Storming Venice

by Anna E Bendewald

  Vincenzo held a hand up. “I’ve been making discrete inquiries among the cardinals and identified some powerful allies I think can help me with my dilemma.”

  Markus waited, but that was apparently all Vincenzo had to say. Markus shot a glance at Ivar and Yvania, whose faces fell with disappointment. Markus leaned forward. “That is your progress update?”

  Vincenzo had the gall to look perturbed and that inflamed Markus.

  “I’m working to align myself with people who may be willing to support me if my sexuality comes out.”

  “Have I gone deaf?” Markus put a hand to his ear. “Did you just say if? If your sexuality comes out? Listen, you have the most powerful ally living under your roof most nights out of the calendar year, and you are trying to line up a posse of priests who may or may not have your back? You are ridiculous!”

  “Two powerful cardinals have co-authored a paper, and in it they mention the need for ‘understanding and tolerance.’ It’s encouraging.”

  Markus backed toward the door. “You are a nice guy, Vincenzo. But right now, all I want to do is shake you until your teeth rattle.”

  Markus walked out of the house as Yvania was saying, “No shaking or rattling now, boys.”

  He needed some time to calm himself so he headed down the muddy footpath to the new concept home. Standing before the structure, he admired the beautiful mixture of old world and modern practicality. It certainly reflected Giselle’s sculpture, Star Fall, which had inspired the design. When Verdu Mer was rebuilt, from the bottom of the canals up, this neighborhood would be one of the most quaint and livable places in Europe.

  Markus nodded to the regular security team who waved him past, and he let himself into the house. He stood admiring the old-style Crimean windows and skylights and wishing his father had lived to see what he and Ivar were accomplishing. His thoughts were interrupted when Ivar, Yvania, and Vincenzo entered.

  Yvania moved around excitedly, the bun on the top of her head bobbing. “Oh! So beautiful! This has happened so fast!”

  “Sì, it truly is the Divine Plan,” Vincenzo said, as though he was giving a tour. “The result of a vision from God shared by Giselle and the Pope.”

  “I was there, remember?” Markus said tersely. “I built Star Fall with Giselle.”

  “Right, that’s what you were doing,” Vincenzo snapped back in an uncharacteristically catty tone.

  “I am going to check on Giselle.” Markus went back outside and walked until he found a trailer marked Capelli e Trucco. When he stepped inside, his irritation vanished at the sight of Giselle. She’d been stripped down to her bra and panties and was reclining in a chair as someone worked on her hair with a dryer, making it fly like in a music video. Looking at her spectacular body made him feel alive.

  “Che cosa? Did we order a male model?” A woman who was ironing Giselle’s pants was staring at him.

  “No, only la contessa.” Another woman looked up from sewing the hem of Giselle’s shirt. “Oh! I think your agent made a mistake. What shoot are you booked for?”

  Giselle gave him a sly smile and made his knees weak by making bedroom eyes at him. The women failed to see the teasing little movement as she parted her thighs provocatively and then closed them again. Giselle raised her voice above the whine of the appliance. “He’s with me—he’s family. Markus, just move my purse, you can sit on that bench.”

  “Family? Wow, is he single? How old is he?” They turned to Giselle as if he was deaf.

  “He’s thirty and spoken for,” Giselle remarked casually as she arched her back.

  “And how old are you, Contessa?”

  “Twenty-two.”

  “We wondered because the Internet changes your age sometimes.”

  Giselle gave a throaty laugh, “Don’t trust anything you read online.”

  Markus settled in to watch the surreptitious show she performed for him while the technicians were occupied, but it wasn’t long before the stylist helped Giselle back into her pants and lowered her shirt over her head. He followed her outside and stood by the photographer’s crew as Giselle took her place behind a drafting table to pose like she was working on one of her blueprints. The morning sun was shining behind her, lighting the buildings as if they were on fire, creating an almost post-apocalyptic tableau. Her makeup was minimal, her hair was pulled into a loose twist, and they’d done something to her shirt to make it hug her slim figure. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

  Two women hustled over with jackets hanging from their arms. “Giselle, can you to try on some of these real quick?”

  “I looked them over in the trailer. I have to say ‘no’ to those. They’re way too dressy and expensive to be worn in a construction zone. Honestly, is one of those lined with ermine?”

  “Sì! Isn’t it yummy?”

  “No, I don’t wear fur. If you really need me to wear one of your coats rather than my own, then I’ll take that khaki one.”

  The stylist looked disappointed. The assistant put it on Giselle and snipped the tags just as the photographer called, “The light is perfect. Let’s begin!”

  Giselle stepped onto her mark, and the photographer’s assistant yelled, “Quiet on the set!”

  Yvania became so excited as the strobe flashes started going off that Ivar had to remind her that she’d be asked to leave if she didn’t calm down. Markus knew Giselle hated being photographed and was only enduring this treatment because she believed in the magazine’s charity campaign. While he admired her for her generous nature, he would have preferred finding some place to be alone with the woman he’d waited his whole life for. Instead, he was on the edge of a fawning crowd, standing next to her husband.

  Alphonso had just dropped Raphielli off at her shelter and was performing the nuanced Venetian “dance of the right of way.” For the second time that day, he navigated the raised wooden platforms along the submerged calles. He walked past the Verona palazzo with its fairytale spires and spectacularly colored tiles, just as beautiful cloaked in gray mists as when they sparkled in the sun. It was the polar opposite of the monolithic Scortini palazzo with its enormous slabs of dark stone.

  He stopped at a footbridge to wait for a man and a woman to juggle their luggage over it, then crossed over and hurried into the flower shop. The little bell tinkled overhead, and Gina called out from her orderly bouquet-wrapping station in the back.

  “Buongiorno. Alphonso, è che si?”

  “Sì, sono io.”

  As always, he admired Gina, the young college student who worked there. She stood with an elegant stance, her navy-blue sweater set and knee-length black skirt spotless even though she was handling greenery that would have left debris on anyone else. The eyes that served him well as a private detective never found so much as a hair out of place or a water spot on her sensible pumps, which were always impeccable. She looked like an austere image out of 1950s Vogue. Alphonso had formed the opinion that she kept a locker in the back for her shoes, or carried them with her to work even when it wasn’t the wet season.

  She lifted her head from her work to offer him a smile, and her gleaming mahogany bob swung perfectly into place with the movement. “Did your friend like the herbs I tucked in with the bouquet this morning? I added lavender and thyme.”

  “Loved ‘em. You make each arrangement special.”

  “I try.”

  He knew from experience she could be carelessly innocent, and he hoped she’d never discover that he’d exploited her trusting nature while sleuthing for Salvio Scortini, the client from hell.

  Gina gave the slim blue bow a final tug around the neck of the glass orb she’d selected as a vase, then picked it up and approached the front counter. “Here it is. Juliette’s bouquet.” She glanced out the window. “Looks like the rain will hold off, so I won’t wrap these in plastic.”

  “Nothing’s falling from the skies at the moment. See you tomorrow morning.” He left to walk along the fondamenta to Contessa Juliette�
�s Rifugia della Dignità.

  The rain held off, but the wind was gaining strength. Violent gusts chopped the canal water into rough rivulets and picked up the tops of boat wakes, spraying a horizontal mist against building foundations. He shielded the bouquet with his arm and could taste the saline tang of marine essence in the air as he hurried through the doors of Juliette’s shelter. He revealed the little bouquet of hibiscus to the no-nonsense receptionist, who reached for it and gave him an approving look. “I’ll put these on la contessa’s desk.”

  He headed down the corridor, past the dining hall where the residents who were otherwise homeless took their meals at formally set tables three times daily. He pushed through the swinging kitchen doors and doffed his coat as he nodded to fellow volunteers, who nodded back. He loved helping in Juliette’s kitchen, being in her motherly presence and making lunch for the poorest citizens of Venice. Raphielli had promised to help if her schedule allowed, but she’d declined his offer to walk her over. If she didn’t show, he wouldn’t mention it. No need to push her.

  At first, he couldn’t believe he was falling in love with Salvio Scortini’s wife. But now, he didn’t focus on the logistics of her being married to a madman that only he, Raphielli, Zelph, and don Petrosino knew was still alive. He just focused on enjoying time with her. He also didn’t dwell on the fact that she was only twenty and he was eight years older than her. For three weeks, he’d refused any new private eye jobs to stay at her side. Not that he needed the money, thanks to the generous sum she’d given him and Zelph to settle Salvio’s debt to them. Now he was spending it on flowers. What a hopeless romantic.

  Alphonso hung his coat, took an elastic from his pocket, and pulled his long hair into a knot that would meet Juliette’s kitchen standards. Then he hurried to the industrial sink and washed his hands. When he turned around to take an apron, his heart lurched and he felt like a love-struck teenager. Raphielli was standing next to Juliette by the pasta workstation. Both women smiled when they saw him, and Raphielli flopped the apron she was holding in a cute little wave.

  Juliette pointed to the rolling bins of flour. “Come, Romeo.” She’d called him that since he first volunteered. She’d spent an afternoon personally teaching him how to make fresh pasta. She claimed she could see the love inside him.

  “We await your loving hands.” She beckoned him over.

  Juliette was a handsome woman in her forties who wore minimal makeup, and her head of rich brown hair was always freshly styled. She was impeccably dressed in a pleated skirt, a silk blouse, and tasteful jewels from her earrings down to the old-fashioned emerald shoe clips on her pumps. As the countess gave him a hug, he noticed Raphielli was blushing and that she tried to cover it by putting on her apron. Maybe she’s thinking about my loving hands on something other than pasta. Raphielli was usually relaxed around him, but now she looked embarrassed and shy.

  Juliette’s eagle eye picked up on the change in her friend. “What makes you blush so prettily today?”

  “What? Nothing.” Raphielli realized she’d put her apron on backward and muttered, “No one,” as she pulled it back over her head.

  Alphonso slipped his apron on. “Ah, a pity to waste that beautiful blush on no one.”

  “You two sillies. Why tease me?” Raphielli deflected. “I can’t change my situation.”

  “How thoughtless of me.” Juliette’s smile faded. “I apologize.”

  “I’m sorry, too.” Alphonso moved to stand beside her. “I’m glad you made it.”

  “Juliette walked me over. The kitchens of our two shelters are only separated by private courtyards and a little alley.” She pointed at the door near the sink.

  Juliette said, “Okay you two, get on with the pasta.”

  He and Raphielli moved as a team, weighing flour, forming it into wells, and cracking eggs into the centers, then mixing in a little water with their fingers until balls of dough came together.

  Once they fell into the rhythm of kneading he asked, “How was work this morning?”

  “Good. We’re almost at full capacity? We have room for one more resident.”

  “I’ve been thinking about your palazzo.”

  She looked at him sideways as she pushed on her dough with the heels of her hands and folded it back. “Sì?” There was a little smudge of flour on her cheek that made her look like a girl busy with crafts at school.

  “You don’t know your way around that big palazzo of yours, do you?” He asked.

  “No.”

  “You must admit your living situation is bizarre. It’s like you’re living in the Louvre with only three live-in servants, two of whom are elderly and one who’s afraid of his own shadow. How old is Rosa anyway?”

  “Lord I have no idea, I’d guess eighty. You think it looks like the Louvre?”

  “It’s about the same size but, nah, the Scortini palazzo is sort of…” He hesitated.

  “Forbidding?” She guessed.

  “I was going to say creepy.”

  “Anyway, you’re right. In the two years I’ve lived there, Salvio only allowed me to enter certain rooms, saying he wanted to know where to find me. Even his parents only used that one wing of their favorite rooms. The rest of the palace stopped being used as generations passed and the Scortini family dwindled. When Gio took Salvio away, I explored as much as I could, but the doors are mostly locked—other than the main rooms in the wing by the current main entrance. Whole wings are shut off. I’ve been thinking of asking Zelph to open them, but there hasn’t been much time for exploring, I’ve been busy with the shelter…and then recuperating.”

  They moved over to the pasta-rolling machine and Alphonso nodded. “Zelph and I would love to explore your palazzo with you.”

  He fed the dough through the machine and it came out the other side in a long sheet. Raphielli held her arms out to support the dough as it cascaded off the rollers and across the back of her hands. “That sounds good.”

  She came close enough to kiss him as she draped the dough over his arms, and he willed his pulse to slow down as he carried it to the front of the machine again. “I’m not saying Salvio would ever come back …”

  She jerked upright, winced with what must have been a stab of neck pain, and made the sign of the cross. “No, that couldn’t happen twice. Gio promised to keep him in Sicily forever.”

  They both braced themselves as Juliette approached. “Okay, share. What is the topic?”

  Raphielli covered, “We’re thinking about exploring my home. So many locked corridors.”

  “It is your home,” Juliette said. “You are the last Scortini after all.” Then she moved off to check on the older ladies stirring big pots of sauce.

  Raphielli kept her lips still as she whispered, “If she only knew he was alive…”

  Alphonso said, “Promise me you’ll never say anything. You don’t want to be on the wrong side of that Mafioso. La contessa would race straight down to Palermo, pound on don Petrosino’s door, and demand he turn Salvio over to her.” He spread the sheet of dough on the table.

  “She wouldn’t go that far,” Raphielli whispered. “Would she?”

  “Are you kidding? Salvio killed one of their bodyguards, tried to kill Giselle, and bashed her son’s head in. You don’t think she’d take matters into her own hands? She’s an Italian mama.” He handed her a pizza-wheel and they began cutting long strips in the dough. “Zelph and I can come over tonight. He’d love to see you, and we can explore your place together. Can you gather up all the keys?”

  “Dante told me Salvio took all the keys from the staff when his parents died.”

  “He took Dante’s keys? Why does that not surprise me?” He said as they cut across the strips to make little squares.

  “Nothing in the palazzo is currently accessible even for repairs,” she said.

  “The keys are there somewhere. But even if we don’t find them, Zelph can open the locks. He’s getting ready to open his own locksmith company. You’ll fi
nally know your palazzo.”

  “That would be a relief. It’s never felt like my home.”

  “Speaking of which, when do you plan to hire more servants?”

  “I’m not ready yet. I’m mulling ideas of what I’d like to do with all the space.”

  “You’ve had a lot on your plate.” They set their cutters aside and began pinching the squares into little bow ties with the tips of their fingers.

  “I need to make work my priority.”

  He bumped her hip with his. “Hey, I think making pasta could be good therapy for your back and shoulders.”

  She bumped him back and grinned. “Physical therapy in the kitchen? I like it.” She looked down at herself. “Do you think I should eat less pasta?”

  A young man walking past with a crate of cardoons said, “Don’t change a thing, girl.”

  Alphonso saw the boost the attention gave her but made a show of defending her honor. “Niente di tutto questo! Chi stai parlando? None of that! Who are you talking to? Eh, where is the respect? Keep your eyes on your cardoons, buddy.”

  Raphielli and the women nearby giggled, and the men brightened with the bit of drama breaking up their work. Turning his eyes back to his luscious friend, he said, “Okay, I’ll invite Zelph.”

  Their mood was light for the rest of their shift as they pinched thousands of farfalle bowties and the other volunteers made cardoon gratin, and a spinach and beet salad. Juliette sang a few arias from Rossini’s La Barbiere di Seville, and everyone hummed along and joined in singing. “Figaro qua, Figaro là, Figaro su, Figaro giù!” Alphonso enjoyed a typical good time in la cucina de la contessa.

  He was putting the trays of farfalle into a rolling rack for their ride over to the pots of simmering water when Juliette came alongside Raphielli. “Would you join my family for dinner tomorrow?”

  “I’d like that. Where?”

  “Our home.”

  “I’d love to. Is it a party?”

  “No, just family dinner. I will send our boat for you.”

  “Grazie. What should I wear?”

  “Come as you are.”