A frustrating reality, but reality nonetheless, and one that Lucia would simply have to face. Since facing it would be easier with a glass of cabernet, she eased toward the bar and slid onto one of the empty stools. The bartender seemed to materialize in front of her, and she ordered her wine, then sat back with her eyes closed, hoping that Jacques Moreau’s absence wasn’t a portent that her assignment was doomed. Monaco had never been a good place for her, and just being back sent a wash of bad memories flooding over her. Stop it. This was not a mission she could—or would—fail. Monaco meant nothing to her. Centuries had passed. The place had changed. Moreau’s absence meant nothing either. Not even a delay. After all, it wasn’t as if she was going to stroll into the casino, guns blazing, and take him out. No, her work was always much more refined. She had to plan. To prepare. But part of that planning and preparation involved observing the target, and his absence was definitely an inconvenience in that respect.
