“Will you need anything else, signore?”
“No. Grazie, Marcello,” I said under my breath. “You may leave.”
The minute he closed the door behind him, I all but leaped over the desk and clawed into the box, searching for that wretched note, curious as hell to learn its contents.
At last, I found the crumpled letter, unwrinkled it, and read the few lines in Juliette's handwriting.
Dearest Miss Lockhart:
Enjoy it as much as you can.
With a sister's loving affection,
Juliette Deveraux.
“I miss you already,” I mused.
“The name is Marietta Mazzilli,” I said. “You might also try Rinaldo Bianchi, her husband. I would very much like to know what became of them.”
“Res ipsa loquitur...” He rose from the armchair.
Latin. Lawyers had embraced it ever since Blackstone's discovery in Rome. The man had unearthed dozens of ancient legal scrolls and now, lawyers referenced their contents in their secret dialect to prevent others from meddling in their affairs.
Ordinary men did not speak Latin. But then, I was no ordinary man. “The thing speaks for itself?” I asked, revealing his phrasing's meaning.
Scorzo's eyes widened. Exposed, he gave a short quiet laugh. “My bill speaks for itself, signore,” he mused and shook my hand before leaving.
For the past few days, I had made inquiries after the couple, to no avail. But I refused to accept my failure as a hero, and I exhausted my last resource. Against every thread of respectability left in my pesky morale, I hired a lawyer, Andrei Scorzo.
Scorzo had come with the best of recommendations. I could not afford to pass the opportunity if it would speed my search of Master Bianchi and his wife.
I refused to believe he was dead. There had never been a better fighter. He was a shrewd and agile man; six feet of muscular body. Of course, more than ten years had passed since I had seen him last; he could have changed beyond the point of recognition. He could be an overweight, sleazy man, for all I knew—though I highly doubted a man as disciplined as him would ever yield to a life of leisure.
Selfishness motivated my search. For too long I had fancied meeting with Master Bianchi, dissuaded every time I thought of the moment when I would be forced to tell him about Viktor's death.
But perhaps it was not all selfishness. There was also the matter of Valentina. Although safe in a comfortable villa with enough means to provide her a decent living, the child needed her parents. And besides, I could not bear the thought of her tolerating her devious cousin, Regina... I was acting in her best interest.
And what would I say to Master Bianchi if I met him one more time? Oh, I knew perfectly well what I would tell him.
I never won any of my fights against Viktor. But as it turns out, I won a grander battle: the one against Death. I outlived my older brother.
No matter how cruel, this was reality. And more often than not, the truth tends to be sharp around the edges.
13
The Gates of Hell
“King wins, eight loses!”
“Unbelievable!” I whispered. Heat built up from my chest, reaching my face faster than anticipated. This dreadful streak of bad luck infuriated me!
As soon as the game ended, I retired from the table.
“Ridotto...” I muttered as I moved past the tables, through throngs of lavishly dressed ragazzas and beautiful giovanettos, all in maschera. The Venetian gambling house had given me nothing but grief. “Ridiculous!”
I could not afford another run of basetta. These card games were going through my pockets as fast as lightning, and no matter how much I liked pretending to be one of the barons and viscounts who filled the room, I reminded myself that my budget was a limited one.
There she was, the cynosure of all eyes. Her smile gleamed beneath her black Colombina mask. I recognized her delicate button nose and pink full lips. The dealer announced the winning slot, and people joined in applause and cheers as Alisa bowed and smiled. Her sharp blue eyes shimmered with joy.
Sensing my gaze upon her, she turned and acknowledged my presence. With grace, she accepted her winnings and excused herself from the table.
“What is the meaning of this?” I teased.
“I won,” she said, amused.
“Yes, I can see that,” I whispered. “But those cheers do not come out of winning a single game... How many times have you won?”
“Enough to treat you to a nice dinner.” She closed her purse and swung it in the air for my eyes to see.
Well, at least one of us had enjoyed the evening.
“Will you share with me a bit of your wondrous luck dearest Miss Lockhart?” a woman said, making her way through the crowd.
“Miss Sinclair, is that you?”
The woman removed her mask and smiled.
“How delightful to meet you here!” Alisa said.
“I witnessed your success at the biribissi from the other side of the room.” She flicked her fan over her cleavage. “I simply had to congratulate you!”
The woman's dark eyes landed on me with profane curiosity. Her voracious glance ate away every shred of clothing on my body.
“This is Mr. Ivan Lockhart,” Alisa volunteered, “my brother.” I resented her introduction, but that was what I was. “Ivan, this is Miss Valerie Sinclair. She has come from Paris in pursuit of the Grand Tour as well.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Lockhart.”
“Il piacere è tutto mio...” Bearing a mischievous grin, I kissed her hand. I had just suffered a hideous evening marked by loss and failure; I would find satisfaction by any means possible–even if it only meant indulging my vanity.
Miss Sinclair's pale cheeks tinged with natural rouge. I considered it my little triumph and relished in it for a minute.
“I expect I will see you at the Venetian Grand Ball?” she said while fixing her curled hair over her neck without parting her salacious gaze from me.
“Of course,” Alisa replied with utter seriousness. “Until then, Miss Sinclair.”
She had definitely halted the conversation a few words short of being rude. In one quick move, Alisa slipped her hand around my arm and curtsied her way out of the room with me by her side.
We stepped out of the ridotto, where I had lost more ducats than I cared to remember.
“The Venetian Grand Ball?” I said.
“Didn't I tell you?” she mused in a nervous tone that suited her very little.
“No, you did not.”
“We have been invited to the Venetian Grand Ball. It's a week from today...”
“Yes, I know when it is. But I would have noticed the invitation in our correspondence—”
“I'm afraid I took the invitation.”
I should have been worried, curious to learn the reasons behind her secretive actions; but consumed by my unlucky streak at the casino, I was not.
“Fine, it doesn't matter...” My head hung low as we stood by the gambling house's water gate.
“What is it?” She raised my golden Volto mask, enough to look into my eyes through the narrow gap. “Did you lose at one of those card games… the basetta?”
I laughed under my breath. Did I lose at one of those card games? I had lost at every table I had touched! Losing was not in my nature. I rebelled against it, though it helped very little.
“Do not be discouraged,” she mused. “You'll have better luck next time.”
“I don't think there will be a next time, not for me,” I said as we hopped into the small boat that would take us away from that wretched place. “I am done with gambling.”
She sniggered. “Every gambling house from Winterbourne to Paris knows your name...”
I hated to admit it, but she did have a point.
“Be that as it may, my gambling days are over...” I mused. “In Venice, at least.”
“Now, that I can believe.”
“Take me to dinner as you promised, ragazza
fortunata,” I said, wrapping my arm around her shoulders. Lucky girl.
The moment I set foot on Venice I realized its carnival was not a one-day festivity, unlike the markets in Winterbourne that settled twice a year by royal decree. No. La Serenissima distinguished itself by hosting a carnival whose celebrations extended for months.
Countless attractions, dozens of parades, concerts and balls were the city's daily routine. But the Venetian Grand Ball stood out from those events. It was a private affair, held in a respectable palazzo, a gathering of Venice's finest and noblest personalities.
Forget about Parisian gala's where Letizia Leone sang an aria or two. At the Venetian Grand Ball, one could well dine with the likes of the famous soprano the same as other highly esteemed members of society. Painters, poets, composers... the ball was a mixture of nobility and the world's leading artistry. And I had every intention of attending it.
I found it hard to believe that we Lockhart's had received an invitation to such a unique event. However, it was true. A few days back, Alisa had given me the letter requesting our presence.
Preparations would have to be made. Suits and gowns would be ordered as well as the perfect masks for the occasion. What a magnificent chance to have a bit of fun!
But before I arranged anything, I had to keep my word and meet with Scorzo, my solicitor. He had requested a rendezvous, and I was eager to learn any news he had to offer.
I stirred the glass of wine in my hand and stared at the calle, indulging in one of my favorite pastimes. I would run my gaze amongst the moving throngs that filled the street, and pursue whichever face stood out from the crowd until I unveiled a bit of their life: who they met, what they carried, whether they were happy, sad, or worried as they strolled by the street... And all this from my quiet spot at the table while I poured a glass of delicious Tuscan wine down my throat.
In a flash of a second, I saw a familiar face. But it disappeared so fast I supposed I must have imagined it...
“Buonasera, signore.” He pressed my shoulder.
“Sera...” I mused. With a quick tilt of the glass, I offered him a drink, to which he replied with a dismissive hand gesture.
“You wanted to meet,” I said under my breath. “I assume you have some news?”
“News I have, signore,” he said, pleased with himself.
What the devil? If he had any news why did he not come out and say it? I hated playing those petty games. “Well?”
With extreme parsimony, he drew out a card from his suit's jacket. Clasping it between both fingers, he extended it to me.
Pompous and vain; I could not wait to get rid of him. I took the card and read it. “This is an island...” I mused.
“This is what you asked of me, signore.”
“So, is he there?” I said with urgency. “I mean... are they both there?”
“Your answers await on that island,” he replied. “I will collect my wages tomorrow, signore.” Scorzo rose from the chair and dipped into the throngs of tourists, disappearing from my sight in seconds.
I stared at the card and its mysterious inscription.
Poveglia
What would I find there? Did I really want to unveil the truth that lay in that place?
Wretched Scorzo! I would have made him spit out every bit of information he possessed–for which I had hired him. But the man moved fast and left before I could ever speak a word.
“Poveglia...” I mused, haunted by the note written in hideous calligraphy. “Poveglia it is, then.”
I slipped the card inside my jacket, took one last drink, and moved away from the table, into the busy streets.
In that moment, my search began.
Six of the clock in the morning.
Fog covered the geranium trees in the palazzo's garden. I wrapped the heavy cloak around my chest and fastened it tight as I stepped outside, making as little noise as possible—although our servants had risen perhaps an hour ago.
As soon as I set a foot on the cobblestone pathway, I mentally prepared to take the leap into Poveglia, an island destined long ago to those afflicted by the plague. The settlement served its purpose as the ideal quarantine location until the sick died or what few were lucky, survived.
Haunted by their restless souls, the island remained off-limits to the Venetian population. But enough ducats could get me anywhere I pleased, I soon discovered.
The morning was cold and serene. I feared not whatever expected me at the address Scorzo had provided. What filled my heart with dread was creeping into that small boat waiting for me straight ahead and crossing the Venetian sea on it. My mouth dried at the thought of wave after wave tumbling that frail bark, subjected to the ocean's unforgiving whims. And though I hated admitting it, I feared it more than anything.
I loathed my body's weak response to sailing.
“Si sta lasciando, signore? Avrete la prima colazione?” Are you leaving, sir? Will you have breakfast? he said.
Marcello's shrill voice echoed in the small courtyard, rising to the palazzo's every window and possibly even reaching our neighbors.
“Quiet, Marcello!” I hissed. The man was obsessed with me having breakfast. “You'll wake up every soul in this neighborhood!”
In truth, I did not give a damn about the many souls wrapped in their sleep at this time of day. I only cared for one soul in this palazzo and it was hers. My one reason for leaving this early consisted in avoiding Alisa's objections regarding my plan.
Her pale and delicate arm reached out as she opened the window.
“Ivan? Is that you?” she asked.
Damn you, Marcello. You have spoiled everything! “Yes... It's me,” I said, defeated.
“Silenzio!” Someone nearby silenced us.
“I'm coming down! Don't move!”
Back to the garden, I trudged and waited by the door. A few minutes later, she appeared in the corridor, dressed in a white gown and wrapped in a silk robe which she closed as soon as the cold matinal breeze met her at the doorway.
“Which is it, are you leaving or have you just arrived?” she said.
“I'm leaving.”
“May I ask where are you going so early in the morning?”
“You may, but you might not like the answer...”
“Let us find out, shall we?”
“All right,” I said under my breath. “I'm going to Poveglia.”
“Poveglia?” she asked with a frown. “What's in Poveglia?”
“Possibly, Master Bianchi.”
“Ivan, you cannot be serious!”
“I am.”
“And what makes you think he will be there?”
“Scorzo gave me the address, he told me my answers await on that island.”
“You cannot go there! The place reeks of death!” she said. “Who is this man, Scorzo? What do we know about him? He could be a thief, a killer! I don't like this, Ivan. It's dangerous!”
“I'll take my chances, dearest.”
“You are as obstinate as you were when we were children!” She huffed. “There's no stopping you once you've set your mind on something!”
“If you are so familiar with this side of my character, then why go through this entire battle, sweet Alisa?” I smiled.
“Then you leave me no choice. I'm coming with you.”
“That is out of the question.”
Crossed, she folded her arms over her chest and tapped the floor with her slipper.
“I'm only telling you this because you would have noticed my absence. I would not want you to worry...”
“Liar... you're only telling me this because I saw you through that window!” She pointed upwards.
“Wretched Marcello...” I muttered.
“What if something happens to you? What if you do not return?”
“Then you will know where to find me... Really, Alisa. There is no need for such worries! Please, be assured, nothing will happen to me. This is Poveglia, not the gates of Hell.” I shrugged. “I'll be ba
ck before you know it.”
With little else to add to the discussion, she followed me to the garden's water gate, where the boatman waited.
I stepped into the small vessel.
“Be careful,” she whispered.
With my heart pounding out of control, the boat sailed away from the gate, into the canal, heading through tranquil waters to the island where Valentina's fate had already been written, and perhaps my own as well.
14
The Island of Death
It haunted me from a distance. Swathed in a thick veil of fog, with but a few old trees looming above, the island appeared desolated and dead.
An overwhelming sense of despair crept behind my neck as we reached the shore. Thousands of men, women, and children had been condemned to live the last of their days here, infected by the plague. Dragged away from their homes, here, they suffered their agonizing illness, shunned by society, exiled from everything they knew and held dear.
Forty years had passed since the last time this place had been used, and still, the boatman's sullen expression as he fastened his vessel ashore told me everything I needed to know about this island. Its wounds went deep, throughout decades of broken families, lost loves, uncountable tragedies—and let us not forget those selected unwisely and thrown into the pits of disease with no legitimate reason.
I had struggled to find someone who would venture into this place since stories of furious spirits haunting the island abounded. It took me more money than anticipated to secure the boatman's promise of a round trip. Still, I had no guarantees as to whether he would set sail as soon as my figure diminished in the distance. I risked everything being here, my very life was at stake.
Alisa had every reason to despise me for following such a foolish pursuit, but I would not rest until I knew what had become of Master Bianchi.
The minute I learned of this location, I knew that Death, my old friend, had a hand at play. Perhaps the island would lead me to the Bianchi's graves, perhaps to nothing. Scorzo had given no explanation.
Written in Blood: A New Adult Vampire Romance Novella, Part One. (The Unnatural Brethren Book 1) Page 14