by Gary McAvoy
Dominic raced across the piazza and down to the waterfront, step after pounding step, turning right towards Harry’s Bar and along the fondomento.
Just as he passed Harry’s, Karl and Lukas were coming out the door of Lupo’s Pub, laughing arm-in-arm. Looking up, they were surprised to find Michael, running toward them, out of breath, drenched in sweat, fear and desperation on his face.
“Karl!” Dominic cried out, panting with every word as he stopped and held onto his friend’s shoulder. “That Faustino guy from Florence is behind me with a knife! He should be here any second!”
Karl reacted instantly, no questions asked. “We’ve got this. Come on, Lukas.”
The two of them took off, jogging in the direction Dominic had come from, their heads down, Karl laying out their strategy to his partner as they slowly ran. Seven seconds later, Perez rounded the corner. Seeing Dominic in the distance, stopped on the fondomento and bent over panting, he picked up his pace, intending to run around the two men approaching him.
To his surprise, the two joggers separated slightly as they approached him, leaving a space between them for him to pass. Better yet, he thought, grinning.
Before he knew it, Faustino Perez was flying through the air face down, each of his legs having been tripped by the two joggers on either side of him.
As if in slow motion, Perez gaped at the cobbles closing in on his face, his arms and legs flailing in the air behind him. He turned his head to one side instinctively, but any thoughts of getting his arms out in front of him in time were pointless.
His face smashed directly onto the cobblestones. The rest of his body tumbled over on top of itself, his entire weight now thrust onto his neck, which snapped with a loud crack as he toppled to the ground.
Death was instantaneous.
Seeing the man fall, Dominic ran back to Karl and Lukas as the latter two were staring down at Faustino Perez’s crumpled body, surprised by the effectiveness of their plan but satisfied with the outcome.
“We’d better get out of here before anyone sees us,” said Dominic. “But first…” Despite the assassin and the circumstances, the priest said a quick prayer for Faustino’s soul. Then the three of them took off running back toward St. Mark’s Square, vanishing in the fog.
Once they were clear of the scene, they slowed to a walk.
“So, what happened!” Lukas urged. “Why was he chasing you?”
“To kill me, I suppose!” Dominic huffed. “Didn’t you see that knife he was gripping? The bastard chased me all across the San Marco sestiere from the Miracoli church to here. We probably ran a good half-mile through the twisting narrow alleyways and campos and piazzas. The guy was relentless.”
“Good thing you’re a nimble runner, Michael,” Karl said, clapping his friend on the back. “At this rate, the Camorra will have fewer people to send after us. Marco would be proud!”
“Let’s just figure out a way to get that Coscia Journal and get out of here,” Dominic said. “I never thought I’d say this, but Venice is starting to lose its appeal.”
Chapter 48
Giuseppe Franco sat nervously in his studio at Palazzo Feudatario, considering how best to approach Don Gallucci with his plan. He had never asked for a raise, much less demand a modest percentage of the exorbitant fees they were getting for his work. It was simply a matter of fairness, after all. Surely the man would see that.
He glimpsed the padrino sitting in his office when he came in that morning. It was now or never, he thought.
Taking the stairs down to the ground floor, Giuseppe’s heart began racing the closer he got to Gallucci’s office. Stay strong! You can do this. They need you…
He rapped on the padrino’s door, which was open. Gallucci, focused on some paperwork, glanced up.
“Si, Giuseppe? What is it?”
“Buongiorno, Don Gallucci,” he began. “Do you have a moment to discuss a matter of some importance to me?”
Gallucci was instantly alert. He knew the tone of that voice and what question might come of it: “… to me” was the giveaway. He put down his pen, leaned back in his chair, and lit a cigarette.
“Of course, come in. Take a seat.”
Giuseppe sat down, tiny beads of sweat on his face betraying his confidence, even though the room was moderately cool.
“I’ve been meaning to speak with you as well, Giuseppe, and this is as good a time as any. Your work here has been exemplary, and I want you to know how grateful our clan is, how grateful I am personally. And so I’d like to increase your salary to €85,000, effective immediately.” He waited for a reaction.
Giuseppe was shocked that Don Gallucci had nearly read his mind. But it wasn’t exactly what he’d had in mind. Though he was happy to accept the raise, he still felt his services were worth more.
“Don Gallucci, that… that is most kind of you,” he stammered, sweat now dripping from his forehead. “However, I would like to offer a proposal. When I was entering the accounting and condition details in the Coscia Journal the other day, I noticed that my Raphael had sold for twenty-five million euros! And I thought… well, that is a great deal of money. And surely the padrino would value my unique services enough to give me a share of each painting I create going forward.
“I had in mind a figure of just one percent, Don Gallucci, which you must admit is quite reasonable.” His hands shook as they lay on his lap, the fingers of one hand rubbing against those of the other.
Gallucci slowly leaned forward, blowing smoke into Giuseppe’s face.
“I am afraid we must disagree on what you think is ‘reasonable,’ Giuseppe. You are not the one taking the greatest risks here. You sit up there in your comfortable studio, doing what you love most in the world, and yes, taking due pride in your work. But the greatest risks are mine, and those of others in our clan. Do you realize what is involved in acquiring these pieces in the first place? Especially from the Vatican or the Uffizi or other prominent institutions?! Incalculable risks! And you suffer none of that.
“No, I am afraid I cannot agree to your wishes. I am sorry. You were just given a sizable raise, one that I’m sure was unexpected. That should be sufficient and you should be grateful for it. Now, is there anything else?”
Giuseppe was gobsmacked. He had badly overplayed his hand.
“N… no, padrino,” he said haltingly. “Thank you for your time. And oh, yes, for that, um, raise, too.”
Giuseppe stood to leave, but his legs weren’t cooperating. He stumbled getting out of the chair, turned to straighten it, glanced at Gallucci and left the office.
Back in his studio upstairs, Giuseppe fumed over the confrontation. Merda!! He should have accepted my proposition. I am not a greedy man, but look at what they are getting for my work. I am not respected here at all by these greedy bastards.
Perhaps I should have a talk with that priest I met at the contessa’s party. I could work directly for the Vatican. Surely they would pay considerably more than the measly “raise” I was just offered for my ability to restore their art while keeping the work in-house. And I would not subject myself to further risks as I do here. What was his name…? Ah, yes. Father Dominic.
Chapter 49
It had been just eighteen hours since Silvia Vecchio had confirmed that Eldon Villard’s Raphael was, well, not a Raphael, as she bluntly put it to him.
Villard himself had only one man to blame for this. Renzo Farelli. Farelli was the one who set up the deal, vouching for the painting’s provenance and authenticity. And it was Farelli with whom Villard would take up the matter. He would get back his €25 million and never deal with the man again. And once word got out he was a swindler—and Villard would make sure word got out—Renzo Farelli would never again be trusted by anyone. Villard’s repudiation alone would ruin him.
His assistant had arranged for a Zoom web conference with Farelli to start in a few minutes. While waiting, he’d had coffee delivered to his office and was dressing a cup with cream and sugar
when the conference began.
Renzo Farelli appeared on the screen as Villard took his first sip.
“Good morning, Signor Villard,” the dealer said, sitting at his desk, smiling. “I hope you are well this morning?”
Villard set down his cup, then placed his palms on the desk and leaned forward into the webcam until his face filled Farelli’s screen. Involuntarily, he backed up in his chair, intimidated by the billionaire.
“I am not at all well, Renzo, something I have you to thank for. I’m sure you are familiar with Dr. Silvia Vecchio, the impeccable fakebuster? At my invitation she paid me a visit last evening, spending a good deal of time on the purported Raphael you sold me. Turns out it’s a forgery, Renzo. A very good one, but a forgery nonetheless. I expect you to make arrangements to have it picked up and returned in exchange for a full refund of what I paid. I will be generous and give you forty-eight hours to do so.”
Farelli was aghast, his worst expectations having materialized. Panicking, he desperately struggled to fortify his transparently weak position.
“But signore,” Renzo pleaded, “that is simply not possible! The piece has excellent provenance and comes to us, as you know, from an unimpeachable source. Is it possible Dr. Vecchio was wrong in this instance?”
“No,” Villard said flatly. “I believe she is correct. Your people must have returned the original to the Vatican, and sold me the forged copy.”
Farelli’s mind was racing to save the deal. He tried a different tack.
“Nevertheless, Signor Villard, if that were the case—assuming that even after the most scrupulous examination, the piece’s authenticity still remains open to doubt—do you not see it as a thoroughly presentable work of art as if the painting were indisputably genuine?”
Villard thought about Farelli’s twisted logic for a moment. He had to give the man credit for trying. “A clever but unconvincing rebuttal, Renzo, but how dare you try to pawn off a fake for that kind of money! I paid for a genuine Raphael, I expected a genuine Raphael. I have no wish to argue the matter further. Please see to my demands immediately. And do not expect any further business from me, nor others whom I might influence. Good day.” Villard punched the End button, and the Zoom conference window vanished.
Devastated, Farelli lowered his head, his face falling into open hands. Twenty-five million euros, gone in a flash—five million of which was his commission! And his reputation would be shattered after this affair. Merda! He ripped the scarf off from around his neck, which was now suffocating him as he fought for breath.
Then there was Don Gallucci to deal with now. He would be raving mad, especially following the string of losses the clan had suffered recently. Should he even mention it to the capintesta?
No. He should run! Just take his money and run. With no future remaining once Eldon Villard was done with him, what else could he do?
At his age, he could retire comfortably with what he had. There was no way he’d return that five million, either. He would have to find a place out of the reach of the Camorra, and Villard for that matter. A country without extradition. Vanuatu, maybe, or Samoa, or the Solomon Islands. Someplace tropical.
Sadly, he would have to leave his beloved Le Serenissima forever.
But he would be rich. And alive.
Chapter 50
Since Father Carlo Rinaldo’s death, St. Mark’s Basilica desperately needed an additional priest to celebrate Mass until they could replace the fallen Rinaldo. Owing to its popularity as the most visited church in all of Venice, multiple services were offered every day: Morning Prayers, Eucharistic Adoration, the Rosary, Vespers, and three Masses. There simply weren’t enough clergy to handle the daily demands at the moment.
Which is why the procuratoria of St. Mark’s had contacted Father Dominic, on the chance he might be available to serve as the principal celebrant for Sunday’s midday service. As before, he gladly welcomed the opportunity, especially at the end of what had been a grim and challenging week. He yearned for the blessed respite, the spiritual renewal Mass always brought him—and to clear his mind of the tawdry secular issues he’d burdened himself with over the past few days.
As he was now presiding over the liturgies in the great basilica—the polyphonous sounds of the lofty pipe organ accompanying the rituals—Dominic noticed the congregation was larger today, with many familiar faces he had encountered over his past two weeks in Venice, both pleasant and unpleasant.
For the moment, though, they were all children of God, with personal judgments suspended.
With Mass having ended, Dominic was back in the sacristy, changing into his personal clothing while the altar servers and sacristan managed the cleansing and storage of the sacred vessels and vestments.
There was a knock on the door. One of the younger altar boys opened it.
“Buongiorno, ragazzo,” greeted an older bespectacled man. “May I speak with Father Dominic, please?”
On hearing his name, the priest looked up, then walked across the room to receive his visitor. “I’m Father Dominic. How may I help you?”
“Padre, please forgive this interruption. My name is Giuseppe Franco. Is there a place where we might…” he looked at the others in the room, then lowered his voice “… speak privately? It is a matter of some importance.”
“Of course. We can take a walk outside,” Dominic whispered back. “Haven’t we met before? You look familiar.”
“Si, padre. We met briefly at Contessa Vivaldi’s Carnivale party.”
“Oh, I remember now… you work at Palazzo Feudatario.”
“Yes. I have been there for quite some time,” Giuseppe said tenuously.
Given the attempt on his life by Giuseppe’s employer, Dominic was wary. What does this man want of me? Should I be concerned? On the other hand, he was the lead restorer at Feudatario. Despite the possible risk, Dominic had many questions for him.
“If you don’t mind, Padre, rather than taking a walk outside—where we would surely be seen together, presenting problems for both of us—might we instead find a less public place?”
Dominic thought for a moment. “How about the confessional? You can’t get more private than that.”
“Perfetto!” Giuseppe replied, clearly relieved. In fact, his entire demeanor changed as he realized just how perfect Dominic’s suggestion was, for he was about to disclose things that could be told to no one else—and the seal of the confessional would ensure that what he revealed remained between the two of them.
Dominic escorted the man out of the sacristy and back into the main basilica, then across the transept to the embellished oak confessional booth against the back wall. As the priest stepped inside the center compartment and closed the wooden door, Giuseppe entered the penitent’s side stall and pulled the curtain closed. Dominic slid open the latticed partition separating them.
“Padre, I think it is appropriate that I make a full and proper confession first, then we can speak more informally, for what I am about to confess will certainly require God’s absolution.”
Not surprised at all—for Dominic suspected Giuseppe’s hand in the forgery scheme—he was more than happy to oblige the man. Finally, he felt he was getting somewhere.
“Of course,” the priest said encouragingly. “Go ahead.”
Giuseppe made the sign of the cross. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned…”
So far, Giuseppe’s litany of sins were of the venial variety, nothing that would deprive his soul of receiving divine grace—but nothing that would be of much use for Dominic’s purposes, either. And although he felt slightly duplicitous in his expectations during such a sacred rite, he was anxiously awaiting disclosure of the meatier mortal sins—specifically as related to the more larcenous activity he was sure the man was involved in.
“… And last but not least, Father, and the reason I needed to speak with you in the first place, I have been wholly complicit in creating forged copies of Old Masters paintings—very rare and expensive work
s of art—on behalf of my employer, who either sells them as originals, or replaces the original with the forged copy under the guise of restoration. Mind you, I was unaware of the extent of this situation until recently while in my employer's office, assisting with the books. Though I have not had a hand in that activity, it has been ongoing for many years, and I am heartily sorry for my own role in this shameful deception.”
There it was! The door was now open for further discussion after the Sacrament of Confession was concluded. Dominic dispensed the man’s penance, asking him to step outside the confessional and sit in the pews while performing it, then return to the privacy of the booth to continue their conversation. Giuseppe prayed an Act of Contrition, after which the priest absolved him of his sins. Giuseppe then pulled open the curtain door, leaving the booth to say his penance.
Meanwhile, as he sat in the dim isolation of the confessional, Dominic’s mind was racing. Why had Giuseppe come forward to me? What compelled him to do so now, and in this particular manner? What were his reasons for taking part in the elaborate scam in the first place? And most important of all—where is the Coscia Journal, and can he get hold of it for us?
Finally, he would get his answers. Dominic began praying himself, thanking God for delivering this repentant man to him at the perfect time needed by both of them.
Finishing his devotions, Dominic glanced at his watch. Fifteen minutes had passed. Surely by now Giuseppe would have finished the modest penance given him. Leaning forward, he opened the door a crack to make sure the man was still there. He was, sitting in a pew a few meters away, his head bowed in prayer.
But there was something odd about his posture. It looked like he was sleeping.