Lucia was welcomed in and shown to the same chair she had sat in during their last meeting. Tiziano was nowhere to be seen. His round glasses sat poised on the leather-topped desk, and Lucia noted how the lenses were smudged and greasy. To her left lay a few newspapers, and to her right was an ashtray dotted with crumpled, burned-out butts.
‘Lucia!’ The energy with which he had announced her name lit a spark in her eyes. ‘Sorry to have kept you waiting.’
That trademark rotund belly slowed Tiziano’s walk to a waddle as he entered the room and crossed to his desk, and Lucia distinctly heard his knees crack as he eased himself into his chair. His cheeks were rosy and his eyes wide.
Surely this is a good sign?
‘How are you, Lucia?’
What Lucia wanted to say was that she felt like a nervous wreck. That all her hopes and dreams to secure La Scuola Rosa wholly in her name rested upon her good faith in him, and on him being true to his word. She wanted to grip the edge of the desk to steel herself, as no matter how she tried to fight it, the flight response in her legs wanted to carry her far from this palazzo, and back home to Foscari and Calle del Leone.
But she swallowed it all and buried it behind her bravado.
It’s time to play the game, Lucia. You can do this. . .
‘Despite the past few weeks of waiting and dealing withthisissue,’ she gestured with both hands to the space between them, ‘it has been a busy time for us at the school. New students, fresh curriculum, Carnevale starting next w—’
‘I heard about the photo, Lucia.’
Lucia blinked. ‘The what?’
‘The viral social media post.’
Lucia was unable to stifle her deep swallow. ‘Youknow about that?’ She felt the blood drain from her face.
Cazzo.
‘Sì, all of Venice is talking about it.’ He collected his glasses, gave the lenses a rudimentary clean on the lapel of his blazer then popped them on the edge of his nose. Lucia saw him notice the greenish tinge to her bruised forehead and struggle to restrain a grimace. ‘It’s not a good look, Lucia. To be honest.’
Now there was no hiding her trembling fingers or the vibration in her voice. ‘Tiziano . . . that . . . that was all out of my hands. I played no part in that. Honestly.’
‘That may be, butIcan’t have any part in that negative press. Particularly an incident that took place atmyball. If that were ever confirmed . . .’
The realisation of what was to come hit Lucia like a cannonball. It sucker-punched her in the belly, metaphorically pinning her to the chair as her legs hollowed to empty shells.
She watched her life play out in slow motion before her. Vittorio Gatti’s slimy, sleazy grin greeting her every morning as he entered the school, key legitimately in hand. His cold and calculated erasure of her parents and their legacy of community service. And his certain pressure to dismiss Mariella, once and for all.
A knot of nausea threatened to be her final undoing. The shuddering cold sweat. The taste of bile.
But she managed to keep it all down. For now.
‘What do you mean?’ she asked, somewhat rhetorically, as she could already guess what his response would be.
‘Lucia, I want no part in this PR disaster. You know how conservative the local media are. These sorts of things don’t happen to just anyone in Venice. But they always seem to happen toyou.’
Her voice finally broke. ‘Always? But—’
‘First the tragic accident coverage. Then the surveillance operation on yourcallefor the tenth anniversary. Nowthis. . .’ He tutted disapprovingly. ‘I rely on those media outlets to support and promote my work. For the coverage and the return they afford me. If word got out – even if our agreement was reachedbeforethe incident – it still reflects poorly on me and my estate.’ He gave his head a solemn shake.
Lucia’s eyes welled. ‘Are you refusing me the money because of that Instagram post?’
‘On a technicality,no.’
‘What?’ Was there a glimmer of hope? A sliver of possibility? She pulled herself to the edge of her chair, poised with both hands pressed to the leather desktop.
‘I had already made up my mind before word of this latest incident. Before the magic and memory of the ball was overshadowed byl’Orfanaseeking a man.’
Her jaw tightened. That word tormented her. She despised it. Yet she had to push through the conversation, charging onward for clarity if nothing else. ‘But you said that your donation was riding on the ball turning a profit.’ Her eyes traced frantic lines across his face. ‘Did it not make any money?’
