The Rich Shall Inherit (82 page)

Aria jumped from the launch, watching as it disappeared again into the mist. She glanced around apprehensively, feeling a thousand imaginary eyes staring at her from the darkness, and then she turned and ran as fast as she could across the bridge onto the Riva degli Schiavoni.

The fog seemed even thicker here, swirling in from the lagoon and pressing against her eyes, blinding her … she was almost there, she told herself frantically as she ran, almost … only another few yards, just over that little bridge … Vivaldi’s “Summer” music was louder now, its urgent beat matching the pounding of her heart. She stopped, her hand to her lips, listening … was it her imagination? Or had she heard footsteps behind her again? Oh, God, yes, yes … she could hear them distinctly now, footsteps running, coming closer, closer … closer … With a terrified scream she turned and ran full tilt into the masked man in front of her. As his powerful arms gripped her, she felt his breath on her face … and she saw again the three scarlet teardrops of blood.

“No!” she whispered helplessly, “please don’t …” Her eyes were riveted on the dagger as his arm drew back, ready to plunge it into her breast.

His head jerked up suddenly at the sound of running footsteps. He drew back with an angry cry as a group of men cloaked and hooded like him, wearing the sinister tricorne hat and
bauta
mask, emerged from the fog. As he turned to run, Aria saw the dull gleam of a long, snub-nosed pistol, and she screamed again in terror as she heard a shot, and then, with a sharp cry, her attacker fell to the ground.

It had all happened in the space of a few seconds, and she stared
horrified at the body lying on the ground, blood oozing from its chest, and then at the masked man who had shot him.

Carraldo looked at the man he had just killed. “Forgive me, Father,” he said quietly. But it wasn’t God he was asking for forgiveness, it was Franco Malvasi, whom he had always called simply “the man.” “It’s all right now, Aria,” he said tiredly, “you’re safe now.”

Too numb even to speak, she stared at the gun in his hand and then she began to sob.

“There’s no need to be afraid,” Carraldo said gently, taking off his mask. His face looked as gray as the fog, and beads of perspiration were trickling down his temples and his eyes were full of pain. Quite suddenly and without even a sound, he slid to the ground at her feet. Aria knew she was screaming - she was screaming and screaming …

“Stop it, Aria, stop it!” Mike commanded, putting his arms around her. “Please stop now!”

She shivered in his arms. “Carraldo,” she gasped, “what’s wrong …?”

“The launch will take him to the hospital,” he said. “He’ll be all right now.”

“I was going to meet Orlando,” she told him, sobbing into his chest, “he’s waiting for me at the church … I could hear the music … I was almost there, I knew all I had to do was find him and then I’d be safe …”

Letting go of her, Mike walked across to the body still lying on the ground, with two of Carraldo’s men standing guard over it. “Take off the hood and the mask,” he told them quietly.

Aria watched in horrified fascination as they pulled off the hood, revealing a shock of bright blond hair. And then they took off the mask.

“My poor Aria,” Mike said gently, “I’m afraid you’d already found Orlando.”

Aria had been given a sedative and she slept until the following afternoon. It wasn’t until later that evening, after she’d answered questions from the police, that Mike was able to explain exactly what had happened.

She was sitting up in bed looking as pale as her pillows and with livid bruises on her arms and throat where Orlando had grabbed her.

“I don’t understand,” she whispered, “I thought he loved me. And I really,
really
loved him.”

“You
only loved what you thought he was,” Mike said gently.

“But
why
would Orlando want to
kill
me?” she cried despairingly.

“I’m afraid he deceived you right from the beginning,” Mike said. “He never told you that he was claiming to be Poppy Mallory’s heir.” Arai’s stunned eyes met his. “And you have Carraldo to thank for finding out about him,” he added. “He became suspicious when he realized Orlando hadn’t told you, or him, about his claim to be the heir, and he decided to investigate his background. Orlando’s stories about being thrown out of schools for boyish pranks and misbehavior turned out to be lies. He was a cruel bully who enjoyed torturing other boys. By the time he was thirteen he’d already attempted to kill a teacher by setting fire to his room. You see, the teacher had spotted the truth about him, and he’d let Orlando—and his parents—know it. Everything was hushed up on the condition his parents sent him for treatment, but the psychiatrist told them that Orlando’s good looks were a useful facade behind which he hid a psychopathic personality. Orlando’s parents didn’t send him to Italy just to study art; they wanted to get rid of him.

“Carraldo became afraid for you and that was when he whisked you off to Los Angeles—out of harm’s way—or so he thought. He’d found out that when Orlando was supposed to be in London, he was following you—the footsteps, and the man in the black Peugeot.

“Until Orlando made a move, there was nothing Carraldo could do—nothing he could accuse him of. After all, all he’d done so far was not tell you—and no doubt if questioned, he would have come up with a plausible excuse for that.

“Orlando had got hold of a copy of the list of possible heirs; obviously he thought Lauren Hunter’s claim was too farfetched, yet he knew there must be a daughter somewhere, because that’s what the will said, and either the Gallis or you must be descended from that daughter. In his warped mind he thought there were three serious rivals for his claim to Poppy’s money. You, the favorite, and Claudia and Pierluigi Galli. Although Orlando believed—correctly—that his own claim was the true one, he now knew that there might be another heir, or possibly even three or four … who could tell? That meant he would have to share the estate. And Orlando wanted it all. He was tired of being a hanger-on in the international set he liked to mix with, now he wanted to be king. When Orlando finally had that money, he was going to get his revenge for all the insults he’d had to take with a smile all those years.

“Carraldo found out that Orlando had seen Claudia in Paris the week before she died, and that she’d left a message on her answering machine telling him she was going to the Villa Velata. Orlando went there, too, secretly … and it was he who severed the brakes on Claudia’s car. The thing he hadn’t expected was for Pierluigi to be there, too—he’d thought he would show up for the funeral later, when he planned to take care of him as well. Instead, Pierluigi was accused of the murder and put in jail. Even Orlando couldn’t get to him there. He knew by then that I was on the trail, unraveling Poppy’s story, and he decided to play the waiting game with Pierluigi—he’d find a way to get him later, if he had to.

“When Carraldo realized what had happened, he used his influence to get Pierluigi out of jail—he put up several millions in bail. But he warned him to lie low. Carraldo would never tell you this, but I think you should know that he has also arranged to help Pierluigi by backing him personally to the tune of millions of dollars—more than enough to save his company. I guess he
thought Pierluigi had suffered enough, losing Claudia and having his name blackened, accused of murdering her. I think he understood only too well that for Pierluigi, his business life was the only life he had—without it he would be nothing. Carraldo is a compassionate man, Aria. Anyway, Pierluigi was at the party, and he was there at the end—if Carraldo hadn’t shot Orlando, he would have. He’d come to take revenge for his sister—but Carraldo beat him to it. And that left just you, Aria, between Orlando and all that money.”

“It’s a curse,” she wept, “Poppy Mallory’s money is a curse!”

“That’s not true,” Mike replied quietly. “If Orlando had been sane, none of this would have happened. It’s unfair to blame it on Poppy. Why don’t I tell you the true story of what happened to her, and then maybe you’ll understand about Orlando?”

Aria shook her head. “I don’t want to know anymore,” she whispered. “I just wish I’d never met him. And now because of me, Carraldo is ill. Mama told me he had a heart attack, he’s in the hospital …”

“Carraldo’s known for a long time that he had a serious heart problem, you mustn’t blame yourself. It could have happened anytime, it was inevitable.”

Aria twisted her ringless hands agitatedly. “But Carraldo saved my life, and it’s because of me he might die.” She looked at him, her eyes filled with tears. “I must go to him, Mike. I want to thank him.”

“Tomorrow,” he promised. “Now you must get some rest.”

The hospital room was very quiet, just the faint humming of machinery and the nervous flickering of the screen monitoring his heartbeat. Carraldo could feel it fluttering uncontrollably in his chest and he knew that now the little white pills were no longer any use.

Closing his eyes, he thought about his life, wondering if he had made the right decision all those years ago, when he had agreed to become Franco Malvasi’s legally adopted son. What had it brought him? he asked himself. He knew the answer. Riches that he’d never touched, and a conscience that he was unable to live with. But Franco had educated him; he’d given him the veneer of a civilized man over his crude slum-tenement beginnings; Franco had taught him all he knew about the things he loved most in the world, and with that knowledge he’d found success and a kind of happiness. He had made himself a legitimate
fortune, the one he was leaving to Aria. He had done all he could to protect that fortune from falling into the hands of his enemies, but he knew it was too late now for the one thing that he felt would have secured it from all predators—marriage. Still, he was content, Aria would have enough for her freedom. She could fulfill her own destiny, the way her father Paolo should have.

He’d thought he’d been so clever when Franco died, imagining that by killing his enemies he’d bought his freedom. And in a way he had, for he’d never had to live like a prisoner in the villa in Naples, the way Franco had. He’d roamed the world freely on his powerful jet planes; he’d dined with princes, he was on speaking terms with people in high places, and he’d been a guest at all the grandest parties. And still he’d slept with the whores in the
bassi
, just the way he would have done if he’d remained a petty thief on the streets of Naples. And with all his social success, no man called him his friend. He was a prisoner of his loneliness just as surely as if he’d never left that villa, with its armed guards and snarling dogs, because he knew
what
he was, and there was never any escape from that.

Only with Paolo had he ever found the rapport of true, unjudging friendship, and in gratitude he’d wanted to take care of his daughter. What he hadn’t expected was to fall in love with her. Aria had enchanted him with her vibrant youth and he’d wanted to capture her, to teach her about life, to watch her grow into the lovely woman he knew she could become, and he’d wanted to shield her from the cruel world with the power of his wealth. He’d known he didn’t have long; maybe a year, maybe months, or even weeks … no one could tell. One day he would be alive and the next he would be dead, it was as quick and simple as that. But for that short while, he’d wanted Aria. It was unfair to her, he knew that now, but he also knew his selfishness would ensure her freedom.

The double irony was that the girl he loved should fall for Franco Malvasi’s great-grandson. Because had Franco known he had a son, it would have been Orlando who would have inherited the Malvasi empire, not Carraldo. And he would have lived out his own life in Naples as an ordinary man. Such were the chances of fate.

He heard someone come into the room, and he knew it was Aria even before he opened his eyes … he knew her light step, and the fragrance of her hair as she bent over him.

His dark eyes opened suddenly and he looked at her with his
familiar sardonic half smile. “It’s kind of you to come to see me,” he murmured, but she just stared at him, shocked by his gray pallor and his weak voice. “Sit beside me for a while,” he said. “I want to talk to you.”

Aria put her flowers on the table and took a seat by the bed. “How are you?” she asked anxiously.

“Who knows?” Carraldo said with a smile. “They tell me I’ve been dying for two years now.”

“No!” she exclaimed. “It can’t be true, there must be something they can do. We’ll call the best specialists …”

“Aria,” he said gently, “I’ve been to the best doctors in the world, if there was anything to be done, they would have done it.”

She covered her face with her hands, weeping silently, and his eyes filled with sadness. “Don’t cry,” he said, “I’ve no intention of going just yet. Besides, I want to talk to you.” He paused for a moment, catching his breath. “I’ve lived in a different world from you,” he said at last, “a half-world, full of violence and evil, but I promise none of that will ever touch you. Your father knew the truth about me, and he gave me his friendship, man to man. I loved him for it, and now I love you, his daughter.”

“I didn’t know,” she whispered, anguished, “I didn’t understand. I realize now how selfish I’ve been, how unkind to you!”

“How could I expect anything else?” he asked. “You were a young girl looking for romance and true love. I knew I couldn’t ask you for that.”

Aria hung her head, staring at his hands lying limply on the white sheets; they looked fragile and vulnerable. Suddenly the powerful Carraldo seemed helpless.

“When I’m gone,” he was saying, “my personal fortune will be yours—my art collection, the galleries, the houses—everything. Your mother will be taken care of—I’ve already arranged for that with my lawyers; and then you will be free. I should like to think that you were running the Carraldo Galleries, Aria, when I am no longer able. They were the one good thing in my life.”

“Please,” she whispered, taking his hand in hers, “don’t talk like that. You’ll get better and you’ll be running the galleries for a long time yet. Promise me you’ll get better?”