The Vendetta (12 page)

His eyes met hers, opaque gray and hard as granite. “It’s complicated.”

“Try me.”

“No.”

Lisa dragged a hand through her hair in frustration. “I am doing my best to figure you out, Niccolo Carnavale. But you’re not giving me much to go on. You need to tell Gran that she can’t show the painting. If she shows it, everything she has worked for the past seventy-five years will turn to dust in her hands.”

“You’re being melodramatic.”

“I think not.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “If you don’t tell her, I will.”

“Your grandmother is an experienced collector,” said Nick. “She knows what she’s doing.”

“Yes, but does she know what
you’re
doing?” she shot back.

At his continued silence, she turned to leave. She would not let him run roughshod over her or her grandmother.

But then his voice stopped her. “It was Van Alstrand.”

“What?”

He stood in front of her, his blank expression masking all emotion. “Twenty years ago, Van Alstrand stole that painting from my family,” he said.

She uncrossed her arms, stunned. “How do you know?”

“I was there. When it happened. I recognize him.”

Lisa’s mind raced to understand. “But twenty years ago you were just a boy,” she said. “How could—”

He cut her off. “You don’t forget, Lisa.”

His voice sounded hoarse, the statement stark. The note of anguish he couldn’t quite hide pulled at her. She put a hand on his arm and felt the hard tension.

His face was turned away from her but she frowned up at him, thinking over what he’d told her so far. He’d negotiated with her grandmother for ownership of this Rembrandt, and he’d revealed the painting’s shaky provenance to Lisa but not, apparently, to her grandmother. He knew Van Alstrand was involved but Nick hadn’t exposed him. Yet. More than that, Nick wanted Gran to show the painting, fake or not, at her gallery extravaganza. It didn’t make sense. Unless the whole shady deal was personal.

“What is this painting to you?” she asked.

Nick clenched and unclenched his fist. “It’s business.”

“No.” She shook her head. “If I were to guess, I would say it’s something to do with a family legacy and, maybe, honor. Am I close?”

He grimaced. “Too close.” He looked over at the column and then at her. “Lisa, I—”

A cell phone ring tone shrilled, and Lisa clenched her jaw. God, to be interrupted again—But they were now the sole occupants of the piazza—the cops had departed.

“That must be yours,” she said. “Mine doesn’t work here.”

He pulled out the phone from his inner breast pocket, frowning at the screen. He cast a concerned glance at her. “I’m sorry, I need to take this call.”

“OK. I’ll just take a closer look at Marcus Aurelius.” She pointed to the center of the piazza. He nodded, then turned his back to her, already engaged in his conversation.

She shrugged and walked over to peer up at the fifty-foot column. She could make out Roman legionnaires with pikes and chariots marching around the lower reaches. Women were notably absent on the relief. There were some female figures near the top but their kneeling posture indicated their status. She hoped old Emperor Marcus had had to contend with a German Valkyrie or two. Talk about victors and spoils.

She felt a hand on her shoulder and turned to face Nick, whose face once again looked grim. But there was urgency in his posture and expression that squeezed her heart.

“Let’s get a cab,” he said. “I’ll take you back to the palazzo.”

“What’s the rush?”

“That was Katya.” He looked away and pushed a hand through his hair. When he looked back at her, his eyes were serious and, for the first time since she’d met him, soft with compassion.

She started to shake her head. She knew this expression. It was not unique to Nick. This expression was universal, and spoke of loss. Her stomach dropped, and she silently willed him to keep quiet. Tears formed before he could even get the words out.

“Lisa.” His voice grated on her ears so that she wanted to cover them up. But she waited, hoping he wouldn’t say the words she knew were coming.

“I’m so sorry, cara, but your grandmother passed away this morning.”

He reached for her, and with a sob she collapsed in his arms.

Chapter Eight

Funerals were all alike in Nick’s opinion. A priest intoned the rites, friends and family passed by to offer condolences, scent-drenched flowers massed around the gravesite. People either cried or held their faces in solemn, grim expressions. He avoided funerals whenever possible. Even as he passed judgment on this particular funeral for the Principessa Severino di Giorgio, every muscle in his body tensed so as not to remember or compare it to others. He particularly did not want to remember his mother, pale and tragic, standing over Papa’s grave. He shook his head to clear the thought and looked over at Lisa.

She stood alone but her posture was not in any way tragic. He admired the strength in the line of her back and the set of her determined chin. He walked toward her and saw her stiffen at his approach, but she didn’t turn.

“I’m not ready,” she said.

“All right,” he replied calmly. He knew this need too. She stayed here at the side of the grave, because she imagined she could just wake up and it would all have been an awful nightmare.

“Maybe if I hadn’t come, she wouldn’t have…”

Ah, he thought, not so controlled, not so strong after all.

“Lisa, she wanted you to come. You saw how happy she was to see you again. She invited you.”

He reached out and grasped her arms, turning her to face him. Her mouth was set into a firm line. He saw his own face reflected in her dark sunglasses.

“This isn’t your fault,” he said. “She was an old woman. It was her time.”

She slid her glasses up onto her head. He felt a jolt at the sight of her wet-leaf eyes. But the dark smudges beneath them attested to grief and sleepless nights.

“I wasn’t ready,” she said.

“No. But perhaps she was, Lisa. Consider how much she missed her husband. She’d been without him for over twenty years.”

She nodded. “I know. I just…” Tears welled, and she reached up to wipe them away with a damp tissue.

Nick rubbed his thumb across her cheek. “Lisa, ready or not, you will do as your grandmother wished and live your life. You must.”

She frowned. “Don’t handle me, Nick. I can’t…” Her voice trailed off, and she pressed a hand to her mouth. She tried to turn away, but he wrapped his arms around her.

She rested her head on his chest and wept for a while on his silk shirt and dark suit.

When he put his handkerchief in her hand, he heard her sigh. “I’m tired of crying.”

He couldn’t stop the chuckle that escaped him. “Then stop crying, piccola.”

She looked up at him, a small smile curving her lips. He wiped the remaining tears from her cheeks with his fingertips. “There,” he said, “all done.”

“I have been very angry with you,” she said.

The corner of his mouth lifted. “Yes, I know.”

She looked down, away. “Gran died, and then you took care of everything. But I wouldn’t be back in Rome without you. So I have been blaming you. As if her death were your fault. And mine.”

“It made sense for me to take care of things,” he replied. “I know the community. I could make the arrangements, and so I did. It was not my intention to exclude you from that, I just—” He shrugged. “It was something for me to do.”

She nodded and then pulled away to look at the grave. Nick came to stand beside her, his hands in his pockets.

“What happens now?” she asked.

“Now you honor her memory.”

“How do I do that?”

“You live,” he responded. “And you remember. You find something that reminds you of her, and you cherish it.” Nick’s hand clenched involuntarily around his scar. Like he remembered Papa. Only for Lisa, grazie a Dio, there was no need for the blood oath of revenge, the vendetta.

“Like her art collection.”

“Yes,” he said, calmly.
La collezione
. Unbelievably, he’d almost forgotten about the Rembrandt for the past two days. He looked down at Lisa. She struggled to hold back more tears, and sympathy for her pain squeezed his heart. Over the past two weeks a fragile tendril of deep feeling—something he had no need or desire for—had formed in him for this courageous woman.

What he didn’t know was if that feeling made any difference at all.

* * *

A mass of officials, journalists, and art lovers crowded outside the offices of Benedetto, Benedetto et Figli, which were situated in a discreet building just off the Via Vittorio Veneto. Lisa paused at the entrance, confused and overwhelmed by the presence of so many strangers. They pushed toward her when they saw her, casting out questions in English and Italian. Were all these people here about her grandmother’s will? She took an involuntary step back into the solid bulk of Nick’s body. His presence reassured her. She had not been prepared for sudden notoriety.

“Steady, carissima. They cannot harm you.” They moved into an inner office, shutting the door on the curious crowd of onlookers. Nick spoke quietly to the receptionist.

A young, curvaceous woman in a fabulous Missoni suit and Fendi pumps came through one of the office doors. Lisa raised her eyebrows. The woman looked like a movie star. Her long black hair spilled over her shoulders in an elegant dark fall, and her eyes were a striking blue. The woman flicked a brief glance at Nick but then focused on Lisa, her expression solemn.

“Ms. Lisa Schumacher?” She shook Lisa’s hand with a crisp professionalism at odds with her youthful appearance and flamboyant attire.

“Yes.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you,” said Lisa.

The woman turned to Nick and they exchanged cheek kisses and greetings. Lisa frowned.

“Allow me to introduce my cousin, Rafaela Benedetto,” Nick said smoothly. “She is the best lawyer in Rome.”

His
cousin
?

Rafaela frowned and shook her head at him. “We can save the family connections for another time, Niccolo.” She turned back to Lisa.

“Ms. Schumacher, I will be representing the Principessa Severino di Giorgio’s interests in the matter of her estate. And I will handle the reading of the will. Will you and Signore Carnavale come with me?” The lawyer’s English was flawless.

When Lisa hesitated, confused by the information that Gran’s lawyer was related to Nick, Ms. Benedetto put a gentle arm around her and guided her out of the reception room and down a long hallway. Lisa looked back in a reflex action to see if Nick followed and saw him trailing calmly behind her. The petite lawyer steered them into a large office graced by an enormous, polished wood conference table. When she closed the door, quiet descended abruptly. Lisa looked around at the floor to ceiling bookshelves that held row upon row of fat legal tomes in several languages.

Two men stood up at the end of the table.

The lawyer made an elegant gesture toward a short, rotund man with large, dark eyes. “May I make the introductions? This is my colleague and brother Signore Franco Benedetto.” She nodded to the taller man. “I believe you already know Her Excellency’s art curator and consultant, Mr. Peter Van Alstrand.”

Lisa acknowledged the two gentlemen and took the seat nearest Ms. Benedetto. Nick chose the seat next to Lisa, across from Van Alstrand.

“Good, we are all here,” said Rafaela Benedetto.

Peter Van Alstrand pointed at Nick. “Yes, but what is he doing here?”

His question startled Lisa. She had not given any real thought to Nick’s presence at the reading of Gran’s will. She turned to look at him. Why
was
he here? It couldn’t be just because she, Lisa, needed him here. She admitted silently that she’d come to rely on his calm presence and counsel in the days since Gran had died. Given what Nick had told her about Van Alstrand, she wanted to question the curator’s presence. But as far as she knew, there was no proof of Van Alstrand’s perfidy, and he’d been the principessa’s curator for over a year.

Nick returned her gaze calmly, never looking at Van Alstrand.

Ms. Benedetto spoke. “I assure you, Mr. Van Alstrand, every person in this room is present at the specific written request of La Principessa Severino di Giorgio. Now, if we could begin?”

Mr. Van Alstrand hesitated, but then he subsided into his chair with an unintelligible mutter.

The lawyer opened a folder, and a quiver of nervous anticipation churned in Lisa’s stomach.

“There is no legal requirement to read the entire will,” said Ms. Benedetto. “However, due to the complex nature of the provisions and bequests, I would like to read the exact words as Donna Giovanna dictated them. That way you can see that I am not misinterpreting or changing her meaning. Is everyone agreeable?”

At the nods all around, Ms. Benedetto began to read the document in a quick, crisp Italian that Lisa had no difficulty following. But after several minutes of detailed descriptions of individual artworks and their desired disposition, Lisa’s mind began to drift. Gran, she noted, had been extremely detail oriented.

As the language of the will washed over her, she focused on the expressions and body language of the other occupants in the room, particularly Van Alstrand. He seemed to be concentrating deeply and making tick marks on what was probably a list of Gran’s collection with his sleek Mont Blanc pen.

When she’d met him at Palazzo Severino, she’d been struck foremost by his height. His face was gaunt and elongated, with thin lips, long, ice blue eyes, and sparse hair. The fine fabric of his suit had hung on his spare chest and bony shoulders. The impression he’d left was that someone had stretched him out, like the silly putty she’d played with as a child.

Ms. Benedetto paused for a breath and flipped a page. Lisa jumped slightly when a warm hand slid onto her thigh under the table and squeezed gently.
Nick
.

She slid him a glance and caught his slight frown over the gray eyes that held a touch of amusement. Yes, she was supposed to be paying attention. While she had been watching Van Alstrand, apparently Nick had been watching her. His hand slid away, and she felt bereft.