‘I don’t quite remember so much pink,’ he noted, tutting to himself. ‘Too feminine for my taste. But I can change that.’ Then his eyes found the photo on the wall: Lucia with Elena and Umberto at the front of the school, arms linked contentedly under the bougainvillea. ‘ThisI remember.’
Francesco’s hold on Lucia’s arm tightened, and under his breath he whispered, ‘Calma. . .’
‘It will be nice to be back on Calle del Leone,’ he said evenly. ‘It’s been fifteen years since La Commediaunfortunatelyclosed its doors. What a shame that was . . .’ His sincerity was non-existent.
With that, Lucia broke free of Francesco’s hold and stepped assertively forward. ‘Leave. You’re not welcome here. Not now, not ever.’
Feigning offence with a hand pressed delicately to his lapel, Vittorio merely laughed. ‘Lucia, Jacopo Molin is dead.’ He paused cruelly for effect. ‘He can’t come back to stop this from happening. The sooner you just accept that, the better it will be for all of us.’ Lucia watched as his gaze fell on the community donation basket by the front door. ‘Surely the Church is a better organisation to facilitate this kind of outreach program?’ His devilish eyes rolled, unimpressed.
‘Get out.’
‘Don’t resist this process, Lucia. Defiance isn’t a good colour on you. Let this handover take place without incident and the working climate that follows may just be tolerable.’
Lucia took a breath and did her best to calm her seething rage. ‘You will never get your hands on this place.’ Now standing a foot in front of him, she allowed herself to imagine what it might feel like to slap him, to wipe that sick smile from his beaky little face. But she simply steeled herself and stood taller. ‘I would sooner dance on my parents’ graves than let you hang your name over that door – or over any more doors of Venice. You seem to close them a little too easily.’
Vittorio’s eyes narrowed. ‘I don’t appreciate what you’re insinuating, Lucia.’
‘AndIdon’t appreciate you turning this city upside down to empty its pockets, only to line yours.’
Vittorio grimaced. He dipped his hand into his inner coat pocket and withdrew a business card. ‘I’ll leave this for you. In case you ever want to talk in a morecivilisedmanner.’ His eyes scoured the welcome desk, but ended up settling on Lucia’s handbag hanging off the back of the chair. ‘I assume that is yours?’ Lucia’s eyes narrowed as he slipped the card into the main compartment. ‘Play nice, Lucia. We have a long road ahead of us.’
It was then that Mariella appeared on the stairs from the second floor. The sight of Vittorio Gatti, in all his obnoxious callousness, caused her to drop hercornetto. On cue, her face flushed a toxic shade of red and she bounded down the stairs as quickly as her full wobbling frame would allow. ‘Che cazzo vuoi?!’ she bellowed, pushing Lucia aside and launching herself at their intruder.
Vittorio’s face contorted with disappointment. ‘You’restillhere, Mariella? I thought you would have been fired years ago. A good-for-nothing like you.’
‘Ok, that’s enough!Basta!’ Now it was Francesco’s turn to get involved. ‘You’ve been asked to leave, so leave. You can’t come in here and insult the staff and torment the owner and expect to get away with it. So go. Now!’ Francesco ushered Vittorio from the lobby with a forceful hand on the wrist. ‘FUORI!’
Vittorio held up his hands in mock surrender. ‘I’ll go. For now. But know this . . .’ Framed by the door, Vittorio pointed to the sky. ‘I see everything. I know everyone. Nothing escapes me. Venice knows better.’ His expression twisted into a mirthless grin, briefly revealing his coffee-stained teeth. ‘Enjoy the eighty-two days. I bet you’ll have aball. . .’ He smirked before turning, pausing for a moment to take in La Commedia across thecalle, then slipped away and out of sight.
The trio exhaled, and Mariella was the first to speak. ‘That monster!’
Francesco attempted to placate her with an embrace. ‘He can’t touch us here. As much as he’d like to.’
Meanwhile, Stefano had arrived on the bottom landing of the stairs to see what the fuss was about, a yapping Foscari under his arm.
But Lucia didn’t hear any of it. She had moved to the front door and, gripping the frame, her eyes were fixed on La Commedia, just as Vittorio’s had been. That split second when Vittorio had paused to take in the building suddenly looped in her mind.Surely not, she thought. Could he be somehow connected to the comings and goings, the lights, the mysterious activity across thecalle?The man. Could he possibly be working for Vittorio?
I see everything . . .
Gatti’s warning echoed through Lucia’s mind, but it only served to ground her more resolutely in her fight to keep him as far from Calle del Leone as possible, and away from La Scuola Rosa for good.
Turning her head, she looked to the family portrait, and in her heart she made her parents a solemn promise.I’ll do anything it takes. I won’t let you down.
undici
It was Friday the 13th, the evening of the masquerade ball.
Francesco and Lucia had decided to coordinate their costumes, drawing on two of the iconic servant characters of the sixteenth-century Commedia dell’Arte theatre tradition. It was spritely Arlecchino for Francesco, and the clever and savvy Colombina for Lucia. Francesco, dressed in his multicoloured patchwork onesie, was hard to miss. His face was half covered by a simple black leather mask, fastened securely under his white felt hat.
On his arm was Lucia, oozing femininity. Her slender long-legged frame was given generous curves thanks to the tailored red waistcoat which cinched in at the waist. From her middle billowed a full blue satin skirt, and she’d completed the look with fishnet stockings and black ballet flats. Her glossy dark hair was bundled into a low, braided knot. Accented with feathers and blue and red detailing, Lucia’s half-mask provided her the anonymity to be herself and enjoy the ball, without all the prying eyes and public interest.
As much as her own pride would allow her, that was.
The pair stood at the opulent internal double doors to the palazzo facing Piazza San Marco.
Francesco squeezed her arm. ‘Graziefor coming, Lucia.’ He smiled. ‘If we get separated I have the spare key to the school and my phone.’ He gave his zipped pocket a tap. ‘Sei pronta?’
She nodded, her rouge-tinted lips curling. ‘I’m ready.Grazie a tefor the invitation. And for helping me out of my slump. Tonight . . .’ She paused, inhaling deeply. ‘I surrender myself to the universe. Whatever comes my way . . .’
