Rocco stood on the terrace, leaning against the balustrade and gazing up at the sooty ivory stone of the Berlusconi’s villa, his eye drifting to the top floor and the covered corridor—the loggia adorned with purple bougainvillea.
He turned around and faced the lake, inhaling the heady, sultry scent of jasmine, wisteria, and freesia that ornamented the villa in the multi-tiered gardens below.
The sky had slipped from a violet twilight to a deep purple, and the lake’s surface shimmered in the moonlight.
To the north lay the Tremezzina Bay, to the south the Isola Comacina. Farther in the distance were the verdant mountains, and farther still the snowy alpine peaks and Mount Bianco, where the story Nico had begun telling him took place.
He felt a hand on his back and turned around to see Dario.
“Well,” Rocco said, “if it isn’t Sir Lancelot. You know I’ll have to leave in a bit for Carnival. My nieces are expecting me.”
Dario nodded. “Too bad it turned out to be on the same night. You’ll have to go back to the hotel and change.”
“Why?”
Dario blinked. “You’re not going to go like that.”
“Why not?”
“Well, the laced-up tunic, suede vest, and boots might not be so bad. But that wig and moustache? If you were wearing a snug T-shirt and jeans, you’d look like a seventies porn star.”
Rocco took a step back and pulled out his sword. “‘Thinking of using Bonetti’s Defense against me, are you?’”
Dario rolled his eyes. “I never know how to respond when you quote that stupid movie.”
“Stupid?” Rocco took a couple more steps back and began swiping the sword through the air.
“You do realize you’re taking on a knight.” Dario tapped his own sword hanging from his hip.
“And you, sir, are taking on a Spanish fencer and henchman to the Sicilian criminal Vizzini. Prepare to die!” Rocco cried as he lunged forward.
Dario staggered back, his tongue lolling out of his mouth as he gripped the stone balustrade but then immediately righted himself. “I can’t go down any farther. Celeste will be pissed if I do any damage to this costume.”
Rocco laughed. “So, Lancelot is afraid of Guinevere.”
“He is.”
Both stood looking out at the placid, silent lake with the sounds of laughter, music, and tinkling ice in cocktail-filled glasses drifting out onto the terrace.
Finally, Dario spoke. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about last night. You drank pretty heavily after …”
Rocco placed his hand on his cousin’s shoulder. “I’m okay. We both know Carolyn was trying to rattle me. Don’t worry. She didn’t.”
Dario nodded. “You know, I think she might be the one who’s rattled. Her precious Anker might be atop the leaderboard now, but if you can keep performing like you did at Monza, I think you can take him—even win the whole thing. Monaco’s next.”
Rocco sighed. “Monaco.”
“You know you can win it. You’ve done it before. Carolyn knows it too.”
“Did you notice how rude she was to Nico?”
“Nico’s probably used to it. She hasn’t exactly been welcomed with open arms by everyone on the circuit.”
Dario gave Rocco a significant look.
“Do you mean me?” Rocco asked. “That was in the beginning. Iknow I was an ass. Anyway, Nico paid her back. She poured some of her drink in Carolyn’s purse when she wasn’t looking.”
Dario’s eyes ballooned. “She didn’t.”
