The Long Path Home

by Ellen Lindseth

  “Would you like that, for me to become a close friend of yours?” he asked with lazy interest.

  She looked up through her eyelashes at him. “Maybe. Would you?”

  A purely masculine smile curved his lips. “Very much so.”

  “Then tell me a little about yourself.” She brought the gin drink to her lips again and paused. “You seem very rich.”

  He laughed. “I am. And about to be even more so. Does that interest you?”

  “Very much so,” she said, echoing his syntax with a teasing smile. “What actress isn’t thrilled by stories of success?”

  He cocked a dark eyebrow. “Then perhaps you would be pleased to learn I own a villa near Tivoli, a famous vineyard, and two businesses here in Rome.”

  “My, my,” she cooed. “You must be important.”

  His expression became smug. “The prime minister himself has come to dinner several times. And my family was a good friend to Victor Emmanuel II. My father and the king used to hunt together.”

  “My goodness! Your father was really the king’s friend?”

  He puffed up in indignation. “I do not lie, signorina.”

  “Of course not!” she said soothingly. Then she leaned forward and rounded her eyes. “But what of the fascists and the Nazis? How did you avoid being imprisoned if you are a royalist?”

  He snorted. “Those fools. They are just as in awe of titles as Americans.” Then he stiffened as if realizing what he’d said. “No offense, of course, signorina.”

  “Vi,” she reminded him, and then waved away his worry with a small laugh. “And how can I be offended by what is true? I do love everything royal, which is funny given how our country fought to be rid of kings.”

  “Indeed.” He smiled indulgently at her. “What else may I tell you about myself?”

  “Well, are you married? Do you have children?” she asked, despite knowing the answers. Might as well find out how truthful the man was.

  His dark eyebrows rose. “Would it matter? I should imagine even if we become close friends, we might have others as well?”

  Tapping her lips, she pretended to consider the idea, though really she wanted him looking at her mouth and thinking of kisses. “I suppose, as long as I don’t need to worry about an angry Sra. Conti barging in on us.”

  He frowned slightly. “I don’t know that word ‘barging,’ but if you mean will she disapprove, I doubt it, since she is far away in our villa, doing what she likes.”

  “So you are married!” Vi said, acting surprised. “Do you have children as well?”

  Pride seemed to swell his chest. “I do. A son, who is my life.”

  “How wonderful!” Vi said with fake cheerfulness, even as her stomach twisted. She had been right. Given his statement, there was little chance that Stefano would ever let the child leave Italy.

  “It is one of the reasons I come to Rome as often as I do, so that I may see him.”

  “He doesn’t live with you and your wife?” she asked, remembering the role she was playing.

  Sorrow entered his dark eyes. “Alas, no. Though my wife and I have no children of our own, she refuses to let my Enzo live with us.”

  Anger built within her. It was only the years of acting experience that saved her, that kept her expression neutral. Inside she was seething on behalf of Enzo, who deserved to be more than a pawn in his parents’ lives. How dared Sr. Conti think he could blithely replace the boy’s real mother with his wife? That Enzo wouldn’t notice or care, or that he would thrive under a woman who didn’t want him?

  And what of the wound he sought to inflict on Sra. Conti, a woman who likely had been heartbroken to find herself incapable of having children? It was one thing to seek out an adoption as a couple, quite another to have a husband’s bastard foisted on you.

  Though that’s exactly what had happened to Ansel, and he had accepted the responsibility with open arms . . .

  A soft knock on the door distracted Stefano’s attention and refocused Vi’s. She carefully exhaled her emotions while a maid slipped in to whisper something in Stefano’s ear. His mouth flattened into a firm line, and he waved the woman away impatiently.

  “I’m sorry for the intrusion, my dear Vi. Now, where were we?”

  “Is something the matter?” she asked casually despite the spike of adrenaline. If something had happened to Minta or the woman had changed her mind about helping Vi, she would have no backup. Ansel had made that fact crystal clear.

  “No, no. No trouble. Merely my son—who we were just discussing—having trouble falling asleep.”

  Her heart stuttered. “He is here, with you?”

  “Only for a visit while his mother recovers. She wasn’t feeling well yesterday.”

  I bet, she thought, her anger resurfacing. And no wonder the poor thing couldn’t sleep. Who could after being torn away from the safety of his mother’s arms, especially after watching her be abused?

  “That is so kind of you!” she said, all wide-eyed admiration despite the black fury boiling in her blood. That Stefano all but preened told her that her performance was dead on. Too bad Sue wasn’t around to see it. “I know when I couldn’t sleep, a kiss from my papa was just the thing to settle me down. Perhaps you should go and reassure him all is well?”

  And give me a chance to doctor your drink? she added silently.

  Stefano hesitated. “You wouldn’t mind?”

  “Not at all,” she said honestly. It would be so much easier to add the drug now than during dinner.

  To add a little push to her suggestion, she leaned back again and gave him her most seductive smile. “Actually, I find men who love their children charming.”

  Stefano’s dark eyes became almost black as his gaze dropped lower to her breasts and then lower again. “In that case . . .” He called the maid back, gave her instructions in Italian, and then stood. “Let me introduce you to him so you can see how great my love is.”

  Alarmed at his suggestion, she straightened. “Is that wise? How will I explain my presence?”

  And how will I ever doctor Stefano’s drink with two pairs of eyes following my every move?

  “Relax, my Virginia. He will think you a friend, a very beautiful one, but he is too young to think more than that.”

  Her stomach twisted painfully as the maid disappeared, the door closing behind her.

  To steady her nerves, she took a larger swallow of her drink. It still tasted terrible, but her experience at tossing back shots of bourbon kept her from choking.

  “While we wait,” Stefano said, sitting back down, “I should like to know more about you, as well.”

  “Oh.” She paused to gather her wits more tightly. “I’m a nobody. Just a girl from Iowa who likes to dance.”

  “I also like to dance,” he said with a smile. Then he winked. “But only with a partner.”

  She lowered her lashes. Back in the game at hand, she gave a sultry laugh, acknowledging the innuendo. “Partners do add something to the dance, don’t they?”

  “Indeed, they do. Particularly if one can find two partners to form a trio. I find the pleasure is much greater . . .”

  Her eyebrows rose slightly at the baldness of his suggestion, but not in shock. She had met men before who enjoyed threesomes. “Oh, not me. I much prefer duets.”

  He shrugged slightly and then raised his glass to her in a silent toast. “You are right, of course. I should enjoy my time with you without distraction.”

  “Just so.” She let her lips curve into a smile of encouragement as he took a polite sip. With any luck the alcohol would start to numb his tongue, making any changes in taste less noticeable.

  Minta opened the door, pushing a cart.

  “Ah, dinner. Excellent.” He held out his hand to her. It took everything she had to take it and let him pull her to her feet. After the callousness he had demonstrated toward his wife and mistress, she could barely tolerate being in the same room with him.

  Still, she had a role t
o play. “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure.” He held her hand a beat longer than necessary.

  Hiding her disgust with a smile, she gently freed her fingers.

  “I hope you don’t mind if we eat here. It is informal but convenient. My personal rooms are through the door there.” He gestured toward a closed door at the end of the room. “So not so far away.”

  Minta, who was laying the place settings quickly and efficiently on a beautifully inlaid parquet card table, didn’t look up as they approached. Vi bit her lip, wondering how long it would take for the maid to bring Enzo in for his good night kiss. She was on a tight schedule and would rather not knock Stefano out while his son was standing there. No reason to traumatize the boy any more than he already had been.

  On the other hand, she might not get a choice.

  “Please sit, signorina,” Stefano said, pulling a chair out for her.

  She sat and then inwardly cursed as he took the seat next to her. She would have preferred him across the table, where it would be harder for him to paw her. Worse, the vial with the knockout drops was still in her handbag on the sofa, ten feet away, meaning she would have to find a way to excuse herself without raising Stefano’s suspicions.

  As Minta began to serve them, Vi glanced at the beautifully intricate silver clock on the wall. Delicately cast vines and leaves surrounded the face, creating a sense of false peace. The truth was she had only thirty-five more minutes to achieve her objective. Her stomach tightened.

  Did she wait for Enzo to appear? It would make a good distraction, allowing her to fetch the vial. But what if the wait used up all her allotted time?

  Stefano settled his larger hand over hers, causing her to jump. “You seem nervous, Vi.”

  “I—I’ve never been with an older man before,” she said, and then blushed at the lie. “I’m afraid I’ll disappoint you.”

  His smile was indulgent. “Don’t worry, mia cara.” He ran the back of his hand up her arm, raising gooseflesh as he did so. He leaned toward her, his breath tickling her bare neck. “You will not disappoint.”

  Thirty minutes. That was all she had to endure. She could do this. It was no worse than having drinks with Tony.

  Minta finished serving and then returned to the hall with her cart. The door closed with a soft click. Vi flinched, the sound as loud as a gunshot in her keyed-up state.

  “Shall we eat?” Stefano asked in a low purr. “Or shall we move on to different appetites?”

  “Eat,” Vi said quickly, and then dimpled to take the sting out of her reply. “I have a feeling I’ll need all the energy I can get to keep up with a man like you.”

  He smiled in pleasure. “Then by all means, please eat.”

  The clock ticked quietly on the wall, counting off the passing seconds.

  Think, Vi, think. She had no way of knowing how pure the drug would be, which could throw off how fast it took effect. Nor did she want to put too much in and accidentally kill Stefano, vile as he might be. He had a wife and child who depended on him for money and protection.

  She knew what life was like without both of those advantages and wouldn’t wish it on anyone.

  Aware of Stefano’s gaze, she took a spoonful of the soup in front of her. It might as well have been water for all she tasted. Her brain was too focused on how to retrieve the vial without arousing suspicion, particularly if Enzo didn’t make an appearance in the next few minutes.

  Perhaps if she spilled something . . . The idea took hold, and a series of steps unfolded in her mind. Mentally apologizing to Allie, she took another spoonful of soup. She lifted the spoon to her mouth, glanced at Sr. Conti, and then tilted the spoon as if distracted by him, spilling the hot liquid onto her chest.

  “Oh!” She jumped up, not needing to fake her reaction.

  Stefano leaped to his feet as well and began blotting her dress with his napkin. “Here! Are you hurt?”

  “No,” she gasped. “But my dress.”

  “Do you need water?”

  “Stop, let me see.” She batted away his hands. “Oh no!”

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  “Let me get my handbag. I’ve got a spot remover in there I can try.” She sprinted over to the sofa before he could offer to get the bag himself. Hoping there was enough liquid to carry off the deception, she put a few drops on the damp silk. Then carried the bottle back to the table with her. “I think that should be enough.”

  She took her napkin and dabbed at the stain.

  “Perhaps if you removed the dress, it would make the spot easier to clean?” Stefano suggested with an innocent air.

  Vi wasn’t fooled. She arched an eyebrow at him. “And if your son should come in and find me half-naked? That would be difficult to explain, even to a young child.”

  “Perhaps I should go see where he’s at,” Stefano said, frustration beginning to show in his tone. “Then we will have no more worries.”

  “Good idea.” Vi opened the vial as if to place another drop on her dress.

  Stefano hesitated and then left her to go to the door.

  Seizing the moment, Vi quickly dumped the vial into Stefano’s drink. To hell with dosage. She’d never heard of anyone actually dying from being slipped a Mickey. Dying from being shot at point-blank range afterward, sure, but not from the drug.

  In any case she wanted him unconscious as quickly as possible. She had less than thirty minutes left before she had to get out, map or no map.

  “Ah, here he is,” Stefano said from the door. “Vita mia.”

  In the next moment, Enzo appeared with the maid holding his hand, and Vi’s heart broke. Hair tousled and dressed in puppy-print pajamas, he looked so impossibly small and vulnerable.

  He rubbed his eyes, which were red and puffy, as if he’d been crying. “Mama?”

  Sighing deeply, Stefano dropped to one knee and kissed his son on the forehead and then said something to him in Italian. Then he stood and, taking his son’s shoulders, turned the boy toward Vi. “Signorina Heart, may I present my son, Enzo Ludovico Paolo Conti.”

  “Piacere,” Vi said with a smile, forcing herself to stay where she was, even though all she wanted to do was scoop him up and comfort him.

  The boy’s eyes widened. Looking up at Stefano, he tugged on his father’s trousers to get his attention. Once he had it, he asked a rapid set of questions, which made Stefano frown and then glance up at her.

  “Forgive me, but my son has decided you are an angel and asks if he could come closer? He wants to ask a favor of you.”

  Her heart skipped a beat. She should refuse, given how little time she had left. And yet . . .

  “I can send him away if you would rather,” Sr. Conti said.

  “No, don’t.” She set the glass vial on the table and then crouched, holding out her arms. “Vieni qui,” she said in her best Italian. Come here.

  The boy hesitated for an instant, then glanced at his father, who encouraged him with a gesture of his hand. Shyly, his bottom lip caught in his teeth, Enzo shuffled toward her. Then he abandoned restraint and threw himself into her arms. Tucking himself firmly within her embrace, he began to sob.

  Vi buried her face in his silky hair, her heart breaking. The urge to pick him up and flee this place nearly overwhelmed her. She could do it, the war and mission be damned. Everything she had ever wanted was literally in her arms. A precious small being who needed her. Wanted her. Could maybe even love her. Make her whole.

  No, stop! Focus. This isn’t Jimmy, a small voice in her head screamed. Stay in the game, or you’ll never see your son again.

  But was Jimmy really hers, or was she no different from Stefano, clinging to a child who didn’t want or need her . . . ? Enzo pushed back, his tear-streaked face somber as he asked her something in Italian, something that included the word “mamma.”

  Vi’s stomach twisted, pretty sure she was done for, given Stefano’s perplexed expression. “What did he say?”

  “He asked if hi
s mother had already left with you.”

  “To heaven?” she said with a nervous laugh. “Does he think his mother is dead?”

  “I don’t think so,” Stefano said, his gaze never leaving her face. He asked his son something in Italian, to which Enzo shook his head.

  “Lei è in America.”

  Vi’s breath caught as she translated the simple phrase. She’s in America.

  Chapter 34

  Vi gently disentangled herself from Enzo and stood. “Enzo’s mother is in America?”

  “Not that I know,” Stefano said crisply. “Though perhaps you know more?”

  Vi puckered her brow as if confused. “Why would you say that?”

  “Enzo, mimmo.” Stefano held out his hand, and the boy obediently returned to him. Vi’s chest ached with the void left behind as if she had lost part of herself. “We talk more in a minute, signorina. But first, I bring Enzo to bed.”

  It took all her willpower not to bolt the second he left. She hadn’t missed how his English had deteriorated with his mood. Surely Minta would help hide her until Riccardo arrived in—she checked the clock—twenty-two minutes.

  She would tell him she couldn’t find the map. He would be disappointed, but he’d still take her back to her unit, and then she could go on with her life. Marcie would make it back to her father. A grateful Mob would clear her name with the police. She would be free to take a part in Sue’s Broadway production. And then she could go home to Chicago as a legitimate dancer—someone Jimmy might someday be proud to call mother, should they ever meet.

  Ansel was already on his way back to his unit in the Alps. Stefano would get his gold. It would be as if she had never been involved.

  And she would be alive.

  Yes, she believed in this mission, but she also wanted to survive. She was only twenty-one and too young to die.

  But what if the map fell back into Nazi hands, as Ansel feared? Even if it wasn’t used to prolong the war, the gold would certainly go to someone other than the Italian people, who were the rightful owners. Whether it was Sr. Conti or a fugitive German general, the wrong person would end up with all that wealth if she bailed out now. Could she live with that on her conscience?