As they sat down and shared a fresh pot of Earl Grey, Miriam unfolded a story of a happy young family destroyed by tragedy.
“It was a game to us, of course, and a competition. We wanted to see how close we could come to the originals, how cleverly we could reproduce a Cezanne, a Van Gogh, a Rembrandt. My style lent itself more toward the Impressionists, while Gianfranco could paint a Rafael like a dream. We never intended anything by it. We never meant for the works to be anything but practice. For technique. For style. It’s how an artist learns. It’s his apprenticeship.
“But it all went wrong when Gianfranco showed one of his copies to a fellow art student. When the canvas went missing—it was a Rembrandt self-portrait—we didn’t think much of it, we hardly noticed. The original had been recently sold at auction for an enormous amount of money. We thought it was sheer coincidence that the man who had bought the authentic painting had offered Gianfranco a night job working as a security guard. We even laughed about it.” She grinned ruefully. “Then as now, only a very few artists really get paid a living wage for what they do. And we had to eat.
“Gianfranco was a proud man. He had this villa, but his family had long since lost their fortune. The villa was really
all
he had. He wouldn’t accept anything from me, from my family. So we lived simply, especially when we were in Rome.
“Apparently, on the night of the robbery, the intent was for the thieves to steal the original Rembrandt and replace it with Gianfranco’s copy. They could then use the original as collateral in a money-laundering scheme. But somehow my husband found out what they’d planned. He tried to stop them.” She shook her head. “But how was one unarmed man to defeat someone who snuck up on him and knifed him from behind? He bled to death, which Nick may have told you. What he probably didn’t say was that he was there. My son watched his father die.”
Tears sprang to Lisa’s eyes. No, he had not told her that. But he might have if she had not gotten so angry, so self-righteous. She looked over at Miriam, who also had tears standing in her eyes.
“Although he has never told me so, I know that my Niccolo has dedicated his life to avenging his father’s death.” Miriam took a small sip of tea, her eyes meeting Lisa’s. “Do you know what a vendetta is?”
“Some kind of oath for vengeance.”
“Yes, a blood oath, sworn on a family member’s death. The Italians…” Miriam shook her head. She put her cup down then and reached across to squeeze Lisa’s hand. “You are now part of Niccolo’s revenge.”
Lisa stared. “But how am I involved?”
“Lisa, the man who was robbed that night was none other than the Principe Severino di Giorgio. And the art student-turned-thief was Peter Van Alstrand.”
* * *
Nick stood next to his motorcycle at a scenic turnout in the road that wound around the high hill opposite the villa. From this vantage point he had a good view of the house and grounds. He could see his mother’s car in the driveway in front of the curving portico and double staircase. Beyond the villa were the decorative hedges of the garden and the red tile roof of the barn.
As he watched, Lisa came out of the house towing her suitcase. His breath hissed, and he closed his eyes for a second. So, she was going to leave him. He was not really surprised. There was actually a part of him, a selfish part, that was grateful she was leaving. He should not have brought her here. Her presence made everything more difficult.
What he had told Lisa this morning was only part of the whole story. He clenched his fist around the old scar and let himself remember. Just this once.
Nick’s mother had been busy with a new work, completely absorbed, so Papa had agreed that Nick could go with him. He and his father had walked to Palazzo Severino from their little house in Trastevere. The facade of the building had overwhelmed Nick, but his father had squeezed his hand, and the housekeeper had invited them inside. He had eaten a little piece of
pandoro
left over from Christmas, and then he had wanted to explore.
“Niccolo, don’t go far,” his father said. “I have to talk to these gentlemen, and then we can eat the dinner that your mamma packed us.”
“OK, Papa. But can we play
nascondino
again?” Hide and seek was Niccolo’s favorite game, especially in a place like the palazzo. There were so many places to hide and so many spooky corners. Sometimes when Papa’s boss was visiting, Niccolo had to hide for real, then he had to be very quiet. Niccolo wasn’t sure why, but Papa had told him that the
capo
didn’t like Papa to bring Niccolo to the palazzo when he was working.
“I must do my rounds,” repeated Papa, “but perhaps after I will find your hiding place, si?”
Niccolo grinned. “Si, but you will not find me.”
Papa’s hand reached out to ruffle Niccolo’s hair. “Be a good boy, Nico. Then we can play later.”
Gianfranco Carnavale made no attempt to shrug off the bad feeling in his gut as he made his evening rounds in Palazzo Severino. Usually the routine calmed him. But the dark altered the familiar corridors. Tonight he was especially wary because of Van Alstrand. He wasn’t sure what the man was up to, but it was nothing good. Gianfranco had planned on warning the principe tonight that he’d overheard Van Alstrand putting together some kind of break in. His Excellency, however, would not be available until morning.
Gianfranco walked through the salon into the grand gallery. The white marble statues stood as sentinels outlined in moonlight. Paintings hung shadowed and indistinct, their colors muted and quiet. But it wasn’t only Van Alstrand and the principe that had had him reaching for the antacids earlier. The problem tonight was that he couldn’t quite separate the warning in his gut from the fight with Miriam about the boy.
He knew he should focus on his job, but Miriam’s often-repeated arguments spun in his head. Niccolo was too wild, she said. He needed to know his American relatives, she said. Gianfranco’s sense of fairness and family acknowledged this to be true, but he had trouble reconciling relatives who could be so cold to their only daughter because she had had the poor taste to marry an artist who was also a night watchman, no matter how noble his ancestry.
A movement of shadow interrupted Gianfranco’s musings and ratcheted up his level of alertness. Twenty-foot drapes swung from the ceiling near the courtyard windows. The sight made him smile as he remembered Niccolo using them as a very effective hiding place during an extended game of hide and seek in the palazzo last week.
His glance sharpened then as he realized Niccolo wasn’t the only one who could hide behind drapes. Two men dressed in black stepped out from behind the curtains. Gianfranco’s mind went immediately to the most valuable pieces in the museum. What did they want? Where was Van Alstrand? If he could reason with his old friend, maybe they could avoid a scandal. Gianfranco’s hand went to his waist, seeking the billy club there, but knife drove into his ribs from behind. There’d been a third man.
“Miriam,” he whispered. “Nic—”
Niccolo pressed his hand over his mouth as he watched his Papa sink to the floor. The tall, skinny man had stabbed his Papa. There was blood everywhere, and it looked black and shiny. Black, like the men’s clothes. They moved silently around the room and took the paintings off the walls, but left Papa on the floor. When they had gone, Niccolo crawled out from under the curio table where he had hidden. He held Papa’s hand. And then, when Papa no longer squeezed back, Niccolo took the knife from the floor and carved a “G” on his own left palm.
“I promise you, Papa. I will avenge you. I will find the man who did this and end his life—even if takes me my whole life. This is my sworn oath to you, Papa.”
Niccolo took his father’s hand again and lay his head down on Papa’s chest. He knew Gianfranco Carnavale would be able to rest easy knowing his son had sworn a vendetta.
The sound of a passing car drew Nick back from the past. He stood at the edge of the turnout, looking down on the villa, while his heart pounded with the memory of his grief and anger.
He had lost sight of his goal in the sweet relief of Lisa’s gentle presence. He closed his eyes, remembering the lush warmth of her body, her teasing smile and laughing whispers. He clenched his fists against a cry of anguish. She was not for him. Not now. The vendetta had not yet been paid.
He had wasted too much time, caught up in the principessa’s clever maneuvering. He needed that Rembrandt because it was the only true piece of evidence he had to bring down Peter Van Alstrand. The testimony of a ten-year-old boy meant nothing. The proof was his father’s painting. Nick had married Lisa to get it, and it must be his only goal now. He had to return to Rome, to Palazzo Severino.
* * *
In her tiled bathroom at the palazzo, Lisa stood in the spray of the shower and tried to picture the warm water washing away her stress and fatigue, but instead intimate images flooded her mind. It had only been a little over twenty-four hours since she’d seen Nick, but his absence was a constant ache. The rush of water over her sensitive nipples brought to mind his hot, slow hands as he’d caressed, coaxed… She put her hands on the slick shower wall and leaned her forehead against the cool tile. It would be a long time before she forgot his lovemaking.
The sparkle of the wedding band on her finger caught her attention. She’d married Nick with such hope in her heart, but now it was time to be pragmatic. His goal was clearly the painting. Hers should be curating the collection. And that meant putting the finishing touches on the gallery showing that her grandmother had planned.
She shut off the water and grabbed for a towel. She pressed it hard to her eyes, squeezing back tears. A fluffy toweling robe hung behind the door. She slipped it on and then padded into her room. The connection between Nick, Gran, Van Alstrand, and the paintings tumbled in her head like clothes in a dryer. With the towel wrapped on her head turban style, she went down to the kitchen for a glass of wine and a snack.
She encountered a shocked Katya, who glared at Lisa’s state of undress. “I will bring
la
mirenda
, the little snack, up to your room, Signora Carnavale,” Katya said primly.
Lisa winced at the name. “Katya, please call me Lisa or Signora Lisa if you must. I am going to the gallery. You can bring the, ah, refreshments there.”
She left the kitchen and went up to the gallery. She liked the idea of sitting in such a formal room in her robe. When she got there, however, the beautiful things made her think of Nick. She touched the bust of Julius Caesar and couldn’t hold back a memory that made her lips curve in wicked delight.
Katya came in with a tray and arranged food on the low table in front of the fireplace. Lisa sent her away when she showed a tendency to linger and to fuss. Alone, Lisa pulled the towel off her head and ran a hand through her damp hair. The array of food on the tray—olives, cheese, sliced cold cuts, and orange wedges—overwhelmed her. She rejected it all for a glass of wine. The deep swig of Chianti rolled on her tongue. She lounged back on the couch and looked up at the portrait of Gran.
Gran. The author of her current difficulties. Her grandmother could not have expected Lisa to fall in love with the temporary husband she had bestowed on her like a belated birthday present. Or had she?
She stared at Gran’s photograph. She had seen it a thousand times before. Now she tried to set aside memory in favor of dispassionate appreciation of the portrait itself and the woman it depicted.
In the photograph, the young principessa reclined on her side on a chaise lounge, her body coiled sensuously as she turned to look over the high roll arm. One of her arms lay along the end of the chaise, and her chin rested on her hand. The other arm lay along the line of her waist and hip. A Waterford crystal flute half full of champagne hung between her index and second fingers. The textures of the portrait made color unnecessary. Even in shades of gray, Gran’s bare shoulders revealed an iridescent sheen, and her lips were plush and dark.
The truth of the portrait was not just in the meeting of light and shadow, exposure and focus. The photographer had chosen the most apt split second to capture Gran’s larger-than-life personality. Just by looking at the portrait, one knew her.
Lisa sipped her wine and then saluted her grandmother with the glass. “Here’s to you, Gran. You were a knockout, for sure.”
As Lisa studied the portrait, she made a mental list that she titled,
Questions To Resolve Before Leaving Rome
. What was the truth about the authenticity of the Rembrandt paintings? Had her grandmother purchased them both with full knowledge of what she was doing, and if so where was the other one? Could Lisa identify their legitimacy without help? She thought that Nick, her husband of convenience, planned to use the paintings for his revenge, but would that revenge destroy Gran’s reputation and her collection? Had Gran known that? How had Gran become entangled with Peter Van Alstrand?
“You left too many questions, Gran, and not enough answers,” Lisa said to the portrait. “What a mess.”
Lisa cocked her head to the side. Was it her imagination, or was the picture slightly off center? Playing a hunch, she set her glass down and then moved the tray of food to a side table. Then she dragged one of the wing chairs close to the fireplace. She stood on the seat, reached for the portrait, and unhooked it from the wall. It wasn’t really heavy, but it was awkward, and she nearly fell backward when she turned with the picture and jumped off the chair.
“Dio, Lisa. What the hell are you doing?”
She squeaked in surprise.
Nick
. A rush of gratitude and pure longing swept through her. But she schooled her face to remain calm, because she had no idea what to say to him, or how to act. She took refuge in sarcasm.