I move even closer. Though she’s older than I am, I’m taller, and my arm slips easily around her waist as I lean in. As our hips meet.
Her slap sends me reeling backward.
“Don’t you ever touch me again,” she says. She turns and walks to the house.
My face is still stinging. I linger in the darkness, waiting for the imprint of her blow to fade from my cheek. She has no idea who I really am, who she has just humiliated. No idea what the consequences will be.
I do not sleep that night.
Instead I lie awake, thinking of all the lessons my mother taught me about patience and about biding one’s time. “The most satisfying prize,” she said, “is the one you’re forced to wait for.” When the sun rises the next morning, I am still in bed, thinking about my mother’s words. I am thinking, too, about that humiliating slap. About all the ways that Lily and her friends have shown me disrespect.
Downstairs, Aunt Amy is in the kitchen cooking breakfast. I smell coffee brewing and bacon crisping in a frying pan. And I hear her call out, “Peter? Have you seen my boning knife?”
TWENTY
As usual on a hot summer’s day, the Piazza di Spagna was a sea of sweating tourists. They milled elbow to elbow, expensive cameras dangling from their necks, flushed faces shaded from the sun beneath floppy hats and baseball caps. From her perch above, on the Spanish Steps, Lily surveyed the crowd’s movements, noting the eddies that swirled around the vendors’ carts, the crosscurrents of competing tour groups. Wary of pickpockets, she started down the steps, waving away the inevitable trinket hawkers who hovered like flies. She noticed several men glance her way, but their interest was merely momentary. A look, a flicker of a lascivious thought, and then their eyes were on to the next passing female. Lily scarcely gave them a thought as she descended toward the piazza, threading past a couple embracing on the steps, past a studious young man hunched over a book. She waded into the throng. In crowds she felt safe, anonymous, and insulated. It was merely an illusion, of course; there was no truly safe place. As she crossed the piazza, tacking past camera-snapping tourists and children slurping at gelato, she knew that she was all too easy to spot. Crowds provided cover for both prey and predator.
She reached the far end of the piazza and walked past a shop selling designer shoes and purses that she would never, in this lifetime, be able to afford. Beyond it was a bank with an ATM and three people waiting to use it. She joined the line. By the time it was her turn, she’d already taken a good look at everyone standing nearby and spotted no thieves ready to swoop in. Now was the time to make a large withdrawal. She’d been in Rome for four weeks, and had not yet landed any work. Despite her fluent Italian, not a single coffee stand, not a single souvenir shop, had a job for her, and she was down to her last five Euros.
She inserted her bankcard, requested three hundred Euros, and waited for the cash to appear. Her card slid back out, along with a printed receipt. But no cash. She stared down at the receipt, her stomach suddenly dropping. She needed no translation to understand what was printed there.
Insufficient funds.
Okay, she thought, maybe I just asked for too much at once. Calm down. She inserted her card again, punched in the code, requested two hundred Euros.
Insufficient funds.
By now, the woman standing behind her in line was making hurry up already! sighs. For the third time, Lily slid in her card. Requested one hundred Euros.
Insufficient funds.
“Hey, are you going to be finished sometime soon? Like, maybe, today?” the woman behind her asked.
Lily turned to face her. Just that one look, molten with rage, made the woman step back in alarm. Lily shoved past her and headed back to the piazza, moving blindly, for once not caring who was watching her, tracking her. By the time she reached the Spanish Steps, all the strength had gone out of her legs. She sank onto the stairs and dropped her head in her hands.
Her money was gone. She’d known her account was getting low, that eventually it would run out, but she’d thought there was enough to last at least another month. She had enough cash for maybe two more meals, and that was it. No hotel tonight, no bed. But hey, these stairs were comfortable enough, and she couldn’t beat the view. When she got hungry, she could always go diving in the trash can for some tourist’s leftover sandwich.
Who am I kidding? I’ve got to get some money.
She lifted her head, looked around the piazza, and saw plenty of single men. Hello, guys, anyone willing to pay for an afternoon with a hot and desperate chick? Then she spotted three policemen strolling the periphery and decided that this was not a good place to troll for prospects. Getting arrested would be inconvenient; it might also prove fatal.
She unzipped her backpack and feverishly dug around inside. Maybe there was a wad of cash she’d forgotten about, or a few loose coins rattling around on the bottom. Fat chance. As if she didn’t keep track of every single penny. She found a roll of mints, a ballpoint pen. No money.
But she did find a business card, printed with the name FILIPPO CAVALLI. At once his face came back to her. The truck driver with the leering eyes. “If you have no place to stay,” he’d said, “I have an apartment in the city.”
Well, guess what? I have no place to stay.
She sat on the steps, mindlessly rubbing the card between her fingers, until it was pinched and bent. Thinking about Filippo Cavalli and his mean eyes, his unshaven face. How awful could it be? She’d done worse things in her life. Far worse.
And I’m still paying for it.
She zipped up the backpack and looked around for a telephone. Mean eyes or not, she thought, a girl’s gotta eat.
She stood in the hallway outside apartment 4-G, nervously straightening her blouse, smoothing down her hair. Then she wondered why the hell she should even bother, considering how slovenly the man had looked the last time she’d seen him. Lord, at least make his breath not be foul, she thought. She could deal with fat men and ugly men. She could just close her eyes and not look. But a man with stinking breath…
The door swung open. “Come in!” Filippo said.
At her first glimpse of him, she wanted to turn and run. He was exactly as she’d remembered, his chin prickly with stubble, his hungry gaze already devouring her face. He had not even bothered to dress in nice clothes for her visit, but was wearing a sleeveless T-shirt and baggy trousers. Why should he bother to clean up? Surely he knew what had brought her here, and it wasn’t his sculpted body or his scintillating wit.
She stepped into the apartment, where the smells of garlic and cigarette smoke battled for dominance. Aside from that, it was not too horrible a place. She saw a couch and chairs, a neat pile of newspapers, a coffee table. The balcony window faced another apartment building. Through the walls, she could hear a neighbor’s TV blaring.
“Some wine, Carol?” he asked.
Carol. She’d almost forgotten which name she’d given him. “Yes, please,” she answered. “And…would you happen to have something to eat?”
“Food? Of course.” He smiled, but his eyes never stopped leering. He knew these were just the pleasantries before the transaction. He brought out bread and cheese and a little dish of marinated mushrooms. Hardly a feast; more like a snack. So this was what she was worth. The wine was cheap, sharp, and astringent, but she drank two glasses anyway as she ate. Better to be drunk than sober for what came next. He sat across the kitchen table watching her as he sipped his own glass of wine. How many other women had come to this apartment, had sat at this kitchen table, steeling themselves for the bedroom? Surely none of them came willingly. Like Lily, they probably needed a drink or two or three before getting down to business.
He reached across the table. She went stock-still as he opened the top two buttons of her blouse. Then he sat back, grinning at the view of her cleavage.
She tried to ignore him and reached for another chunk of bread, then drained her glass of wine and poured herself another.
He stood up and came around behind her. He finished unbuttoning her blouse and slipped it off her shoulders, then unfastened her bra.
She stuffed a piece of cheese into her mouth, chewed, and swallowed. Almost coughed it up again as his hands closed over her breasts. She sat rigid, fists clenched, suppressing the instinct to twist around and slug him. Instead she let him reach around in front of her and unzip her jeans. Then he gave her a tug, and obediently she rose to her feet, so he could peel off the rest of her clothes. When she finally stood naked in his kitchen, he stepped back to enjoy the view, his arousal obvious. He did not even bother to remove his own clothes, but just backed her up against the kitchen counter, opened his trousers, and took her standing up. Took her so vigorously that the cabinets rattled and silverware clattered in the drawers.
Hurry. Finish, goddamn it.
But he was just getting started. He twisted her around, pushed her to her knees, and took her on the tiled floor. Then it was into the living room, in full view of the balcony window, as though he wanted the world to see that he, Filippo, could fuck a woman in every position, in every room. She closed her eyes and concentrated on the sounds from the TV next door. Thumping game show music, an excitable Italian host. She focused on the TV because she did not want to listen to Filippo’s panting and grunting as he pounded against her. As he climaxed.
He collapsed on top of her, a flabby dead weight that threatened to suffocate her. She squeezed out from beneath him and lay on her back, her body slick with their mingled sweat.
A moment later, he was snoring.
She left him there, on the living room floor, and went into his bathroom to take a shower. Spent a good twenty minutes under the water, washing away every trace of him. Hair dripping, she returned to the living room to make sure he was still asleep. He was. Quietly, she slipped into his bedroom and went through his dresser drawers. Beneath a mound of socks, she found a bundle of cash—at least six hundred Euros. He won’t miss a hundred, she thought, counting out the bills. Anyway, she’d earned it.
She got dressed and was just picking up her backpack when she heard his footsteps behind her.
“You are leaving so soon?” he asked. “How can you be satisfied with just once?”
Slowly she turned to look at him and forced a smile. “Just once with you, Filippo, is like ten times with any other man.”
He grinned. “That’s what women tell me.”
Then they’re all lying.
“Stay. I’ll cook you dinner.” He came toward her and played with a strand of her hair. “Stay, and maybe—”
She gave it about two seconds’ thought. While this would be a place to spend the night, it required too high a price. “I have to go,” she said, turning away.
“Please stay.” He paused, then added, with a note of desperation, “I’ll pay you.”
She stopped and looked back at him.
“That’s it, isn’t it?” he said softly. His smile faded, his face slowly drooping into a weary mask. Not the strutting lover anymore, but a sad, middle-aged man with a big gut and no woman in his life. Once, she had thought his eyes looked mean; now those eyes looked merely tired, defeated. “I know it’s true.” He sighed. “You did not come because of me. It’s money you want.”
For the first time, it did not disgust her to look at him. Also for the first time, she decided to be honest with him.
“Yes,” she admitted. “I need money. I’m broke, and I can’t find a job in Rome.”
“But you’re American. You can just go home.”
“I can’t go home.”
“Why not?”
She looked away. “I just can’t. There’s nothing there for me anyway.”
He considered her words for a moment and came to a reasonable conclusion. “The police are looking for you?”
“No. Not the police—”
“Then who are you running from?”
I’m running from the Devil himself was what she thought. But she could not say that, or he’d think her crazy. She answered, simply, “A man. Someone who scares me.”
An abusive boyfriend was probably what he thought. He gave a nod of sympathy. “So you need money. Come, then. I can give you some.” He turned and started toward his bedroom.
“Wait. Filippo.” Feeling guilty now, she reached into her pocket and took out the hundred Euros she’d taken from his sock drawer. How could she steal from a man who was so desperately hungry for companionship? “I’m sorry,” she said. “This is yours. I really needed it, but I shouldn’t have taken it.” She reached for his hand and pressed the cash into his palm, barely able to look him in the eye. “I’ll manage on my own.” She turned to leave.
“Carol. Is that your real name?”
She paused, her hand on the knob. “It’s as good a name as any.”
“You say you need a job. What can you do?”
She looked at him. “I’ll do anything. I can clean homes, wait on tables. But I have to be paid in cash.”
“Your Italian is very good.” He looked her over, thinking. “I have a cousin, here in the city,” he finally said. “She organizes tours.”
“What kind of tours?”
“To the Forum, the basilica.” He shrugged. “You know, all the usual places tourists go in Rome. Sometimes she needs guides who speak English. But they must have an education.”
“I do! I have a college degree in classical studies.” Fresh hope made her heart suddenly thud faster. “I know a great deal about history, actually. About the ancient world.”
“But do you know about Rome?”
Lily gave a sudden laugh and set down her backpack. “As a matter of fact,” she said, “I do.”
TWENTY-ONE
Maura stood on the ice-glazed sidewalk, gazing up at the Beacon Hill residence where the windows were invitingly aglow. Firelight flickered in the front parlor, just as it had on the night she’d first stepped through the door, lured by the dancing flames, by the promise of a cup of coffee. Tonight what drew her up the steps was curiosity, about a man who both intrigued her and, she had to admit, frightened her a little. She rang the bell and heard it chime inside, echoing through rooms she had yet to see. She expected the manservant to answer the bell and was startled when Anthony Sansone himself opened the door.
“I wasn’t sure you’d actually come,” he said as she stepped inside.
“Neither was I,” she admitted.
“The others will be arriving later. I thought it’d be nice for the two of us to talk first, alone.” He helped her off with her coat and pushed open the secret panel to reveal the closet. In this man’s house, the walls themselves hid surprises. “So why did you decide to come after all?”
“You said we had common interests. I want to know what you mean by that.”
He hung up her coat and turned, a looming figure dressed in black, his face burnished in gold from the firelight. “Evil,” he said. “That’s what we have in common. We’ve both seen it up close. We’ve looked into its face, smelled its breath. And felt it staring back at us.”
“A lot of people have seen it.”
“But you’ve known it on a deeply personal level.”
“You’re talking about my mother again.”
“Joyce tells me that no one’s yet been able to tally all of Amalthea’s victims.”
“I haven’t followed that investigation. I’ve stayed out of it. The last time I saw Amalthea was in July, and I have no plans to ever visit her again.”
“Ignoring evil doesn’t make it go away. It’s still there, still part of your life—”
“Not part of mine.”
“—right down to your DNA.”
“An accident of birth. We’re not our parents.”
“But on some level, Maura, your mother’s crimes must weigh down on you. They must make you wonder.”
“Whether I’m a monster, too?”
“Do you wonder that?”
She paused, acutely aware of how intently
he was watching her. “I’m nothing like my mother. If anything, I’m her polar opposite. Look at the career I’ve chosen, the work I do.”
“A form of atonement?”
“I have nothing to atone for.”
“Yet you’ve chosen to work on behalf of victims. And justice. Not everyone makes that choice, or does it as well and as fiercely as you do. That’s why I invited you tonight.” He opened the door to the next room. “That’s why I want to show you something.”
She followed him into a wood-paneled dining room, where the massive table was already set for dinner. Five place settings, she noted, surveying the crystal stemware and gleaming china edged in cobalt and gold. Here was another fireplace, with flames dancing in the hearth, but the cavernous room with its twelve-foot ceiling was on the chilly side, and she was glad she’d kept on her cashmere sweater.
“First, a glass of wine?” he asked, holding up a bottle of Cabernet.
“Yes. Thank you.”
He poured and handed her the glass, but she scarcely glanced at it; she was focused instead on the portraits hanging on the walls. A gallery of faces, both men and women, gazed through the patina of centuries.
“These are only a few,” he said. “The portraits my family managed to procure over the years. Some are modern copies, some are mere representations of what we think they looked like. But a few of these portraits are original. As these people must have appeared in life.” He crossed the room to stand before one portrait in particular. It was of a young woman with luminous dark eyes, her black hair gently gathered at the nape of her neck. Her face was a pale oval, and in that dim and firelit room, her skin seemed translucent and so alive that Maura could almost imagine the throb of a pulse in that white neck. The young woman was partly turned toward the artist, her burgundy gown glinting with gold threads, her gaze direct and unafraid.
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