Jaccorsi looked up at the china-blue sky. There was not a single cloud.
“Yes. A pity,” he said without much feeling.
“Are you sure I can’t get you an espresso?” Charles asked again.
“No, I’d better be getting along now,” Jaccorsi said. “Thanks for the help.”
“Take care,” Charles said.
Detective Jaccorsi rang the kitchen bell and listened for the shuffling footsteps. For the next two hours, he and his mother would sit at the wooden table in the kitchen. There’d be coffee and fresh panettone and lots of local gossip.
It was a big week at the Villa Brindisi. His mother would probably tell him all about it; the entire island was talking about the royal visitors.
Footsteps approached the door and the lock clicked open. Jaccorsi was always surprised to see how old his mother was. In his mind she was still young and beautiful. She stood there now, her face shining with joy at seeing her only son.
Somehow the sight of her caused him to think about the grisly murder he had witnessed last night. The Hotel Caesar Augustus was not even a half mile away.
He pulled his mother into his arms and squeezed her with affection.
“Mama, come stai?”
TORRE DEL GRECO, NEAR NAPLES, ITALY
Naples crime boss Salvatore Mondragone sat under the shade of a grape arbor. Out on the lawn, his fishpond glimmered in the sun. He lived in the charming suburb of Torre del Greco on the lower slopes of Mount Vesuvius. It was pleasant to sit in the garden where the sea breezes gently stirred the oleanders and umbrella pines.
He did not grow up in such idyllic surroundings, but rather spent his blighted youth in the slums of Naples. The family apartment was on a street nicknamed “the Tunnel of the Dead”—where mobsters had their gun battles, taking advantage of the narrow alleyway to corner their enemies.
Mondragone turned at a noise behind him on the terrace. It was Tito. His second in command was a strange looking man, with a shock of Warholesque white hair and a perpetually hostile expression. Tito’s lower body was deformed, and he scraped his feet along with a painful gait, as if his hips had been knocked out of alignment.
“Buongiorno,” Mondragone said. “Did you bring anything from Renato?”
“Here’s the ring.”
Tito wormed something out of his pocket and handed it to his boss. Mondragone held it up to the light.
At first glance, it wasn’t impressive. The gold wasn’t very heavy, and there were no jewels or fancy ornamentation. The design was common enough—two clasped hands—a standard wedding ring that was traditionally worn by the wealthy women of ancient Rome. Similar artifacts could be found in the British Museum or the Pergamon Museum in Berlin.
What made this ring special, according to Sotheby’s, was the inscription on the inside—“Te amo parum.” The Latin phrase was etched into the ancient gold.
The translation of te amo was straightforward enough—“I love you.” The inclusion of the word parum, however, was enigmatic—it meant “very little” or “not a lot.”
“I love you very little” was an unusual thing to declare to one’s betrothed. But experts came up with a less literal meaning, interpreting the phrase as “I don’t love you as much as you deserve.”
Mondragone found that to be a perfect sentiment when it came to his wife. Fabiola was a legendary beauty and an opera diva of international fame. Being with her proved that he was cultured and not just a common thug. But he didn’t really love her. He was incapable of the emotion.
Her fortieth birthday was coming up, and he needed several expensive presents for the occasion. It would be a big party in London, and he had to appear generous. Not for her sake. Her approval didn’t matter. The rest of the world should see that he was successful.
“Did he give you anything else?”
“No, boss. He didn’t.”
“I guess the ‘Thief of Princes’ has lost his touch. Cazzo,” Mondragone swore. “I told him to go to the Villa Brindisi.”
“He says it was too heavily guarded.”
“Brindy made sure everyone was out of the house,” Mondragone growled. “What more does he need, an engraved invitation?”
Tito shrugged and made a big production out of opening a pack of cigarettes, banging it on the heel of his hand. He pulled one out and put it between his lips.
“What do you want me to do, boss?”
The unlit cigarette bounced like an orchestra baton beating out the syllables, as he searched his pockets for the lighter.
“Tell him to go back to Capri and get it.”
“Va bene,” Tito nodded, lighting the cigarette.
“Make sure Renato knows he’s a dead man if he doesn’t.”
“Want me to hurt him?” Tito asked, flicking ash onto the terrace as he awaited instructions.
Mondragone thought about it, looking off at the garden. He answered with utter dispassion.
“Sure. Just a little.”
VILLA BRINDISI, CAPRI
Sinclair stopped the car in front of the gates of the Villa Brindisi and honked. He was on a fool’s mission, secretly returning Victoria to the house where she was supposed to be staying.
The car belonged to Charles, and ludicrously, Victoria was now concealed under a blanket in the backseat. Her body was so slight, she barely made a bump.
At first, Sinclair refused to chauffeur the girl back. But Charles begged, saying he was perfect for the job. Sinclair and Brindy were former lovers and had been seen together on the island for years. No one would think it strange if he turned up at her house today.
As Sinclair pulled up to the gates, there were a few cameramen, but it was too early in the day for the majority of the paparazzi to be here. After all, it was Sunday.
As Sinclair eased the car forward, no one reacted. Clearly, they did not spot Victoria in the back seat.
The portals of the Villa Brindisi swung open. It was Brindy’s son, Luca. The teenager flashed a grin as Sinclair drove through and then shut the doors.
The interior of the stone courtyard was sunlit and deserted. As expected, Detective Jaccorsi’s police car was parked next to the kitchen door for his weekly visit with his mother.
Sinclair got out of his vehicle without saying a word to the princess. He’d let her sweat it out for a while.
Luca Brindisi ambled over, a typical teenager, shy with awkwardness.
“Luca, ciao. I’ve got a delivery for you.”
“Yeah. Brindy just told me.”
Luca’s eyes were enormous, uncertain about how things would be between them. Sinclair and Brindy had broken up when Luca was still a boy.
“Come here and give me a hug,” Sinclair said, dispelling the tension.
He affectionately gripped Luca and pounded him on the back.
“I can’t believe how big you are. How old are you now?”
“I just turned fifteen.”
Sinclair took his measure. Luca was wan and pale. He had just come through a bout of cancer and his pallor was waxy. But Sinclair didn’t comment on that.
“Well look at you! You’re almost as tall as I am!”
Luca shuffled, pleased with the remark.
“Will you come in and say hello to my mom?” the boy asked.
Sinclair realized that Luca probably wished for some kind of reconciliation. That was not going to happen. Still, there was no need to be rude.
“Oh, sure,” Sinclair relented. “I’ll pop in, just for a minute.”
He turned toward the house just as two Norwegian security men came lumbering out into the courtyard, scowling.
“Where is the princess?” one of them asked.
“In the car,” Sinclair said.
He purposely didn’t open the rear door. He was not going to play footman as well as chauffeur. At the sound of their voices, Princess Victoria pulled off the blanket and climbed out. She ignored the guards and turned to Sinclair.
“Thanks for helping me.”
“Hello, detective,” Sinclair hailed him casually. “Been seeing your mother?”
“Buongiorno, Sinclair. Yes, as usual.”
They clasped hands warmly like old friends. Sinclair met Jaccorsi when he was dating Brindy. The detective would come by once a week, and sometimes they would talk about the history of the island. A few times they even explored the hillsides of Capri together. Jaccorsi knew all the secret passages in the ruins of Villa Jovis.
Sinclair turned to Victoria with studied nonchalance.
“Your Royal Highness, may I present Detective Jaccorsi?”
“Pleased to meet you,” she said.
Sinclair continued. “Your Highness, I think you may have met Detective Jaccorsi’s mother, Carmela. She’s a member of the household.”
Victoria understood immediately.
“Oh yes, detective. You mother is absolutely marvelous.”
Jaccorsi attempted a small bow of thanks, which he aborted in mid-execution. He looked both smitten and embarrassed.
“Very nice to meet you, your Highness,” he said, then turned back to Sinclair. “So how have you been? Spending much time in Capri this summer?”
“I’ve only just arrived with Cordelia. But now it looks like we have to leave.”
“Because of the volcano?”
“It would seem so.”
“That’s a shame. I’m also here for a short time,” he said. “An investigation.”
“Have you been up to the ruins lately?” Sinclair asked.
Jaccorsi knew all the hidden parts of the island, from childhood.
“Not in years. We really should plan to go again,” Jaccorsi replied. “That last time was fascinating. And I hear they have excavated a lot more of Villa Jovis.”
“Absolutely, let’s do that. I’ll let you know the next time I come to Capri.”
“Excellent,” Jaccorsi nodded.
“And if you ever get to London, be sure and look me up,” Sinclair added. “I’d love to show you around.”
“London? I guess it’s possible,” Jaccorsi said, to be agreeable.
Sinclair smiled. “Well, it’s nice to see you again.”
Jaccorsi shook hands, giving him a strong grip, but his gaze shifted once again to the princess. He made another abbreviated bow. Then he walked to his vehicle, got in, and started the engine. Luca opened the gates to let him out.
“That was close,” Victoria exhaled.
“He was too starstruck to suspect anything.”
“Thanks ever so much. I really appreciate it …”
Sinclair nodded and turned to go inside. From now on, Victoria was on her own.
But that didn’t mean he was rid of troublesome women. His ex-girlfriend, the Contessa Georgiana Brindisi, was waiting for him inside. As he entered the living room, she stepped in from the balcony, her long dark hair blowing in the breeze. Strong, sensual, exotic, her dark eyes flashed in welcome.
It had been seven years since they last dated. Brindy hadn’t changed at all. There was the usual flamboyant attire: jeweled sandals, an armload of gold bracelets. Her orange silk caftan clung to her body, defining ample breasts. Even on a Sunday morning, she was not reluctant to flaunt her sexuality.
“Hello, Brindy,” Sinclair said quietly.
“John, darling! How kind of you to drop in.”
She stretched up to kiss him on each cheek. He was assailed by her perfume, “Aphrodite.” Years ago, Brindy had invented the scent, reconstituting an ancient perfume oil found in one of the Greek amphorae Sinclair discovered on a dig. It was now sold in every duty-free shop in the world. Sometimes he’d catch a whiff of it on a passing woman, and it always brought back memories.
“I thought I’d stop by to say hello,” he said, hesitating in the middle of the room, fighting the urge to flee.
“Come in, come in.”
Brindy gestured to the upholstered settee.
“I can only stay a moment,” he said, sitting down.
Brindy settled in next to him.
“How good to see you,” she said, patting his arm.
She was often touchy-feely in conversation. Intimate, confidential. But she could turn that off and on. Sometimes, she could be as aloof as an empress. Her manner changed depending on whom she was manipulating.
Deceit was in her genes. In terms of social rank, her Brindisi ancestors included princes and popes. The family had rivaled the doges of Venice in terms of power. They had amassed their wealth by their wits and cunning. And so had Brindy. She was a true Brindisi.
Her appearance revealed the family bloodlines, and her features matched those of her ancestors in the portraits. Her profile had the purity of a classical marble statue—hooded eyes, a full mouth, dominant nose. Sinclair often thought that she would have fit in as the wife of a high-ranking senator during Nero’s reign.
“John, it’s been ages.”
She reached for a small silver bell to ring the housekeeper.
“Coffee?”
“No, thank you. I really have to get back.”
Her hand hesitated, then she put the bell down. Disappointment registered in her eyes.
“Well, stay a moment anyway and tell me—how have you been?”
Her manicured fingers made a quick brush of his knee and then moved away.
“I’m fine. Living in London now,” he said.
She really had no right to all his personal details. He chose another direction.
“How’s your family?” he asked. “Is everyone well?”
Her smile faded a bit. That question was a blunder, Luca was still recovering from cancer. So he pressed on, trying to cover his gaffe.
“I was actually wondering about your grandmother. Is she still in that beautiful old house in Rome?”
The old Contessa Brindisi was ninety-five and still a prominent social figure in Italy.
Brindy smiled. “Yes, I don’t see her often. But she’s going as strong as ever.”
She looked up, and their eyes connected.
“Of course you heard about Luca,” she said.
Sinclair nodded quickly. “Yes. I was so sorry … I wrote to him a couple of times. I wish I could have come to see him, but I was away on expedition. How’s his prognosis?”
Brindy sighed. “They say he’s in total remission. There’s a six-month checkup in another week or so, but the doctors are optimistic.”
“Please, keep me informed, will you?”
“Of course. He thinks the world of you, John.”
“Well … I’ve missed … it’s so nice to hear he is doing better.”
There was a moment of silence as Brindy looked around furtively. She leaned closer, speaking softly. “I wanted to ask you. Have you heard about the murder last night?”
“Murder?”
“Yes, apparently a guest was killed up at the Hotel Caesar Augustus. My housekeeper, Mrs. Jaccorsi, just told me.”
Sinclair felt the hair rise on the back of his neck.
“There was an ambulance in the square last night. But I didn’t realize it was a murder. What happened?”
“A man was shot through the forehead.”
“That sounds like a Camorra hit.”
“Yes. Apparently the victim was a banking executive.”
“What does Detective Jaccorsi say? This case must be generating a lot of interest.”
“To the contrary. They’re hushing up the whole thing.”
Sinclair frowned. “Why?”
“Nobody wants to answer questions about the Camorristi.”
“That’s terrible.”
“I’m really worried, John. You know we have security issues, especially with the princess.”
He fixed her with a cold stare. “If you’re so worried ab
out Victoria, what was she doing up at Charles Bonnard’s house?”
Brindy’s eyes were all innocence. “How could I stop her? She’s in love.”
He gritted his teeth in exasperation.
“Brindy, you shouldn’t encourage the girl. This kind of liaison will never work.”
“Why not?”
“She’s first in line to the throne.”
“That’s no problem. Charles is from a noble family.”
“Well, yes and no,” he corrected her.
“His father is Alphonse Bonnard,” she countered.
“You know Charles’s family history as well as I do. He is not Bonnard’s son.”
“But none of that information is public.”
Sinclair shook his head. “If the press starts digging, he’s going to be humiliated.”
“We shouldn’t interfere in affairs of the heart, John.”
Sinclair felt his patience evaporate.
“What about Charles’s mother and sister? They’ll be dragged into it as well.”
“I’m sure it will all work out,” she purred, putting her hand on his thigh. She gave his leg a squeeze. Her dark eyes were cunning.
He stared back, wondering what she was scheming.
Luca Brindisi and his boarding school friend, fifteen-year-old Prince Karl of Norway, were lounging on the terrace of the Villa Brindisi, looking for new ways to get into trouble.
“So your sister is going back home?” Luca asked.
Prince Karl nodded. “Yeah, they’re afraid she’ll get stuck here. There is some kind of public appearance in Oslo next week.”
“What about you? Do you have to go, too?” Luca asked.
“No, I can stay until school starts.”
“Cool,” Luca said. “You know, we should do something incredible, so we can brag to the other guys when we get back.”
Karl sat down opposite him.
“Why don’t we sneak away and go off somewhere.”
Luca grinned. “The Blue Grotto?”
“No, that’s for tourists. How about climbing Mount Vesuvius?”
“You want to climb that?” Luca asked, pointing to the volcano on the mainland.
“Yup.”
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