Storming Venice
Page 1
STORMING VENICE
Anna Erikssön Bendewald
Hudson-Ivy Press
Storming Venice © 2017 by Anna Erikssön Bendewald
Published by Hudson-Ivy Press. All rights reserved.
Cover design by Emily Duong
Formatting by Maureen Cutajar
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, or events, is entirely coincidental.
First edition © 2017
Visit AnnaBendewald.com to find a family tree style outline of the main characters of this story.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I write because I’m a writer. It’s what I’m compelled to do. I don’t kid myself that I have any earth-shattering talent. I’ve experienced earth-shattering talent up close in the front row of a Queen concert. Thank you Roger Meaddows Taylor, John Deacon, Freddie Mercury, and Brian May. You taught me what true talent is, and created the sound track of my life.
—Anna Erikssön Bendewald
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Epilogue
PROLOGUE
A metallic clang broke the silence. Salvio woke up, his body cramping painfully. I’m not dead. Good news. He opened his eyes. I’m on the floor of the cistern. Again. Bad news. He’d already escaped Giancarlo Petrosino’s basement prison once. He moved his arms and legs tentatively, and in addition to feeling the cruel after-effects of being drugged, he felt the bite of metal on his left ankle. Through blurry vision he saw that he’d been chained to the wall. Then he remembered—they’d tracked him down in Venice. This was getting old.
The door screeched open and Petrosino descended the metal stairs.
Salvio sat up, then struggled to stand. “What are you doing here, Mafia dog?” He would kill for Petrosino’s elegant suit. “Come to insult me?”
“You’re calling me a dog? Why, because I work for a living?” Petrosino sneered. “You’ve never worked a day in your life, and your plan to ride on your late father’s coattails while sucking up to the Pope wasn’t a very good one. Your sense of pride is absurd, Scortini. You don’t have one Goddamn thing to be proud of.”
“So, you have come to insult me.”
“Insult you?” Petrosino moved toward him. “You’ve got some fucking nerve.” As Petrosino hauled back to throw a punch, Salvio flinched and tried to back up, but his reflexes were off and the ankle chain yanked his foot out from under him. He fell hard onto the gritty floor.
“You killed one of my employees and two other innocent people, you evil piece of trash.”
“You’re calling me evil? That’s rich.” Salvio countered. “My anger is righteous. My actions are justified. You don’t know what Verona is doing to my city.”
“Bullshit. Venice isn’t your city.”
“We Scortinis built Venice! The Veronas were just floating around on a raft when we arrived!”
“Nice narcissistic revision of history. You couldn’t fill your daddy’s shoes, so the Venetian builders stepped up to run their own businesses.”
“They’re nothing without a Scortini as their benefactor.”
“You’re jealous of Verona’s title. He’s a count, and the Pope made him head of the Verdu Mer project. You’re just a sore…loser.” The dog savored that last word.
“Verdu Mer is mine!” Salvio howled. “It’s the biggest building project since the Renaissance. It belongs to my family…I’m the last heir…me! It’s mine!”
“You’re lying. That project was never yours.”
“Verdu Mer is my birthright!” Salvio refused to look up to the Mafioso and struggled to his feet. “I’m the victim.”
“Victim my ass. What’d your wife ever do to you? Raphielli is as innocent as a lamb.”
“Ha!” Salvio didn’t see the punch coming, but heard and felt it slam into the center of his face, then he saw red as his nose broke.
“That’s for laughing about hanging your wife you fuckin’ pazzo!” Petrosino took a step back as if he didn’t want to get blood on his tailored suit. “She’s the reason you’re still alive. She asked me not to kill you.”
Now that was a news flash. He had no idea his worthless wife even knew Petrosino existed. “She was embezzling my money and…”
“She used the Scortini estate to run that depressing palazzo you locked her away in.”
“There’s no way that dumb cow could run a house.”
Petrosino closed the gap in three quick strides and Salvio got the beating of his life. While he was curled in a ball to protect himself he formulated a new plan. This time when he escaped, he would eliminate his enemies in Venice, and then come back to Sicily for Giancarlo Petrosino.
CHAPTER
1
Raphielli woke from her nightmare feeling stiff and sore. She must have flailed around in her sleep again, because her back, neck, and shoulders ached. She eyed the looming mahogany furniture blending into the shadows as Salvio’s dreamscape pursuit of her faded. She hated this dark bedroom that smelled of her late mother-in-law’s heavy musk perfume. Retrieving her new cell phone from the side table, she saw it was six twenty-two. Today’s calendar included breakfast with Alphonso Vitali, a checkup with Doctor Cappeli, her first day back to work, dinner at home, and finally physical therapy. A busy day, and the therapy session was her only hope of ending the day without her head falling off her traumatized neck.
Her maid, Rosa, wouldn’t be in to build the fire for a few minutes, so the room was glacial. The vast ancient palazzo felt cold year-round, but early November had been rainy so the palace felt like a cave. Raphielli knew God wouldn’t mind if she said her prayers from the warmth of her bed instead of on her knees, so she traded her phone for her rosary. Dear Heavenly Father, please restore my voice and take away my paranoia.
After her shower, her elderly maid helped her struggle into her clothes—it was still painful to raise her arms. Then, Rosa towel-dried Raphielli’s masses of long black hair and did her best with a comb before eeking the unruly riot into a tight bun at the back of her head. She stood in front of the mirror as she tied the green silk scarf she wore to cover the damage to her neck, and then turned away from her reflection. The dark circles under her dark eyes depressed her, and her sickly pallor made her look like a zombie.
On her way to the breakfast room, Raphielli walked down dark corridors and did her best to brush off the feeling of vague apprehension that had plagued her since Salvio’s rampage. The watchful eyes of long-dead Scortini in-laws staring down from portraits as she made her solitary trek past locked doors didn’t help her nerves. As she passed a painting of a particularly forbidding face she worried about how much longer she could keep her own hateful mother and grandmother at bay. The prospect of the Dour Doublet insinuating themselves into her life just as her maniacal husband was imprisoned was too dismal for words. But, when she arrived at the breakfast room, the sight of Alphonso lifted her mood.
He’d stayed by her side since the incident, reading the notes she used to communicate in lieu of speaking, and he offered advice only w
hen asked. She felt safe with Alphonso, maybe because he looked like the descriptions of Samson from the Old Testament: tall and muscular, his long brown hair falling around his handsome face down to his broad shoulders.
“There she is!” He stood, and she noticed he’d brought her a vase of Amaryllis. Each morning after the attack he’d brought her bouquets in expensive vases adorned with blue ribbons. They’d been the only bright spot in her dreary bedroom, or the whole palazzo for that matter. Then, when she was up and around, Alphonso started joining her for breakfast and placed the flowers in the center of the table. It had been three weeks, so he must be running up quite a florist bill.
Her butler bent at the waist and murmured, “Buongiorno, signora,” as he held her chair out and got her situated next to Alphonso with the pencil and paper between them. She looked up fondly at Dante, taper-thin, imperturbable, and wearing a uniform she suspected had been issued perhaps forty years ago. “When Doctor Cappeli arrives, I will show him into the reception room.”
She nodded gingerly, feeling the nerves in her neck threaten to knot. But, when she looked at Alphonso, she forgot her pain and met his smile with one of her own.
“Congratulations. After this morning, no more notes.” He tapped the pad. “The doctor’s gonna let you talk today, I feel sure of it.”
She found herself searching his face, trying to soak up his optimism, then picked up the pencil and jotted: I HOPE
“I bet your throat’s fine now.”
This made her grin as she wrote: YOU GAVE UP GAMBLING
“Ha! Just a figure of speech, but a friendly wager without money can be fun. Wanna make a bet on what’s for breakfast?”
She appreciated his effort to entertain her.
“If it’s a quiche, I win,” he said.
She wrote: PANCAKES
Just then, Guiseppe wheeled in a cart bearing two silver domes. Her husband’s shy valet had been her favorite person in the palazzo since her arrival from the abbey. Guiseppe was a small, tidy man of about sixty whose graying hair was slowly retreating from his smooth brow, and his hazel eyes were kind. Since Giancarlo Petrosino had taken Salvio away to Sicily, Guiseppe was helping out around the palazzo by lighting the fireplaces in the rooms she used—except in her bedroom of course—and serving her meals. Guiseppe said, “Buongiorno, signora e Alphonso.”
She smiled at him as she plucked the menu card from the tray. After a brief scan, she fanned her face with it and gave Alphonso a triumphant look.
“Who won?” He took the card and read, “Spiced chai tea with a shot of espresso—ooh sounds daring—scrambled eggs with Swedish platta panna pancakes and fresh lingonberries. You win. I’ve never tasted lingonberries, so this’ll be a first for me.”
WHAT DO I WIN?
“Bragging rights,” he said.
Suddenly she was starving, and the chai’s aroma enticed her as she laid a napkin across her lap.
“Your cook is taking this flavor challenge of yours seriously,” Alphonso said.
Guiseppe served their breakfast and poured the chai-coffee with deft movements so not a drop fell onto the pale yellow tablecloth.
As they began to eat, Alphonso seemed to read her mind. “You’re nervous.”
She put her fork down and jotted: GOOD DETECTIVE
“Yep, it’s why they pay me the big bucks.”
WHAT IF I CAN’T MAKE IT TO THE SHELTER?
“You will.” His voice was gentle. “I know you’re nervous about being outside, but I’ll be right beside you, and this is gonna be a great day. You’ll get permission to speak again, and get back to the work you love.” Raising his dainty china cup in a toast, it looked like a doll’s prop in his big hand.
Not feeling confident, she dropped her eyes to her eggs.
“You’re making progress. When you first got out of bed, you were afraid to leave the palazzo. Remember?”
She met his eyes.
“But you did. And together we’ve walked farther every morning.” She could see he was warming to his pep talk. “And the last two days we’ve walked all the way to the shelter, right?” He took one of her hands. “You’ve already done it twice.”
She raised her own cup in a toast to him, took a sip, and then they enjoyed the rest of their breakfast.
Once they had finished, Dante appeared. “Doctor Cappeli is here, signora.”
She walked down the wide hallway with Alphonso beside her. Every destination in the palazzo was a long walk, and her mind wandered as her feet covered meter after meter of the ornately tiled floors. Thinking of the throat specialist reminded her of that horrible day when Salvio hung her and left her to die. She felt panic start to rise and almost reached for Alphonso’s hand, but she refused to give in to hysteria and took a deep, cleansing breath.
Finally reaching the reception room, she was pleased to see a fire had been built in the enormous fireplace. The doctor was seated in one of the conversation areas made up of fourteenth-century furniture. The old sofas and chairs were more pleasing to the eye than to the backside so, while Raphielli deferred to her butler who parked visitors like Cardinal Negrali in this reception room because of its formal beauty, she would never select it as a place to relax and read a book. The walls were crowded with still-life paintings that must have been more cheerful centuries ago before the patina of age dulled their colors.
The doctor stood up as she approached.
“Signora Scortini, so good to see you. Ciao, Signor Vitali.”
“Ciao, Doctor Cappeli,” Alphonso said and moved over to the window. He was either trying to avoid hovering or sitting on the uncomfortable chairs.
“Now let’s look at that neck of yours.” The doctor directed her to sit.
She removed the green silk scarf and perched on the edge of a lumpy sofa cushion. He examined her neck, as she listened to the traffic jam of tour boats outside the window. As the second-oldest palace in Venice, Scortini Palazzo had always been a stop on the tourist circuit, but the crowds had increased dramatically since her husband’s recent rampage and disappearance. Boats were filled to capacity out on the canal, and loudspeakers squawked tidbits of history mingled with gossip.
“I see the cuts and abrasions are healing.” The doctor said. “No infection, which is good. You’ve been applying the ointment. The bruises may look worse right now, but they always do before they disappear. Please open your mouth wide.”
She complied and offered a prayer that her voice box wasn’t crumpled. She searched the doctor’s eyes as he examined her throat with a penlight. He clicked it off and reached into his leather bag.
“I know it’s been inconvenient staying silent, but if there was structural damage to your larynx, using your vocal chords would have interfered with the healing process.”
She gave a small nod.
“On my last visit, the area of trauma was still too swollen to see anything. But now I can see your throat has healed nicely.” He gave her a reassuring smile. “Let’s perform a test. I’ll spray some cider into the back of your mouth. Swallow it so I can observe how your throat moves. Don’t clear your throat. Do you understand?”
Again she nodded.
“Open wide.”
The tart mist made her mouth water and she swallowed several times.
“Now, try saying ‘Ciao.’”
“Ciao.” It came out in a husky voice she didn’t recognize.
He motioned for her to repeat the word, which she did while he placed a stethoscope on the front of her throat and listened.
“My word, those tour boats are loud,” he commented, glancing momentarily at the windows. He repositioned the stethoscope higher on her throat. “Now repeat, ‘mi-mo-ma.’”
“Mi-mo-ma, mi-mo-ma, mi-mo-ma.”
He removed the stethoscope and beamed. “Bueno! I hear no impairment.”
It felt like he’d pushed a weight from her shoulders, and she felt lighter than she could remember feeling. “I don’t need surgery?” she husked.
“No surgery needed.”
“Congratulations!” Alphonso said.
The doctor began returning items to his bag. “No speeches or singing for a few days.” Then he chuckled lightly.
“Sì. Okay.” She grinned at the thought of singing or making a speech, neither of which she’d ever done well.
“Signora…it…” He looked at her with concern.
“Call me Raphielli.”
He eyed Alphonso. “Signor Vitali, could you give us a moment?”
“Certamente.” He left the room and pulled the door closed.
The doctor gave her a strange look. “Raphielli, it’s none of my business why don Petrosino would send me to take care of you...” He hesitated.
She could tell he was dying to know the nature of her relationship with the Mafia don. “It’s a long story…one I don’t think Gio would like me to share.”
His brows floated up at her use of a nickname for the don, and then he looked disappointed.
She teased him with her smoky new voice. “I suspect you have a similar association with him, which is why you rushed to help me when he called you.”
“Sì, I came running. You and I are both good people…in the same boat with don Petrosino. He’s protective of you, and yet I can’t help feeling worried for you.”
“Worried about Gio?”
His expression told her how absurd he found that question. “No, Salvio.”
“Well, Salvio’s apparently dead, so…” She couldn’t tell him the truth.
“They still haven’t found his body.”
“I’m flattered by your concern.”
“I am concerned about you. If you need anything, call me.”
“Grazie. Alphonso is acting as my security…”
“He’s certainly big enough to be intimidating.”
“Sì. His cousin Zelph has offered to help me, too, and he’s as big as Alphonso.”
“That’s good, since I’ve never seen any staff around here except your elderly butler. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must get back to my clinic.”