dropped his arms and took stock of where he was.

The tunnel ended at the canal. The only way out was by boat or swimming.

He caught a glimpse of the tail of a motor boat rounding the next corner in the canal. The man he’d been chasing hadn’t had time to start a boat, much less get to the next corner in the short moments before Ronin arrived. But he could have had someone there waiting for him.

If only Ronin had a boat to follow.

Leaning out, he peered over the edge in case there was a ledge beneath where he was standing. No boat, but at that exact moment, a body floated to the surface of the murky canal water.

Ronin jumped back, his heart leaping into his throat. Holy hell, the man he’d been chasing lay face down in the water, his green and purple pants barely visible beneath the surface.

“What the hell?” Ronin shrugged out of the frilly costume jacket, dropped into the water and dragged the man to the lower landing where boats could tie off. All he saw on the fellow’s back was a small hole in his shirt.

Ronin flipped him over to find a gaping bullet hole in his chest. He’d been shot, and the bullet had made a mess of his insides. More than likely he’d died before he hit the water.

The only good thing about the scenario was that he wouldn’t be stabbing another member of the Pisano family.

The bad thing was someone had shot him, and it appeared they’d done it to shut him up.