Luigi pulled everything together in a neat stack, added his notebook and phone on top, and carried it all to the hotbox that was Laszlo’s office. The big man, who was a perfect combination of Bela Lugosi’s Dracula and Elvis Presley, sat at his desk fuming. Luigi dragged the guest chair over to the open window for some fresh—albeit wet—air.
“I’m making a statement at the top of the hour. What am I saying?” Laszlo swigged some chalky liquid from a plastic bottle and then screwed the cap back on with such force Luigi heard the big man’s neck crack.
“That didn’t sound good. Laszlo, you’re falling apart.”
“Looks who’s talking? You look like you’re taking chemotherapy.”
“The Pocket Coffee’s been replaced in the vending machine. You didn’t have anything to do with that, did you?”
“No. If I had any pull with vending machines, they’d be filled with Pan di Stelle. Now, what am I saying to the public?”
“I recommend keeping it brief. ‘Last night Salvio Scortini was shot dead near his palazzo. He was armed. We’re seeking the public’s help in identifying the shooter, who may have acted in self-defense.’”
“I can’t believe this. This isn’t Venice, California. We don’t have people shooting each other here.”
“We did last night. Somebody with a gun put an end to Salvio’s murder spree, and they may have done it when he came at them with a knife. Apparently, he didn’t know they were armed with a superior weapon.”
“And what am I saying about the attack at Porto delle Donne? Those murderers used guns with silencers.”
“Give that place a break. You don’t need to mention that—it isn’t what people are asking about. I know Salvio sent those hit men there to kill Raphielli, and any negative publicity her shelter receives would be unfair. There’s no benefit to addressing Porto delle Donne at this time. It’d be tabloid fodder.”
“You don’t think the public has the right to know?” He twirled the bottle on his desk.
“Actually, no. The families of the victims have been notified. The public will have enough to chew on with Salvio Scortini’s return from the dead, escape from police custody, and murders of Count Gabrieli Verona and his own valet before someone killed him.”
“What do you know about Salvio’s accomplices?”
“I don’t know how he selected them, but he hired hit men here in Venice and in France, five in total. I’ve questioned families and landlords of the two men killed at the shelter, Rajim Aksal and Carlos Promulotti. My gut tells me Salvio assembled a group of anti-Catholic assassins.”
“Anti-Catholic? Are you kidding me?”
“No. It came up when I asked Carlos’ landlord if he was friendly with his tenant, and his response was, ‘No, I’m Catholic.’ When I asked him what he meant, he said Carlos hated Catholics. So, I did some checking, and Rajim hated Catholics, too. I made sure to follow that up with everyone else. I just learned from one of the French hit men’s mothers that he fit the same pattern.”
“That’s the most bizarre thing I’ve heard in an already bizarre case.”
“I’m getting used to being on the other side of the looking glass with this one.”
“Tell me you’ve changed your mind and Salvio’s murder plot is finished. Tell me it’s over now.”
“I wish I could, but no.”
“No?”
“I think Salvio set a plan in motion to kill his wife and the Veronas that’s still being played out. I believe Raphielli and the Veronas remain targets. I think it’s bigger than just Salvio somehow.”
Laszlo looked angry. “That’s not what I want to hear from you.”
“No one’s sorrier than me. Also, the hit men were all wearing black, head to toe, including the one who tried to get into Raphielli’s shelter back when the young guard, Alexi, was killed. Head-to-toe black with shiny shoes.”
Laszlo grunted, unimpressed. “Anyone trying to commit a crime wears black, it’s non-descript.”
“Not true. Crooks wear regular shoes, jeans, greys. But all black, and shiny shoes? It’s like they wore a special uniform.”
“That doesn’t interest me, let’s get back to Giselle Verona.” The big man’s brows knit. “Where is she now? Has she come back from France?”
“She’s disappeared, but I have word from Contessa Juliette Verona that she’s safe.”
“What is with this case?” Laszlo lost his patience and threw his hands up. “Contessa Verona stashed her daughter-in-law somewhere for safekeeping?”
“Sì, and since this was Salvio’s second attempt to kill Giselle, I can’t say I blame her.” Luigi glanced down at his tall stack of intel and knew it didn’t tell him what he needed to know. “I haven’t gotten to the bottom of what’s going on here, and until I do, I’m afraid it’s a race to prevent more murders.”
“You mean Raphielli Scortini, and the young Veronas—Count Vincenzo and Contessa Giselle?”
“Sì.”
“He just killed Vincenzo’s father, and last month he almost killed Vincenzo. What is it about that family Salvio hated so much?”
“I thought it was because the Vatican awarded the Verdu Mer construction project to Gabrieli. But now with the anti-Catholic hit men, I don’t know. The Veronas are very tight with the pope.”
“What about Raphielli? Salvio’s dead. Even if he was angry enough at his wife to kill her, why wouldn’t the contract be nullified by his death?”
“Dunno, but she wasn’t telling me the truth last night when I questioned her and her associates at her home when the valet was murdered.”
“Associates?”
“She was with Zelph Vitali, her security contractor, and Alphonso Vitali…”
“The private detective who gets the dirt on all the white-collar crooks?”
“Sì. They told me some crazy sequence of events, and I could tell they were making it up on the spot.”
“All right, I’ll keep my statement about Salvio’s murder basic and leave Raphielli’s women’s shelter out of it. Keep me informed. I want you to go home at the end of this shift. Get some sleep, will you?”
“Sure, you too. Maybe see a chiropractor, your neck sounds bad.”
“Don’t worry about my neck. Get me something better than an anti-Catholic conspiracy. Practically the whole country is Catholic, and when it comes to sheer power, Rome is nothing but a suburb of Vatican City. Rome’s got two and a half million people, but the pope has over a billion followers. I want to avoid running afoul of the Church.”
“If I promise to be discrete, can you get me into the Vatican for Gabrieli’s funeral?”
Laszlo stared off into the middle distance as he considered it, and then said, “I have a contact, I’ll arrange it. But the more important funeral for you to attend is Scortini’s here in Venice.”
“Right, I’ll check with Cardinal Negrali about that service. Since I’ve been surveilling Raphielli, he visits her every single day and sometimes accompanies her socially. He’s attached himself so thoroughly to her he might as well be welded to her. I’ll bet he’s handling Salvio’s service.”
Giselle woke up to the sound of jaunty knocking on the door and Markus answering sleepily in Ukrainian. Yvania’s voice prattled back in happy-sounding Ukrainian from the other side of the door. He stretched and, teasing his substitute mother, said, “We are not currently having sex. Come in.”
The door opened and Yvania locomoted her way into the abbey’s secret guest quarters with clogs clacking, the rhinestones on her cat’s-eye glasses glistening dully in the gloom, and the aroma of dark-roasted coffee preceding her. This would serve as Giselle and Markus’ new home until the French or Italian police could stop the recent onslaught of hit men trying to kill them.
Juliette had come up with this inspired plan for her and Markus to hide out with the monks of Abbaye d’Orval just across the Belgian border on the edge of the great Ardennes Forest. And Yvania had come for several reasons: to keep their spirits up, to hel
p as Giselle’s pregnancy progressed, and because Yvania was incredibly helpful at times like these—hit men didn’t scare her.
Giselle asked, “How’d you sleep?”
“Goot! I am sleeping just down the hall in a monk’s cell so very, er, clean.”
Giselle and Markus’s quarters were cozy and comfortable. Although designed originally in the Middle Ages to provide safekeeping for people who were being persecuted, the quarters had also been pressed into use during both world wars. Yvania had the stature of a fireplug, even with the extra inches provided by her clogs, so she looked perfectly proportional under the low ceilings. However, Giselle, at almost five-foot-nine, and Markus, at six-foot-two, needed to duck in places. Not that she was complaining—she was grateful for these ingenious monks’ protection and accommodations.
Yvania set the coffee pitcher on a sideboard, stepped back out into the stone tunnel, and returned bearing a tray laden with stacked dishes. The picture of grandmotherly care, one would never guess that she used to be an underground resistance fighter for the Chechens in their struggle against Russia. And she’d saved Giselle on more than one occasion without hesitating or even losing a hairpin from the ubiquitous bun perched atop her head.
“Come lovebirds, you must take the food,” she said in her heavy Ukrainian accent.
“I’ll eat whatever’s on that tray.” Giselle sat up and Markus handed her the shirt she’d worn yesterday, which she pulled on.
Giselle rubbed her bare feet against Markus’ warm leg under the covers and said, “Mon amour, if there’s a place to hide that has better food…I don’t know where it could be.” She eyed the array of homey breakfast breads, jams, hard-boiled eggs, and what looked like herbed cottage cheese. Lifting a little cone-shaped lid off a pitcher, she spied her favorite treat, a deep red-orange persimmon compote that tasted like a warm fall sun dipped in dark sugar. It made everything it was drizzled over delectable. “Here, it is! Goût du ciel!”
She took a slice of baguette, swiped on a dab of fresh churned butter, then tipped the fat pitcher so a dollop of the gooey persimmon pulp anointed the bread. Settling into the crevasses, the flesh of the fruit slumped into the compote liquid like a jewel covered in orange varnish. She offered it to Markus’ lips while holding a hand underneath to catch any drops of nectar. “It’s incredible on everything.”
“Taste of paradise? I cannot say ‘no’ to that.” He took a bite, and after the crunch of the bread’s crust, he closed his eyes and chewed. Then he opened his eyes, took the remaining bread, and popped it in his mouth.
Giselle licked dribbles off her hand. “I once ate a bag of horse treats with goût du ciel on them.”
“Really?”
“I was way out in the countryside for a picnic and I’d forgotten to pack the crackers. I let my horse graze, so we were both happy.”
“No wonder Juliette loves these monks!” Yvania said. “They are most talented at preserving that I know anywhere! This morning I was helping with the goats for the cheese making! I am not happy you are in danger, but I am so happy with being here for some time! So happy you two have a baby coming and soon will be married!”
There was a timid knock on the open door and a man’s voice called, “I have a message. May I come in?” It was Daniel, the monk who’d been tasked with taking care of them.
“Da. I mean, oui,” Markus called.
Daniel entered, looking nothing like a stereotypical monk. He’d said he was forty-something, but looked a decade younger, and his dark blonde hair was slightly longer than the ultra-tight shaved head that Markus maintained—who wasn’t a monk in any way, shape or form. He said, “I have news from Juliette. Salvio’s been shot. Dead.”
“Fantastic!” Markus cried. Giselle felt him relax next to her, releasing tension he’d probably been holding since Salvio first started spying on her back in September, even before Salvio had threatened to bash her head in with an iron bar.
Yvania applauded the news by clapping her hands with a hearty smack-smack-smack. “Finally! The worlt is good rid of that nasty man! I thought I am killing him once before, but he came back still with the murdering!”
Giselle stopped short of clapping, too. “What about Vincenzo?”
“Your husband is unharmed, safe in Venice.”
“Dieu merci.” She felt a wave of relief, but then thought of her friend. “I hope Raphielli’s okay.”
“Juliette said aside from killing Gabrieli, Salvio went after his own valet, who didn’t survive.”
“How horrible. Raphielli must be a wreck.”
“Now that the monster is dead? Raphielli is goot I am sure,” Yvania said. “Not for worrying about that leetle goddess of love. Men will line up for trying to take care of that girl.”
“Need coffee cups?” Daniel eyed the coffee pitcher and walked over to the kitchen, a time capsule containing a crude bee-hive oven built into the stone wall, wooden shelves stocked with dishes, pans, glasses, cups, urns of silverware, an ice chest, and small wooden table.
Daniel came back with cups and arranged them on a table next to the bed. “Your friend Fauve called. She says your local police friends were fine with your story, and she wants to bring you some clothing today. To keep your location secret, I’ll make the exchange in an out-of-the-way town in case anyone follows her.”
“Merci, Daniel,” Giselle said. She reached a hand out to accept the coffee Markus had poured for her. “Now we’ll just wait till the French and Italian police catch the rest of Salvio’s band of killers. I can’t imagine how Juliette’s holding up with Gabrieli gone.”
Yvania said, “Yesterday before I left Venice, she was busy arranging for a Verona grandchild. Today Vincenzo will be taking Gina to bed for the trying.”
“What?” Giselle almost spit out her coffee. She stared at Yvania and then flicked her eyes toward Daniel in a signal for her to clam up in front of an outsider.
“It is okay I am saying anything in front of Daniel. Juliette said to trust him like we would trust her—absolute.”
Giselle found that surprising, but then back to the initial shock blurted, “Gina, the schoolgirl from the flower shop?”
“Oh, da. I did not say anything last night because we were making the getaway. But having a Verona heir—it got Juliette out of her mourning like a miracle cure. It is a purpose. Somehow a new Verona baby will save the pope, but I do not know how.”
“None of us do, Yvania.” Markus waved a hand in exasperation, and a devilish smile appeared. “Ride ‘em, Gina.”
Giselle couldn’t picture it. “Little Gina with the armloads of books, and the fussy pearls, and pencil skirts, and scrubbed nails, and the precise knife-edge hair? She seems so anal.”
Markus raised an eyebrow. “Then she is perfect,” he said drolly. “But that will not make a baby.”
Daniel looked uncomfortable and straightened some books on a shelf at his elbow.
Yvania flipped a pudgy hand. “Juliette asked Gina for this favor of carrying on the bloodlines. Vincenzo should be okay with this. Gina does not have such a woman’s body—more like a boy.”
As Markus was busily buttering a piece of bread for Giselle, he said under his breath, “Except she is not Leonardo.”
“True…” Yvania said slowly and took a drink of her coffee. “Perhaps she will be the first time Vincenzo will be with someone who is not Leonardo.”
“Oh, I’m positive of that,” Giselle said. “I can’t wait to talk to him.”
She eyed her cell phone plugged into a charger that was plugged into a converter that was plugged into the oldest electric outlet she’d ever seen—and having been raised in a château built in 1730 that had gotten electricity in 1836, that was saying something. This place was primordial.
“Daniel, we’ll get dressed now. Can you come back in a few minutes and give us a tour of the areas it’s safe for us to explore in the daylight? Before you go meet Fauve?”
“Of course.”
“How cold is it o
utside?”
“Cold enough that the snow is not melting, but not too windy right now.” He eyed her clothes draped over a chair doubtfully.
“I was doing yoga when the killers came for us,” she explained.
“Near the end of the tunnel is a closet with heavier coats, scarves, hats, and gloves. You’re welcome to what’s there. I’ll come back for you in ten minutes.”
CHAPTER
2
Raphielli arrived at Porto delle Donne feeling more herself after her…um…breakfast with Gio. She approached the security cage adjacent to the shelter’s front door and saw that Azure was on duty. His face was solemn as he pressed the button requesting her admittance from Kate in the office. “Good to see you unharmed, Signora Scortini.”
“Grazie. Call me Raphielli.”
They both knew her last name would be forever associated with murder. “Sì, okay. Raphielli.”
Once inside, the reek of cheap disinfectant hit her. She sat on the lobby bench to remove her winter boots. Looking over at her work shoes in their cubby, she felt an eerie vertigo—they’d been mute witnesses to last night’s violence. While putting them on, she heard Paloma’s raised voice in the nearby multi-purpose room.
“But we didn’t die, we fought back. I didn’t survive all the shit I’ve endured to be bumped off by some weirdoes dressed like funeral directors.”
“One had on the nurse’s lab coat,” Ottavia said.
“Sì, but over his black…uh…uniform.” Shanti sounded creeped out.
Paloma reasserted herself. “Why sit around discussing something I’d do again in a heartbeat? I thought I was about to see Leona’s throat slit.”
“You were!” Nanda cried.
“Just a tiny prick,” Leona said. “I’m fine with my Band-Aid.”
“Poor Kate was being choked till her eyes bulged—we had to do something,” Paloma said.
“Some of you are very quiet,” Dr. Risinger said. “Margarita, Meryl, Jasmine, Grace, Abrienne how do you ladies feel?”
Surviving Venice Page 4