Venice in the Moonlight (19 page)

She woke on her side with Nico’s arm curled protectively around her. Across the room, the fire still burned brightly. She shifted carefully until she faced him. He had removed his dark glasses and in the firelight, she admired the Roman god before her. He wore a peaceful expression that she’d never seen on him before and for a moment, she wondered if he still lived.

Night stubble shadowed his jaw, and she resisted the urge to graze her knuckles over it. She brushed away a single eyelash on his cheek with the tip of her finger. At her touch, his eyelids flickered open and his hand instinctively shielded his eyes, but she still glimpsed the whiteness that covered them.

When he fumbled for his glasses on the bedside table, she grabbed his hand. “No.”

He hesitated and then laid back into the pillows. He waved a hand over their bodies. “You were crying in your sleep. I only sought to give you comfort.”

She nodded and reached out again. Slowly she traced his almond-shaped eyes. If he’d allow them to be seen, his thick, dark eyelashes would be the envy of any woman.

“You must let me paint you without your glasses.”

He gave her a sad smile. “No.”

He stopped her hand and brought her palm to his lips. His kiss was gentle and so unlike anything she’d ever experienced when sharing a bed with a man, it made her ache from the memories.

“Do you grieve for you husband, Kitty?”

“No.” She didn’t trust her voice to say more.

“He was a fool.”

“Yes.”

He kissed her wrist, and her skin shivered in reply. His lips moved up her arm, each kiss as tender as the last. At her neck, he savored her scent before he tasted her skin. She closed her eyes and forced herself to relax. She wouldn’t think about being his latest lover. There would be time enough for regrets in the morning. Right now, her body hummed with foreign sensations that could not be turned away.

When his lips had touched every bare patch of her skin to be found, he turned on his side and pulled her close. He wrapped his arms across her chest, buried his face in her hair, and sighed softly. Outside, church bells rang four times. “Sleep, my amore.”

Marietta blinked several times and wondered if he was serious. When the sounds of his breathing became heavy and regular, she closed her eyes and slept.

fter a quick stop at Rosina’s inn the next morning for fresh clothes, Marietta headed to the small church she had attended with her family as a child. The priest had been sympathetic when her mother died, and she hoped he was still there and would help her. Though Nico still thought she was mistaken about everything, she feared for her life. She needed someone to do something about what she knew—and soon.

At the church, she took a moment to marvel at how well her father had captured its essence in his painting. Even the rays of the morning sun through the clouds were the same. She rubbed at the heaviness in her chest. These men must be punished for taking him from her.

She stepped into the cool, musty building, and the heavy wooden door thumped shut behind her. At the end of the main aisle, a priest knelt before a large, roughly-carved cross. She had crossed half the distance to him when he rose with considerable effort, made the sign of the cross, and then welcomed her with a crooked smile. The left side of his face drooped unnaturally, and he looked to be about a hundred years old.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, Father, but I need help.”

“That is what I am here for, Signora. Please sit and tell me your troubles.” With a shaky hand, he gestured toward the nearest wooden bench.

Marietta took a deep breath and began her story. When she was done, she asked, “What do you think? Can you help me bring these men to justice?”

The elderly priest’s head bobbed, and then his eyes became unfocused for a brief moment. When he returned from wherever his mind had gone, he smiled at her. “There now, child, everything will be fine. Pray to our Savior and he will forgive you.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand. I need your help. These men murdered my father.”

He chuckled and patted her hand. “I think I’ll have pea soup. Sister Maria makes the best soup, though sometimes she burns the bread.”

She shut her eyes against the tears. Now what?

A middle-aged nun dressed in black robes appeared from a side alcove and made her way to where they sat. “Father, it’s time for your nap.”

“Is the Father all right?” Marietta asked. “I was telling him something important, but it seems he didn’t understand.”

The nun clicked her tongue. “Ever since the stroke his mind is a bit flighty.”

“Is there anyone else I could talk to? Another priest?”

“I’m sorry, child. It’s just the father and me. Why don’t you come back tomorrow and try again?”

Tomorrow was too late. She needed to do something today.

Outside on the church steps, she bit her lip and debated going back to the Palazzo Ducale to see Signor Grimani, who first told her the official version of her father’s death. She didn’t know if he would believe her story, but she had to try.

t the palace, she went through the same routine as before with the guard and then the man in the main hall. This time, though, she said Signor Grimani expected her. She told the lie in such a confident manner that the man summoned a page without the need of any coins in exchange.

When she entered the justice’s chambers, Grimani’s brow creased, but he greeted her politely. “Signora Gatti? I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”

“Yes, forgive the intrusion. I’m sure you are busy, but I have a matter of utmost importance to discuss with you. May I?”

She motioned at one of the chairs in front of his desk and sat before he could object. For the third time, she told her tale of murderers and heretics, hoping he’d believe her.

By the time she fell silent, all the color had drained from the justice’s face. He cleared his throat. “Are you accusing Signor Foscari—the head of one of the founding families of Venice—of murder and devil worship?”

Marietta balled her fists in her lap. “Yes, and Signor Casanova and Consul Smith, though I can only guess at who the other men in the room were. I imagine they were all close friends of Signor Foscari.”

Though the room was cool, a droplet of sweat made its way down the side of Grimani’s face. “So, all of the founding fathers of Venice killed your father and stopped worshiping our Father in heaven?”

“Yes.”

“I see, and you saw this last night?”

“The devil worshiping part, yes, but my father’s friend told me about the murder.”

The justice’s fingers worried the corner of a piece of paper on his desk. “And this friend is now dead—killed by the same men?”

“Yes, that is what I believe.”

“I see.” He was silent for a few moments. “But you have no proof?”

She frowned. “Just my father’s journal, what his friend told me, and what I saw.”

“And you have the journal with you?”

She hadn’t thought to bring it. “No, but it is in a safe place.”

The justice seemed disappointed but continued his questioning. “And you wish to accuse these respectable men of these terrible crimes?”

She swallowed hard. “Yes.”

Another droplet of sweat ran down his face. “You must admit, Signora, your story sounds rather implausible.”

“It is true.” She folded her hands together as if in prayer. “You must believe me. Someone must believe me.”

The elderly justice’s eyebrows rose sharply. “You’ve told others this story?”

Something in his manner made her lie yet again. “No. I came to you first.”

“That is good. I’m glad you did.”

He stood and paced the length of the room a few times while she waited impatiently for him to say more.

Finally, he said, “We must handle this very delicately. I have a few ideas, but I would like to think some more on the best solution.”

Relief flooded through her, and she almost smiled before she realized it wasn’t enough. “Signore, we can’t waste any more time. These men will come after me next.”

But he ignored her fears. He took her hand, pulled her up from her chair, and pushed her toward the door. “Go back to your lodging and wait for word from me. I will be in touch soon.”

“But—” The word froze in her throat when she saw who waited outside the chambers.

Savio Foscari exchanged a hard look with the justice before he gave Marietta a quick bow. “Signora Gatti.”

“The . . . the . . . Signora was just leaving,” Grimani said. “Please . . . please . . . come in, Savio.”

An icy fear started in her belly and worked its way through her body until she had to clench her fists to keep from trembling. Grimani was one of them, and she had told him everything she knew.

On stiff legs, she left the palace and headed to the only safe place she knew.

fter Marietta left his apartment, Nico thought about all that she had told him. There had to be a logical explanation for her accusations, but he had no idea what it could be. He did know it was too strange to let go, so he would ask his friends straight out. Once they explained themselves, he could ease her fears.

Casanova and the Consul were predictable in their schedules, and this time of day, they took coffee in a café near the Consul’s villa. Raul touched his arm as they entered the piazza from a side street. “They are at Leone’s today.”

Nico switched directions and headed off to the right. “The usual table?”

“Yes.”

Casanova greeted him first. “Nico, have a seat. How are you this fine day?” He beckoned to a serving girl. “Coffee or chocolate?”

“Coffee. I didn’t get enough sleep last night.”

“Oh, what’s her name?” Casanova gave a knowing laugh. “Wait. I forgot. You’re out of the game since meeting Signora Gatti.” He paused dramatically. “Don’t tell me you were with her?”

Nico made a face at the question. Usually, he didn’t mind his friend’s humor, but today it rubbed him the wrong way. “Speaking of Signora Gatti, she said she saw you two with my father the other day.”

He waited for the logical explanation, but all he heard was Casanova rapidly tapping his spoon against the wooden table.

Finally, the Consul spoke. “She saw us with your father? Perhaps she was mistaken.”

Now Casanova drummed his fingers against his cup. “Yes, why would we be with your father?”

Nico didn’t offer a reason, and the silence at the table grew.

“Now, I remember,” Casanova said slowly. “It was in the Campo San Gallo. We . . . we crossed paths as we . . . as we left a café.”

“What did you speak about?”

“Why do you think we spoke to him?” replied the Consul.

Casanova let out a high-pitched laugh. “We all know how your father feels about us. To be perfectly honest, I think all we did was bow. Yes, we bowed and exchanged greetings.” He picked up his spoon and tapped it again on the table.

Well, that was that. After all these years, his friends were lying to him. He’d spent too many hours at the gaming tables honing an ear for lies to be fooled. They did fight with his father, but they weren’t going to tell him why. He stood and motioned to Raul. “I must leave. I’m late for an appointment.”

“So soon? But you just arrived.” To Nico’s ears, Casanova sounded almost pleased. “Will we see you at the gaming tables tonight?”