The Incident at Montebello (29 page)

But at home, the kitchen was dark. His anger surged. Only fools hungered after scraps of affection. He thought again of what Stellino said about a man needing to be free. If he were smart, he'd walk away from them all. Shivering, he stirred the embers in the stove and rubbed his hair with a towel. Dropping his wet clothes on the floor, he slipped into some dry ones. He had worn a hole right through his socks. Damn her. Where the hell was she?

Giving up, he grabbed an umbrella and retraced his steps down the Via Condotti. When he burst through the door of Nonna Angelina's house, a young woman was stirring a pot of soup on the stove and singing all the while. “Where's my mother?” he demanded and the maid pointed to the parlor.

He dashed into the room, the glass curio cabinet rattling, startling Nonna Angelina who he'd caught during a rare moment of relaxation as she sipped some sherry, a shawl draped over her shoulders. He stood amidst the gleaming crystal, his heart racing, his fingers clenched.

“What's the matter? What happened?” she demanded, squinting at him.

Unnerved by the day's events, he sank onto the sofa and hid his face behind his hands. “I've had a hell of a day, mamma,” he admitted, his voice quivering like an old man's. Alarmed, Nonna Angelina thrust a glass of whiskey into his hands. As the liquor blasted down his throat and to stomach, its heat gave him courage. He recounted his pitiful tale, embellishing it as he went along, adding dramatic flourishes. The three Fascist militiamen were transformed into a half dozen robbers; their knives became Russian rifles; the gold in their teeth was as dazzling as the gold on their fingers. By the time he finished, Nonna Angelina was patting him on the back. The fire in the whiskey warmed him as much as her sympathy.

He sighed and set the glass on the table. “That's not all of it.” He told her what Prefetto Balbi said—that Lucia and Charlie were caught helping the
politico
and Charlie had played the joke on the mayor on Sardolini's orders. And to top it all off, he had found Sardolini's letter, which all but admitted that he loved Lucia.

Nonna Angelina poked him in the shoulder. “Didn't I tell you? Lucia's not smart enough to think of these crazy ideas on her own.”

Tears filled his eyes as he struggled to rein in his feelings. Her and the
politico
. Right under his nose. Somehow, that bastard had wormed his way into her heart. Embarrassed, he fumbled for his handkerchief, blew into it and coughed—as if he had suddenly caught a cold. He said, “She's making a fool of me. She's even turning my kids against me.”

“I'm not surprised. She's been a disappointment from the start. I should have never listened to my cousin Antonietta when she was singing Lucia's praises. A mother who wants to marry off her daughter will always stretch the truth and I fell for it. I'm sorry, my son. So handsome, so smart. To have a wife like that, no better than a whore. She doesn't deserve you.”

He was clenching his fingers so tightly that they ached. “What should I do, mamma? Prefetto Balbi wants me to prove my loyalty.”

“Do it. We don't need any more trouble. And keep your eyes and ears open. If Lucia's guilty—and I'm sure she is—she'll make a mistake. That's when you should pounce.”

He was still nodding when someone tapped on the door. He turned. His mother's new maid was standing in the doorway. “'
Scusi, signora
. The soup is ready. Will the
signore
be eating too?”

Nonna Angelina nodded. “Set two plates.”

“Yes
, signora
,” Marcella murmured, her eyes lowered.

He took a good look at the maid, noticing all at once her broad shoulders and generous breasts, which made him sigh. His eyes traveled downward past her trim waist and solid hips to her clean and dimpled bare feet. Her toes curled against the stone floor.

“She listens well and she works hard,” Nonna Angelina whispered when Marcella resumed her singing in the kitchen.

He blinked in disbelief. His mother had never praised the help before. “Was that a compliment, mamma?”

She gripped his hand. “Listen to me. Act quickly or you'll regret it. Will you do as I say?”

“Yes, mamma.”

By the time he got home, Lucia and the children were in bed. He stood in the doorway, glaring at Lucia as she slept, one arm curved over her head. He had crawled through hell to come home to her, but she couldn't even stay awake for him. What more proof did he need that she couldn't care less about him?

With great sadness, he staggered downstairs. Weary in bone, in spirit, he undressed in the bedroom off the kitchen. Shivering, he slid under the covers and slipped into a deep sleep. When he stirred again, Lucia was humming in the kitchen and the children were chattering over breakfast. His anger swelled. Well, Sardolini could have her, he thought in one moment, but in the next, he knew his heart would break if she left him. He coughed trying to dispel the tightness in his chest.

The door creaked open, but he squeezed his eyes shut, feigning sleep until the house was quiet again. Stumbling into the kitchen, he poured himself a cup of coffee and lingered at the table, smoking and brooding until he remembered Sardolini's letter. Damn it to hell! He had left it in his suit pocket in a heap on the kitchen floor. He scrambled through the house searching for it, but the suit wasn't hanging in the kitchen, scullery, basement, or bedroom. He started to sweat. What would he do if she found the letter? How could he explain it?

After a quick wash and shave, he dressed and stomped down the street. As a keen wind ripped around him and ice stung his face, he buried his chin into his coat collar and shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. Lucia's head and shoulders were silhouetted in the shop window. He charged up the stairs and stood in the doorway, blowing on his fingers, stiff from the cold. She frowned at him as if he were a troublesome stray cat that had wandered in. Right off, she said, “What happened to you last night? Why did you come home so late?”

“As if you care.”

“Tell me what happened.”

He raised his hands to hold off her barrage of questions. His head was throbbing. “Did you see the suit I was wearing yesterday? I can't find it.”

“I cleaned it.”

“You should have checked with me first. I left something inside the pocket. What did you do with it?”

She stared fixedly at him. He met her gaze even though her damaged face made his stomach lurch. “I didn't find anything.”

With a jerk of his shoulders, he brushed past her and out the rear door. In a dozen steps, he was standing in the processing shed. As he rummaged through the pockets of his suit hanging on a hook, the smell of solvents assaulted his senses and made his eyes water. He looked up when her shadow filled the doorway.

“Why did you come home so late?” she asked again. “What happened? Is Rodi all right?”

His anger ignited. He cornered her by the processing vat. His words rushed over her in an angry torrent. “The boy's an idiot. The fool forgot to buy gas before we left Castellammare and we had to walk for hours in the freezing rain. And on the way, we got stopped by cutthroats who robbed us and tied us to a tree.”

“Are you all right?”

“They took my watch, my tie clip, my belt…I'm lucky to be alive.”

“No, wonder why you slept downstairs. You were exhausted.”

He nodded, pleased at this glimmer of sympathy. “Thanks to Rodi.”

Lucia shrugged. “He made a mistake. Can't you be just a little kind? He's family now.”

“So I should pretend to like him? If Isolina was stupid enough to marry him, that's her fault, not mine. He's a fool, just like his friend Manfredo.”

Her next words chilled him. “Where's your heart?”

“The same place it's always been.”

“The
fascisti
broke his nose, jaw, and ribs, and beat him until he was unrecognizable. Then they tied him to a tree and left him to die. And that's all you can say about him?”

“He was a traitor. He deserved it.”

“I don't understand you. I've given up trying.”

He was stunned by her coldness. At that moment, he was struck by the realization that she could cradle his feelings in the palm of her hand, or crush them with one heartless blow. This awareness of her power and his weakness made him feel ill. “And you call me heartless. I could have died yesterday and you act like you couldn't care less.”

“That's not true, Donato.”

“Well, show me a little kindness.”

“My heart is empty. There's nothing left.”

He tried to smother his feelings, his mouth working, his eyes filling. She made him weak. She made him foolish. “That's because you love that bastard.”

Color rushed into her face. “It's just like you to jump to conclusions. I've done nothing wrong.”

“I'll be the judge of that.” He pinched her chin between his thumb and forefinger. She jerked her head, but he gripped her jaw and stared into her eyes. If she was lying, they always gave her away. A moment later, she squirmed out of his grasp. Disgusted, he said, “I knew it. You're lying. You're in love with the bastard.”

“I admit to no such thing.”

“So I suppose you won't care if he gets thrown back in jail or shipped away to Sardinia? It might happen, you know. He's dangerous and the
fascisti
are in an ugly mood.”

She glared at him. “You and your friends wouldn't stoop that low.”

“Don't put it past us. Stay away from him.”

Her lips trembled, but she said nothing. Instead, she fumbled in her apron pocket and pulled out a yellow envelope. After hurling the telegram at him, she walked away.

RENO, NEVADA

 

The Mussolini hit-and-run story made the national headlines, but Vanderbilt hadn't heard the news as he drove through the Arizona scrub where information was passed from mouth to mouth in roadside truck stops along Route 50.

Well after midnight, he clicked off the engine and coasted down the driveway to his ranch outside Reno. He didn't want to wake Doris and her husband Jack, who ran his place while he was away, which was most of the time. But when he walked into the kitchen, Doris was already at the stove, yawning and cinching the belt on her robe. With a few brisk motions, she slid a plate of leftovers into the oven and clicked on the gas under the aluminum coffee pot. As it brewed, water shot up through the beans and bounced against the glass bubble on the lid.

“Trying to sneak past me, eh?” she said.

“I can't hide anything from you,” he said and she laughed.

A bundle of mail was waiting for him on the farmhouse table, big enough to feed twelve. He slit open envelopes—bills from lawyers, creditors, and his ex-wife. He should have kept driving.

Doris fixed his coffee black. As she set it next to the bills, her head gleamed from dozens of bobby pins anchoring her gray pin curls. Her skin, tanned and weathered, was never masked with makeup, unlike his mother who was never caught without it. As he lifted the cup to his lips, she told him, “Mary left right after you did.”

“Where did she go?”

“She didn't say.”

“How long?”

“Long. Two steamer trunks and five suitcases. Jack had to strap them to the roof.”

That wasn't good. Mary, who was his second wife and soon to be ex-wife, had decided she hated living in the desert as much as she hated him. He should have never brought her to his ranch, a secluded hideaway for celebrity guests interested in the divorce package—deluxe accommodations, horses to ride, shopping expeditions to Reno for cut-rate liquor and cigarettes, and a fee-paid divorce finalized in the Nevada courts once they passed the ninety-day residency requirement. Most of them were women: heartbroken, lovelorn, mad as hell, jubilant. It made no difference to him. He found them irresistible.

When Doris set the plate of warmed over meatloaf, biscuits, mashed potatoes, and green beans in front of him, he picked up his fork and said, “Sit down. I hate when you hover over me.”

While he ate, she folded a stack of cloth napkins, running her palm over the creases. She jutted her chin towards the newspaper next to the mail. “Your favorite general is in the news again.”

As he skimmed the headlines, he gripped the newspaper and cursed Smedley Butler. Damn. The Little Spitfire had stolen his limelight and his story, but half the facts were wrong and he had neglected to mention Vanderbilt's name. “Mussolini's one of those mad dogs in Europe looking to start another war,” Butler was quoted as saying. Vanderbilt threw down the paper.

In the morning, the phones started ringing. The reporters wanted to know the same thing—was he the passenger and Mussolini the driver? Vanderbilt teetered between two contradictory extremes—a thirst for notoriety and paralyzing fear. He should be happy that his name was leaked to the press, but apparently the story was spreading like wildfire and Butler was left holding the match. He wavered yet again, remembering the Italian's threats at the end of their trip when Mussolini presented him with a gift—a pair of gleaming riding boots—a reminder, he said, of Vanderbilt's promise.