‘Who exactly?’ Francesco asked, setting his now empty cup down in the sink.
‘Tiziano Zorzi,’ Mariella answered. ‘One of the gatekeepers of Venice.’
His eyes widened. ‘That sounds . . . ominous.’
‘It’s brilliant. Or,couldbe . . . aha!’ Lucia’s nostrils flared in delighted relief. ‘Here he is.’ Retrieving her phone from her back pocket, Lucia began to dial.
‘Besides “wielding the keys to the city” – what is Tiziano famous for?’
Lucia darted to her desk and retrieved the printed tickets. ‘Yourbeloved ball.’ She let them fall to the countertop just as the call connected. ‘Ah,sì, pronto? It’s Lucia Trevisan, Tiziano. I was hoping you had a minute to spare . . .’
The following morning, Lucia watched how her own hand hovered apprehensively over the brass door knocker. She was nervous, but she managed to goad herself into grasping it and bringing it down on its base plate with a confident bang. Three times, for good measure.
She waited, and her eyes grazed the burgundy and grey–speckled terrazzo flooring underfoot. A few moments passed before she heard Tiziano’s shuffling footsteps within.
‘Arrivo,’ came his muffled voice.
Clearing her throat, Lucia smoothed her long black ponytail and stood a little taller. She was ready.
The door opened, and there stood Tiziano Zorzi, a little more aged than when they’d last met five years ago for the Venetian Arts Council Trust, and with much less hair.
‘Lucia Trevisan,’ he said, stepping forward to catch her hands. ‘Come, come. It’s much warmer in here.’
He was right. Despite the ten-foot ceilings of his opulent Grand Canal–facing palazzo, the air radiated a cocooning warmth. Lucia noted the crackling fire to her right as she stepped into the vastness of the sitting room. One of many.
‘A truly terrible winter, this one. Wouldn’t you say?’ he began.
Lucia caught a glimpse of the view of the water from one of the leadlight windows on either side of the fire. The clouds had darkened considerably since she had set out on foot. ‘Yes indeed. It’s much wetter this year. The water has been awfully high on my side. And the constant storms . . .’
‘Sì.’ Tiziano’s hands clutched his temples. ‘The lightning and thunder. This kind of weather is no good for those of us trying to maintain the city’s social calendar.’
He had gone there first, and she was secretly thankful for it.
‘How is the event planning going? Surely with Carnevale around the corner, you and your staff would be very busy.’
He led Lucia to a leather-topped desk in the corner, behind which was a ceiling-high and wall-wide bookcase, filled to the brim with cloth-bound titles. Gesturing that she should take a seat, Tiziano rang a small brass bell. ‘Caffé?’
In all honesty, the last thing Lucia’s insides needed was a hit of intestine-churning caffeine, but she accepted his offer with a gracious smile. ‘Grazie.’
Tiziano’s obscenely round belly was difficult to manoeuvre behind his desk, but he managed it, and reached for his small circular glasses to better assess her.
‘Allora, what is it that I can help you with today, Lucia?’
With her shoulders pinned back and bright eyes twinkling, she said, ‘Well, I’m hoping we can actually help each other.’
His eyebrows rose as he lifted his pen. ‘Is that so?’
A man of great wealth and reputation, and – if the rumours were true – a descendent of noble blood, Tiziano Zorzi was still a businessman at heart. While his financial matters were often concerned with six- and seven-figure sums and international connections, Lucia knew he was always willing to consider any transaction or business deal big or small that might sway his profile towards the limelight.
‘I’m sure that across the calendar year, and through the many organisations you lead, you have a great deal of . . . shall we say,turnover?’ she suggested.
Lucia watched as the older man’s friendly demeanour suddenly began to fade. His eyes narrowed and his cheeks flattened, and he set down his pen. ‘I’m listening,’ he said.
‘This business of event management you have going on is merely a sideline for you, is it not?’ She practically batted her eyelids through her thinly veiled innocence. ‘You’re the best in the business here in Venice. No one throws a party like you, Tiziano. Your name is synonymous with luxury, with opulence . . .’ She gestured to the gilded ceiling and likely priceless sixteenth-century paintings hanging on the wall to her left. ‘People trust you. And your taste. They will put their money behind you because you are a safe and steadfast investment in this city. You always have been, and you always will be.’
Tiziano’s left eyebrow rose slightly. ‘What is it that you need, Lucia?’
Lucia leaned closer over the desk. ‘Money.’
