Page 1 of Marcello

PART I

7 Years Ago

Florence, Italy

1

Marcello

Iwas 21 years old when I met the devil.

Turned out he lived in paradise.

A man in a tailored black suit and tie picked me up outside my university dorm in Florence. An hour later, I was sitting on the back patio of a centuries-old Tuscan mansion. An immaculate lawn led to a swimming pool lined with lemon trees, and there was a topiary garden and vineyards nearby.

But I barely paid attention to my surroundings. I kept my eyes on the devil, who was sitting across the patio table from me.

He was an older man in his early 50s. His expensive three-piece suit couldn’t quite hide his middle-aged gut. He had a mustache and goatee flecked with silver, and his black hair was greying at the temples.

Beside him sat a guy about my age, maybe a bit younger. Unlike the older man, he wasn’t wearing a suit – just dark slacks and a white linen shirt. The entire time, he never said a word, but peered at me as though he could see into my mind.

The devil smiled at me as he stirred a silver spoon in his porcelain coffee cup. “Thank you for meeting with us today, Marcello.”

I wanted to say, Like I had a choice, but I knew enough to keep my trap shut.

“My name is Fausto Rosolini,” he continued. “This is my nephew. Don’t mind him; he’s just sitting in.”

I looked at the young guy warily, then back at the devil.

“Your father has caused a great deal of trouble for me, as I’m sure you know,” the older man said.

Yeah, I knew, all right.

Papa was a judge in Florence. He and Mama had gotten divorced a year ago, and it had been nasty, messy, and very expensive for my father.

Mama was a stay-at-home wife who’d given up a career to raise three children. She kept the house in the divorce. She also got custody of my younger brother and sister, who were both still teenagers and living at home. In addition, she got half of all my father’s assets and salary.

Papa moved into a cramped apartment with his much younger mistress, who was only a few years older than me. She was very pretty, very dumb, and had very expensive tastes.

A few months later, my father bought a house in Fiesole, a posh neighborhood north of Florence. He started driving a Jaguar, too.

All of which should’ve been impossible on half a judge’s salary.

Either he was burying himself in massive debt…

Or something much worse was going on.

Turned out it was something much worse.

I remembered the night I met him at a café.

I hadn’t talked to him in months; I was super pissed off about him cheating on Mama and breaking up our family. But when he’d called, his voice had been frantic as he begged to see me.

When I met him in the café, he had a black eye and one arm in a cast.

What the hell happened to you? I asked in alarm.

Never mind that, he told me in a low, frightened whisper. I need your help.