by Eve Langlais
She was still shaking her head over it six months later.
To say that working for GNN was a far cry from the type of reporting she’d hoped to be doing by now was akin to calling the Grand Canyon a big hole in the ground. With headlines like “Garden of Eden Found in Maine” and “Bat Boy Sues French Airline,” GNN’s so–called news was often anything but. Still, the work helped pay the ridiculous rent on her apartment in the Village and allowed her to be out and about a fair amount of the time thanks, in part, to her editor’s belief that real news should be reported by men and men alone. Women were just window dressing, in his view, and were more suited to doing fluff pieces on the nightly news. More than once he’d suggested she “take her cute little ass down to Channel 5 where it could do some good for the viewers at home.” The urge to hit him in the face with a pot of coffee had passed, but the comment still rankled. He must have seen something in her, she kept reminding herself, for he had hired her after all.
Things might have gone on that way indefinitely if genius hadn’t struck at yesterday’s editorial meeting.
The senior staff reporters had been pitching their stories for the annual Christmas issue and Jones had been knocking them down one by one, bitching about how it was all the same old shit and that they needed something new, something good for a change, when Alex had taken the plunge.
“How about a full–length expose on an ancient sex cult that still operates today?”
The room went silent at the first sound of her voice.
It was a standing rule that the junior reporters were there to help the senior staff with the drudge work – fact checking and the like – that they considered beneath them. The junior staff was allowed to attend the editorial meetings, but they were not to intrude on them in any way and that included opening their mouths and addressing the group.
Jones’ head swiveled in her direction faster than a striking snake and for a moment it looked like he was going to unleash one of his usual tongue–lashings in her direction when he paused, as if what she’d said had suddenly just registered.
“What did you say?” he asked.
“I said I can deliver a full–length expose on an ancient sex cult that uses Christmas as camouflage for their most important ritual of the year, a week–long festival full of debauchery of the highest order.”
He stared at her, his eyes boring holes into hers.
“And where, pray tell, would one find this alleged festival?”
In for a penny, in for a pound.
“Venice.”
Jones didn’t hesitate. Without taking his eyes off of her he said, “MacGuire?”
“Yeah?”
“Get the information you need from Alessandra and then book yourself on the first plane to Venice. I want a first draft on my desk by the end of the week.”
MacGuire was a senior reporter who’d been with the network for more than fifteen years. Alex wasn’t surprised at all that Jones had tossed the story; she’d been expecting it, actually.
“Good luck,” she said to MacGuire, laughing.
Jones’ eyes narrowed. “You don’t think he can get the story?”
Keeping her gaze fixed firmly on Jones, Alex said, “Come sta tuo Italiano, MacGuire?”
How’s your Italian, MacGuire?
When the big Irishman didn’t answer, she said, “Pensi davvero che qualcuno sta per parlare a te?”
Do you really think anyone is going to talk to you?
Jones glanced back and forth between them and then scowled at Alex.
“What’s your point?” he asked irritably.
“My point?” Alex laughed again. “Simply this. You can go ahead and send him, but he doesn’t have a chance in hell of getting you this story. He can’t speak the language. He looks and acts like a foreigner. There’s no way that anyone is going to open up about something as dangerous as this to a big lug like him.”
MacGuire opened his mouth to protest but Jones silenced him with a lifted hand.
“And you think you can?”
Alex nodded. “Damn right I can! I’m Italian, remember? I grew up outside of Venice. I know my way around the city; I know the customs, the language, and the people. If my information is right, some of the most influential people in the city are part of this cult. There is no way people are going to open up to a foreigner about stuff like that. You need someone with the right contacts; if not, you’re dead in the water before you even start.”
Jones sat there, not saying a word, and Alex was tempted to keep talking, but she mentally stomped on the notion before it could gain a foothold in her thoughts. You’ve got him, she told herself, just keep your mouth shut and wait for him to take the bait.
Her instincts turned out to be right.
“Your story, your dime. If you come up with something publishable, we’ll discuss reimbursing some of your expenses when you get back.”
A week ago she would have jumped at the chance, but she knew if she took his first offer without argument she’d just confirm in his mind everything he’d ever said about her talent and ability to do the job at hand.
She shook her head.
“I’ll cover my daily expenses but you pay for the airfare and provide an expense account that I can use in case of an emergency. Plus you pay me the same rate you’d pay MacGuire for the story when I come back with it.”
She thought she caught a spark of approval in his eyes as he leaned back in his chair and said, “Done. Just be damned sure you come back with a story I can print.”
“I will; you can rest assured of that,” Alex replied.
Okay, so she’d exaggerated a bit about her contacts and her ability to get close to the story’s heart, but what else could she have done? If she hadn’t spoken up, she would still be stuck in that dingy office filing back issues instead of staring out the window as her flight lined itself up for a landing at Venice’s Marco Polo Airport. She’d done the right thing; she knew she had.
Whatever it takes.
The pilot brought the plane in for a solid, if slightly bumpy, landing and Alex calmly waited for those in front of her to deplane. When it was her turn she slid out of her seat, grabbed her bag from the overhead, and exited the aircraft. She followed the jetway to the terminal and from there down the hall to where Immigration agents waited. The line for visiting foreigners wound back and forth throughout the waiting area and Alex thought her fellow passengers would be lucky to get through it in an hour. Thankfully, the passport in her hand was red, marking her as an Italian national, and the line she needed to use was significantly shorter. She passed a few pleasantries with the Immigration officer who examined her documents and then took her passport back and went on her way.
Once through Immigration she headed for Customs. She had only one bag and nothing to declare, so that took her even less time. Five minutes later she was outside the terminal and headed along the covered walkway that led to the docks where visitors were waiting to catch one of the many waterborne modes of transport across the lagoon to Venice proper.
Alex cut through the crowd to get to the other side of the docks and then continued down a narrow passageway between buildings until she came to an open square, or, as they were known in Venice, piazza. To her left, bordering the lagoon’s edge, was the entrance to her hotel.
The Hotel Prospero was a small, privately owned facility that catered to upscale business travelers who made repeated trips to Venice throughout the year but didn’t want the hassle, or the extra cost, of staying within Venice itself. Alex knew the family who owned it and had talked her way into getting a small, corner room overlooking the canal for her time in the city. She checked in at the front desk, paying in advance with the expense card Jones had issued to her the day before, and then headed to her room. Once inside she unpacked her clothes – what little she’d brought with her – and then stood in front of the window, staring out at the lights of Venice proper just across the lagoon.
Her story was out there and sh
e intended to find it.
It had been several years since she’d been home and she could feel the city calling to her. She wanted nothing more than to find a nice little pub and have a glass of wine to celebrate her return to Italy, but it had been a long flight and she knew one glass would soon become two, which in turn would become four, and before she knew it she’d be out to all hours of the morning.
That just wouldn’t do. Especially if she wanted to be fresh for her meeting in the morning.
So instead of exploring the Venetian nightlife, Alex changed into a fresh t–shirt and a pair of sweats and then curled up in the armchair by the window with her notebook to review what she’d assembled for her story so far.
It wasn’t much.
Most of it was background information on the festival itself. At least, what she could find on it, which admittedly wasn’t much.
The festival of Saturnalia had its roots in ancient Rome as a celebration in honor of Saturn, the god of agriculture. What started as a single day event grew over time into a festival that began on December 17 and ran for seven straight days. It began with a public sacrifice in the temple, followed by a week of merriment and general debauchery.
When Christianity became the official religion of the Roman Empire, the Emperor outlawed the Saturnalia festival and all others like it, replacing them with the celebration of the Christmas and Easter holidays instead. Those unwilling to let go of the old gods still practiced in secret and it was an offshoot of one of those groups that Alex was hunting in Venice two centuries later.
For years a rumor had persisted that there was a group within the city of Venice that still celebrated the Saturnalia festival, complete with its blood sacrifices and week–long adventures in debauchery. Some claimed that those that participated were devil worshippers, others that they were nothing more than a glorified sex cult, but one thing every version of the story agreed upon was that the group was made up of some of the richest and most successful men and women in Venetian society. Rumor also had it that it was their participation in the festival that allowed these people to climb to the top and kept them there year after year.
Alex had seven days to find out if those rumors were true and, if they were, to write the kind of story that would elevate the Global News Network to more glorified heights than its editor ever imagined.
Seven days.
Whatever it takes.
Chapter Two
Alex awoke the next morning feeling refreshed and ready to take on the day. Clearly the decision to make it an early evening the night before had been the correct one. A single night on the town was a small price to pay for avoiding the pounding headache that always came with jet lag and she was going to need her wits about her for what was to come.
She got out of bed, showered, and dressed in a pair of skinny jeans, a tank top, and sandals. Mornings at this time of year could be cool in Venice, so she threw a light leather jacket on over the rest of her outfit and then headed out the door.
She’d known the moment that she’d decided to pursue this story that she couldn’t do it alone. She’d been away from Venice for too long; she no longer felt the pulse of the city beneath her feet. She needed someone who was immersed in the ebb and flow of the streets, someone who knew that the shiny façade hid a darkness dwelling deep in the fetid heart of the city, someone who could tell her exactly where the rich and powerful had buried the bodies they’d tossed aside in their climbs to the top.
She needed Gianni.
They’d known each other since they were kids, growing up in the same neighborhood, attending the same schools. When Alex had left for New York, Gianni joined the cabinerri, just like his father and older brothers before him. If anyone could give her a lead on the Saturnalia cult, it would be him.
Before boarding the plane in New York she called and told him she would be in town for a few days. He’d immediately suggested that they get together, saving her the trouble of doing so. The plan was to meet for brunch along the Fondamenta della Misericordia, a strand of restaurants and cafés that ran along the canal in the Cannaregio district. From her hotel it would take her about twenty minutes to get there. A glance at her watch told her that if she hurried, she could still make it in time.
Alex left the hotel and walked the three blocks down to the waterfront. Once there she ignored the crowds surrounding the water taxi stands and headed directly to the nearest vaporetto, or water bus, and stepped aboard. The ticket she’d purchased back at the airport was good for any of the vaporetto routes throughout the city for the next week; all she had to do was show it upon boarding and that was that.
Once onboard she moved to the prow of the boat, where she would be able to get off easily without waiting behind the crowd of passengers that normally got on and off at amidships. The gentle rocking of the boat was a familiar feeling and she stood easily without need of support as the boat got underway. She stayed there, through several stops, until the white marble crosses atop the Ca d’Oro came into view.
Venice’s “Golden House,” created for patrician Marino Contarini as a present for his wife and modeled after the Emperor Nero’s own golden house in Rome, was one of the postcard sights of Venice as far as Alex was concerned. The gold that had once adorned its façade might be long gone, but the glistening white marble reflecting in the waters of the Grand Canal was glorious in and of itself. The Ca d’Oro had been a private residence for many years, but its last owner, Baron Giorgio Franchetti, had filled it with antiquities and artwork and then deeded it to the city. The city, in turn, had made it into the Galleria Franchetti to properly display the Baron’s gorgeous collection. It was one of Alex’s favorite places to visit in Venice.
But not today; she was already running behind as it was.
As the vaporetto came to a stop at the landing next to the Ca d’Oro, Alex hopped off the boat, gave the building one last wistful glance and then headed down one of the side streets adjacent to it. A few minutes of walking took her to the Strada Nova, literally “New Street,” the longest thoroughfare in all of Venice. Built in 1871 – making the name rather ironic in Alex’s eyes – it ran parallel to the Grand Canal and had even once been a canal itself. Now it was a pedestrian walkway lined with fruit and vegetable stalls, bakeries, gelaterias, and quiet little shops. Alex wound her way through the crowds, the thoroughfare being a particular favorite among those visiting Venice, until she reached the Riva di Noale where she turned north. Following the edge of that canal for five minutes brought her to a footbridge that crossed over to the opposite bank and deposited her on the Fondamenta della Misericordia.
Now to find Gianni, she thought, with a glance at her watch to be sure she wasn’t running too far behind.
She headed down the Misericordia, looking for the trattoria where they had agreed to meet. It was a bit less crowded here than on the Strada Nova and Alex found herself enjoying the familiar sights and sounds surrounding her as she made her way along. The smell of fresh brewed coffee beckoned from the doorway of a nearby café, warring with the scent of newly baked bread drifting to her from farther down the block. She hadn’t realized it but she’d missed Venice; in a way she was glad to be home.
About halfway down the block there were two trattorias with very similar names and Alex realized she wasn’t exactly sure at which one she was supposed to meet Gianni. She scanned the crowd at the tables outside the first, didn’t see Gianni, and kept walking toward the other establishment. She hadn’t gone more than a dozen steps, however, before she heard someone call her name.
“Alessandra!”
She turned and saw a man with dark, close–cropped hair waving to her from a table outside the trattoria she’d just passed. At first she didn’t recognize him, but when he called her name again she realized with a shock that his voice was familiar.
It was Gianni.
Gone was the smiling, slightly–overweight curly–haired youth that she’d left behind when she’d headed off to New York City and undergrad
uate life at Columbia. In his place was a muscular man dressed smartly in casual clothes that showed off his lean physique nicely but didn’t flaunt it in your face. Even from here she could see the muscles standing out on his arms and she idly found herself wondering how long he’d spent in the gym to get a physique like that. Never in all her days would she have imagined Gianni looking the way he did now.
Life was full of surprises, it seemed.
She hurried over, gave him a hug and a quick kiss on each cheek, and settled into the chair he gallantly held out for her.
Taking his seat he smiled at her and said, “It is SO good to see you!”
They hadn’t seen each other in nearly eight years but that didn’t seem to matter as they quickly fell into their old habits as if they’d just had lunch together yesterday. They quickly ordered and spent the next hour eating and catching up on everything that had happened in their respective lives since they had last seen each other. It felt so natural and comfortable to be around him again that she held off talking about business for as long as possible, not wanting the lunch to end.
As a result, it was Gianni who broached the subject first.
He put down his silverware, wiped his mouth with his napkin, and then said, “All right, out with it, Alessandra. I know this isn’t just a social call; you’re practically vibrating with excitement. What are you really doing in Venice?”
She glanced away, trying to get her emotions in check. Was she really that obvious? If she was going to pull this off – the whole job, not just getting what she needed from Gianni – she apparently was going to have to work on her poker face.
Putting on what she hoped was a serious expression, she turned back to him and asked, “What can you tell me about the Saturnalia Festival?”
He frowned and thought about it for a moment. “Ancient Roman ritual for something or other, wasn’t it?” he said at last.
“Not that one. The modern one.”
“What modern one?”