Luigi Lampani was on his way to have a heart-to-heart with Raphielli. He needed more than her cooperation, he needed her to see him as an ally. He’d been standing on the far side of the bridge nearest the Scortini Palazzo when he saw her approach. She was accompanied by a man in his twenties with a blonde crew cut and wearing vaguely military pants and jacket. Raphielli wore a bulky coat that looked like an old lady’s hand-me-down and held on to the green scarf at her throat to keep it from being pulled askew by the wind. She smiled as she recognized him.
“Ah, Detective Lampani.”
He smiled back. “Buongiorno, Raphielli.” He looked pointedly at her companion.
“This is Alexi.”
Luigi said, “Pleasure. And what are you two up to?”
Alexi’s expression went from interested to guarded. “Walking her home.”
“Well, she’s home now, and I have some questions for her. You can leave her with me.”
Alexi looked to her for a signal.
She said, “Grazie. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He nodded and walked off.
Luigi noticed she had no bags, just a cheap crocheted purse slung over one shoulder. “Coming from work?”
“Good detection, detective.” She raised her brows and grinned.
Gosh, she’s cute. He nodded. “You seem to spend all your time at your women’s shelter.”
She stopped grinning. “Keeping an eye on me?”
“Sì.” He cut to the chase. “Because I don’t believe Salvio’s dead.” He saw fear, pain, and revulsion pass over her pretty features, but she said nothing.
“Come have a seat. We need to talk.” He walked her to a nearby bench that was dry. He let her collect herself as they sat in the shadow of her looming palazzo and watched boat traffic carve grooves into the water.
“So, you think Salvio’s alive? Do you have news?” she asked finally.
“Sì.”
“And you’ve come tell me I’m still in danger?”
“That’s part of why I’m here. The body in the morgue isn’t Salvio.”
“What makes you think he’s not dead?”
“Raphielli, I don’t know what you believe. But I personally don’t think Salvio’s body is still in the waters under Verdu Mer. I’ve met with Chizzoli, the site’s underwater expert, and his divers are doing construction in all those inlets and canals. I’d be surprised if there could be a piece of jewelry down there that they haven’t recovered, much less Salvio’s body.”
Her eyes were focused on the gondolas gliding past them on the canal, but he could tell her mind was far away. “Well, apparently, there was a body, it just wasn’t Salvio.”
“It hadn’t been there long. That body was carried on the tides for weeks. He started out a long way from Verdu Mer. When he drifted into that construction zone they fished him right out.”
“Oh.”
He turned to face her and spoke as convincingly as he could. “Raphielli, we have a solid case against Salvio for attempting to kill you and Vincenzo Verona, and for Petro’s murder. I’m also doing my best to build a case against him for Reynaldo Falconetti’s murder.” He swept his hand as if scooping up his evidence, and then made a fist. “If we can just get ahold of him.”
She glanced at his hand, but otherwise, she was still.
His enthusiasm welled up. “Look, I’ve got Salvio’s fingerprints all over a murder weapon, a stolen boat, a nasty piece of rebar, and eyewitness statements of his threats. I have Verona’s assistant, who Salvio identified himself to when he demanded the count’s whereabouts, a pissed off kid whose phone he snatched. I also have the Verdu Mer construction guard who let him onto the site and can identify him. Not to mention you, and a bocce bag containing 99,979 euros and, bizarrely, a stolen Rolex watch.”
Her face showed how impressed she was by his evidence.
“Raphielli, I have him. I can make him pay for his crimes. He needs to stand trial for killing Petro Caliverizzi. I intend to charge him with Reynaldo Falconetti’s murder, perhaps less successfully if I went to trial today, but I already have a bunch of witnesses that can put Salvio within a meter of where Reynaldo was killed. I’m putting that case together piece by piece. Reynaldo’s parents deserve the right to pursue justice for their son’s senseless murder.” He reached a finger out and pulled her scarf down a bit. “And I really want that maniac to pay for what he did to you.”
She dipped her chin down to minimize his view of the trauma, and he patted the soft fabric back into place. “I don’t believe he’s dead, and I don’t believe he’s in Venice. I’m gonna find him. You’ve heard this request from me before, but I’m gonna ask you again. If you learn where your husband is, I want you to call me right away.” He felt a headache begin to blossom between his eyes.
Looking chagrined she nodded. “Again, I promise you.”
“This time, make me your first call.” He pinched his nose. “Call Cardinal Negrali afterward. Okay?”
Luigi got up and stood in front of her. He looked down at the forlorn girl sitting on the bench being buffeted by the wind, wild black curls escaping their clip. “Raphielli, look, I get it. I know people don’t always trust the police to protect them. I’ve seen too many victims try to protect themselves from madmen. But madmen have a knack for getting through those defenses and killing their targets.”
“Sì.” She deflated further. “I know.”
Luigi bent over to speak softly. “Listen to me. Salvio’s no ordinary killer, and for some reason, he wants you and the Veronas dead.”
Raphielli nodded and reached her hand out for him to help her up. She looked exhausted and on the verge of tears. “I understand, grazie.”
Luigi watched as she walked slowly over the bridge and was ushered through the front door by her butler. Then he headed over to the Verona Palazzo to have the same talk with the count and contessa. He knew they didn’t want to talk about Salvio anymore and believed he was dead, but he had to try.
Salvio’s existence in the cistern had fallen into a routine of brain challenges to keep sharp, prayer, and light exercises that he could perform without causing the clamp to dig into his ankle. Unlike his last incarceration here, he didn’t need to explore ways of escaping. The only openings in the water-containment room other than the drain were the gutter slats in the ceiling, and they were only big enough to slide a letter through. Luckily, either it hadn’t rained in Palermo since Petrosino kidnapped him, or the gutters were closed to prevent the cistern from filling with water.
Salvio planned to leave through the door. But first, he needed to get the manacle off his ankle. The only items he had access to were sandwiches wrapped in cellophane and water in plastic bottles, so no fork or even the edge of a tray to pry with. He’d asked the kid who delivered his food for a toothbrush but didn’t get a response. He was now resigned to being a model prisoner until he got inside the kid’s head and tricked him into removing the manacle.
Right now, he was worried about his skin—the last thing he needed was an open wound getting infected under the metal. But if he had a bad enough injury to that ankle, he might convince the kid to move the cuff onto the other one. Perhaps offer to lie face down and not move during the transfer…then kick him into unconsciousness. It was dangerous. If it didn’t work, he could die of gangrene down here.
Salvio took a sip of water and, unlike last time, he wasn’t rationing it to launder his clothes. He’d been wearing this suit since September, and he’d been through hell since then. No chance of looking presentable when he escaped. Fine. He took another sip and felt certain he’d pass God’s test. He screwed the cap on the bottle, set it down, and began to pray. Father, guide me back home, raise my arm to eliminate my enemies, and reward your most faithful son.
The screeching of the cistern door interrupted his plea, and the kid came down the steps. Salvio opened his eyes. “Bless you for bringing me this food. I’ll bet you fifty thousand euros I know what sandwich you’ve brought me.”
There was no response, so he continued, “Tomato, mozzarella, and basil.”
The kid put the sandwich down, pulled a water bottle out of a bag, and set it next to the panino. He eyed Salvio. “Let me get this straight. You’re prepared to lose fifty large because you think I brought you a sandwich made of tomato, mozzarella, and basil?”
“I’m not going to lose my money. I’m confident.”
“You’re not smelling right. Your nose isn’t working since don Petrosino broke it.”
Salvio was happy to make this asinine bet because he finally got the kid to talk. “Are you saying that isn’t what you brought me?”
“It’s grilled eggplant.”
“You won fair and square. Give me your phone to transfer the money.” Salvio slapped a defeated expression on his face and held out his hand making it tremble slightly.
The kid stared at him and sucked his teeth. He looked to be about twenty-one and hard as nails. Salvio needed to reel him in carefully. “I can transfer the funds to any account you wish.”
Instead of producing his phone, the kid said, “So how is it you’re down here and you still got that much money? Why’d the don let you live, and how’d he leave that much money sittin’ around belonging to someone he’s gonna keep locked up?”
“You don’t know much, do you?”
“I know I heard him tell Primo he’s gonna keep you here till you drop dead of old age.”
“Petrosino can’t do that.”
“You wanna lose another fifty thou on that?”
“Do you know who I am?”
“A builder from up north.”
Salvio smiled to show the kid he appreciated his humor. He repeated, “Builder from up north. Ha. That’s not really me, and I know you’re smart enough to see that.”
“Builder from up north who fucked with the wrong Sicilian.”
“Ah, well, there you have a point.” He nodded at the thug. “I should never have picked up the phone and called Petrosino. On that, you are one hundred percent correct. I should have had someone like you on my team to counsel me. I need someone who’s quick.”
“Don’t bullshit me. I know you were quick enough to kill Roberto last time you were down here.”
Salvio refreshed the look of admiration on his face. “It was very early in the morning, and I don’t think Roberto was fully awake.”
“You’re pretending to be modest, hoping I’ll give you a chance to kill me.”
Salvio switched tactics. “There’s not a modest bone in my body. I am the son of God.”
The kid barked a sinister laugh. “You’re a real mental defective.”
“You really can’t see my divinity?”
“Nah, you look like a soft Venetian dude who got his ass kicked.” He jangled the door keys, and Salvio could tell he was losing interest. “But I’d be willing to reconsider my opinion of you if you wanted to tell me your bank account number and access codes so I can get the money you owe me from our little panini bet.” He drew a pen and paper out of his jacket pocket. “I’ll take care of the transaction this afternoon.”
“I’d be happy to, but I don’t know the full account numbers off the top of my head. I access everything through my banking portals.”
“I can do that.”
“Give me your phone, and I’ll access the funds. Then you can enter your account number, and we’ll wire from here.”
“You got a few problems with your logic. Apparently, you don’t have a grip on the reality you’re livin’ in.”
“Oh? Enlighten me.”
“First, you’ve not only fucked with the wrong Sicilian, you’ve fucked with THE Sicilian. Don Petrosino has more world leaders in his pocket than you could imagine. He’s personally responsible for a united Sicily. Before he sat down with the representatives, infighting across the nine Sicilian regions was about to get us kicked out of the European federation. Petrosino made us a force to be reckoned with and got us a seat at international tables. And the fact that you were dumb enough to think you could play him tells me you’re a mental defective. Second, I have so much respect for Petrosino, I’d do any fucking thing he asked me to do, without hesitation or question, including jump off that cliff outside. If you look at me and think you can play me against the don, you’re not very perceptive. You’d have to kill me to get your hands on my phone.”
“I didn’t quite hear you. Can you come a little closer and repeat that?”
The kid turned and climbed back up the metal steps. “And your last misjudgment is to think my phone could get reception here under sixty feet of solid rock that’s dangling over the Tyrrhenian Sea.”
Salvio went for it. “We could leave this cistern for a little banking foray upstairs.”
“Ma va te ne a fanculo,” the kid spat and slammed the door closed. Salvio had already tucked his new understanding of his jailor away and gone back to his prayers as the key screeched in the lock, grinding the bolt into place. Then all was silent.
CHAPTER
10
When Giselle went off to face the Vanity Fair crew at the photographer’s studio she gathered all the enthusiasm she could muster…which wasn’t much. It took the team of professionals almost an hour to get her into the vast dress the Verona estate had delivered, painstakingly apply makeup, whip her hair into a frothy up-do, and anchor the tiara onto her head. When Giselle followed the stylist over to the silk background, everyone went quiet and stared. She caught sight of herself glimmering in a far-off mirror and couldn’t believe the regal spectacle she represented.
“Ready, Contessa?” The photographer was bent over and looking through the lens of her camera. “You are a vision of royalty,” she said.
Giselle smiled and would have nodded but was afraid the movement would make the sapphire- and diamond-encrusted Verona family heirloom slip off her head. Instead, she replied, “Sì,” and tried not to be intimidated by the people all around her. It was their job to stand and stare at her. The photographer was world-class, and the magazine staff kept encouraging her to have fun. Now all she had to do was strike a few regal poses that conveyed her title.
“Ready.” She smiled.
“Now, let’s try a pose…can you make some space with your left arm and do something soft with your right hand, maybe just in front of you slightly…”
Oof! Am I supposed to know how to interpret that? How do models do this without losing a daily battle against indecision and approval seeking? She couldn’t imagine taking a job that depended on her becoming what other people wanted her to be, even if it was just for pictures. Giselle composed her arms, upper body, and head to make what she hoped were interesting lines. Her lower body was mercifully invisible—obscured by the enormous gown that flounced out away from her hips—so she didn’t have to worry about what to do with her legs and feet.
“Bellisima, Contessa! Just like that! This photo will be on the page next to the last photo we took. We want the opposite of how you looked at Verdu Mer, sì?”
Right, look glamorous in contrast to the gritty photos of me at my drafting table amidst the demolition zone. That shoot was easier. She’d been able to focus on her blueprints while the photographer asked her to do specific things like lower her left shoulder. These same assistants, stylists, and wardrobe professionals had looked less intimidating when they were wearing hard hats.
Well, if the photographer was going for juxtaposition, I can do that. I’m an artist. How about some dazzle? She lifted her chin and the jewels of her tiara caught the lights.
“Ah! Beautiful! Don’t move! Hold that position while we make a quick adjustment.” The photographer spoke in rapid techno-language that sent her assistants dashing about calling off numbers from their hand-held meters, adjusting lights, and repositioning reflectors while avoiding the cream-colored silk that draped from the ceiling behind her. Giselle stood frozen with nothing to focus on other than the buzz of whispered staff conversation.
“I heard the crown was from her family, the um
, Forêts”
“You’re wrong. Contessa Giselle’s family was filthy rich, but they weren’t nobility.”
“Perfect marriage, her sculptures in museums, and designs homes for the poor…I want to hate her.”
“Me too, but she seems sweet.”
“Where did the dress come from? I heard all those pearls are real.”
“All those beads? Pearls? Are you kidding?”
“No, and if I heard right, the crown is from the Verona family and the dress was Contessa Juliette’s grandmother’s…or something…but it’s not Verona.”
“With families as old as theirs, it’s easy to lose track. It’s like trying to trace which queen married onto which country’s throne.”
Giselle tried not to roll her eyes. They’d think she was being a diva. Oh boy, if anyone in her family were still alive, they’d have taken one look at the tiara on her head and reminded her of great-grand-père Flaubert Forêt’s mistress, Wilma, who instructed people to call her Wilmina. No one ever did. She didn’t love Flaubert, but had her sights set on living in his château. While his wife accepted him having a mistress, she’d put her foot down at having one live under the same roof—albeit a generous roof—with her. Wilma had been furious to live in a small country manor with only five servants, and to make it up to her, she insisted Flaubert buy her a tiara as consolation. He’d commissioned one by Louis-François Cartier, and Wilma made herself into a laughing stock by wearing it pretty much everywhere—calling it her “diadem”. The family joked she would have worn her diadem to a dog show if she’d ever been invited to one. Great-grand-mère and her best friend Wallace Simpson, the Duchess of Windsor, always dressed down when they expected to run into Wilma. She never failed to over-dress and they would pretend they couldn’t hear her when she spoke, so she would shout her comments, thus being the loudest person in both dress and manner.
None of the Forêt family had been interested in fame or the spotlight. They chose to live in a little place called Gernelle with a population of less than four hundred. Their money was old and their château was old, and out on their property, they were perfectly content. None of them had a taste for what her mother called “frou-frou,” and her grandfather embodied that philosophy, even showing up to formal occasions in his riding clothes. So, many of the photos of Giselle herself as a child were of her running around naked, playing with her friends. If her family saw her now, they’d tease her about the tiara, but they’d be proud she was taking her responsibility as Italian nobility seriously. Before their deaths, they’d gotten to know Vincenzo briefly, and they’d really liked him. She was sure they’d like Markus, too.
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