The Di Medici Bride

by Heather Graham

  Chris gave herself a serious shake. She had come this far because she wanted Alfred to talk to her, to confide in her and let her help him. There was nothing sinister about a building. Even an ancient building, filled with cavernous passages and shadowed archways and the secrets of the centuries….

  “Quiet!” she warned herself aloud, and hurried up the last of the steps. But she found herself looking around when she reached the main doors. The piazza was empty except for a few pigeons. In the distance on the water, a pair of gondoliers were shouting to one another. In the other direction, down the via from the piazza, a couple of lovers were disappearing arm in arm down an alleyway.

  Chris pulled at the door; as Alfred had promised it was open. She slipped inside.

  It was even eerier to be inside the galleries at night than it was to look at them. She inhaled deeply and the sound seemed to echo. She held her breath, then exhaled very softly.

  She could have sworn she heard her heart beating like thunder.

  The inner courtyard was in front of her with its empty concierge stands, shadowed marbles and tiles, statues and archways. Chris closed her eyes for a minute, leaning against the door. It would be after seven o’clock now. She was lucky that Alfred hadn’t chosen to leave.

  She might be uneasy—she refused to even think the word “frightened”—but she might also be within an inch of clearing her father’s name.

  With that in mind Chris straightened and headed for the left-hand stairway. The banister felt like ice beneath her fingers. And despite all her reasoning, the higher she climbed, the more furiously her heart seemed to beat.

  She passed the doors to the historical exhibit. They were open, and as she glanced in she shivered. All the figures stared out at her from the darkness, posed, eyes wide, arms outstretched.

  Almost as if they were beckoning to her to join them.

  Chris shivered, then was furious again with herself for being ridiculous.

  She hurried on. The gem salon would be next.

  But as she neared those doors she slowed her pace, then came to a dead standstill. Someone was whispering in the salon, and someone else was replying furiously. They were speaking in Italian, low but vehement.

  She should run, get the hell out of there, Chris thought. But logic didn’t seem to have much control over her actions. Without conscious thought she moved closer to the doors, until she was staring into the salon.

  Alfred was there, standing right in front of the case with the di Medici jewels and directly beneath the skylight. Moonlight pouring in like quicksilver displayed his features clearly. They were strained and angry, and tinged with an unhealthy pallor.

  But despite the moonlight, Chris couldn’t see the features of the other person at all. She couldn’t even tell if it was a man or a woman. It might have been a gargoyle that had crawled down from the ceiling for all that she could tell; the figure was clothed from head to toe in a hooded cloak.

  “No, no, no!” Alfred exclaimed, slamming a fist down on the glass case. Chris flinched, expecting it to shatter. But it didn’t and she noted that a piece of paper floated to the floor, unseen by either Alfred or the hooded figure. What was it? Chris wondered. The subject of the argument?

  Alfred threw his hands up and stalked to the left side of the room. The figure followed. The words were coming more and more quickly between them, more and more vehemently. Chris swallowed, certain that her presence would break up the argument. She should just burst in with a cheerful “hello” and a broad smile on her lips.

  She started to do just that, but suddenly Alfred stood dead still and shouted in English to the figure, “Murder! Blackmail! Where and when does it end!”

  Chris was halfway across the room. Something about his words warned her of imminent danger. Instinctively she pitched to the floor and rolled silently until she was hidden behind the case containing the di Medici jewels. How well she was hidden she didn’t know, because the moonlight was almost like a flashlight on her, streaking through the skylight.

  With her heart pounding at a fevered pitch, she crept to her knees to look beyond the case and a scream froze in her throat. Alfred was screaming, “No!”

  And the moonlight, powerful, glowing quicksilver, was reflecting off the blade of a raised knife.

  “No!” Alfred shouted again, and then he was running past the cloaked figure and out of the salon. The figure followed him with a whirl of flowing fabric. Chris heard their footsteps clattering on the stairs; she heard the great front doors being thrown open and falling shut.

  She left her hiding place behind the case with little thought and tore down the stairs herself, not realizing until later how foolish the action had been. But Alfred was out there being chased by a figure in a flowing robe who was wielding a knife.

  She didn’t notice a thing about the courtyard as she raced through it; she, too, yanked open the doors with a vehemence. Heaving, panting, she raced down the steps to the piazza, and there, right beside a little fountain, she saw Alfred suddenly pause in flight, clutching at his heart.

  The cloaked figure was nowhere to be seen.

  “Alfred!” Chris screamed, and sobs tore from her along with her breath as she raced to him.

  “Alfred! Alfred!” She curled her arms around him, trying to help him stand. The piazza was absurdly empty in the glowing moonlight. He was too heavy. He began to sink to the ground; she sank along with him, trying to protect his head and keep him warm with her own warmth.

  “Help!” she screamed to the night.

  “Christi, Christi…” His eyes were open, dazed, but deep-brown and luminous, staring into hers. “Help me….”

  “I’m here, Alfred, I’m here. I’ll help you. I have to attract someone—”

  “Oh, God, Christi! The sins of the past. They catch us all.” With a sudden burst of energy he grasped her shoulder, his fingers painful and desperate. “Careful, Chris, careful. It was my fault. I paid. I hid the truth. Be careful. Marcus—”

  His voice broke off. A terrible chill swept over Chris. Was he telling her to be careful of Marcus or to go to Marcus for help?

  “Alfred, don’t try to talk. I’ve got to get help!”

  At last, Chris saw people emerging from the alleyway. A man, a woman and a child, chattering as they ambled along in the night.

  “Help!” Chris screamed, hoping the fear in her voice would atone for her lack of Italian. She racked her memory furiously for the right words. “Attenzione! Attenzione! Dove un medico? Per favore, un medico!”

  The woman began to cry something excitedly to her husband. The husband raced toward Chris, while the woman started to scream, “Polizia! Polizia, un medico!”

  The hand that was grasping Chris’s shoulder slowly began to relax. She stared into Alfred’s eyes again, tears blinding her own. “Christi, bella Christi, I brought you into danger. Find the new will. I tried to make reparation…. But watch out. Watch out for—”

  “Alfred, don’t worry! Rest easy, help is coming.”

  He shook his head and tried to moisten his dry cracking lips. “Come closer!” he gasped, and she could barely hear him. She lowered her head to his mouth. “I took care of you, Christi. Find the will. You must be careful…you know the truth. Your father didn’t kill Mario…you know he didn’t. It was my fault. All my fault. And now the years have caught up with us all. They’ve—”

  “Alfred! Stop!” Chris begged. “I’m getting help.” She couldn’t understand his ramblings; all his words managed to do was steal his remaining strength.

  “Christi…watch out for…”

  There was nothing more. Numb with pain and fear, Chris raised her head. Alfred was still staring at her. But his eyes were completely glazed. She realized that his chest was moving no more. “No, Alfred!” she cried, and she pressed her ear to his chest.

  There was nothing. Not even the faintest beat of hope.

  The Italian man was standing beside her; she tried to nod that she understood when he told her th
at the polizia were coming.

  And then there was a big commotion on the piazza. It seemed that people were springing from everywhere. Chris could only stare at the ground. She saw a pair of feet and black jean-clad legs coming toward her.

  A man bent down beside her, taking Alfred’s head from her lap and placing it very gently on the ground. She looked around, still dazed, and saw that it was Marcus. “Goodbye, old friend,” he murmured softly. For once his indigo gaze held nothing but tenderness, caring and sadness. His dark features were drawn and strained, his hands, on Alfred and on her, were gentle.

  “He is gone, Chris,” Marcus said. And he reached to close the lids over the dark-brown eyes of Alfred Contini. When that was done he set his arms around Chris and helped her rise. She was staggering. He drew her very gently against him and smoothed back her hair with a deep protective tenderness.

  She broke into tears and turned her face into his chest. “Marcus, he was murdered,” she garbled out.

  She felt his body stiffen, but barely noticed. “No, Chris, it was a heart attack. Chris, a heart attack.”

  “No,” she murmured.

  “Hush! Christina, before God! Hush!”

  Swift sizzling fear swamped her senses. Dear God, she couldn’t tell anyone what she had seen. If the murderer—the cloaked figure with the gleaming knife who had pursued Alfred until his heart gave out—if he or she knew what Chris had seen…

  She began to shiver. There were shrill whistles and a flurry of activity. The police came, and a doctor, and a stretcher. A million questions were being thrown at Marcus in Italian; he was answering them all calmly. Chris vaguely heard him explain that she was an American, Alfred’s guest, his guest. And she vaguely heard the respect for Marcus in the voices of the officers; she heard them addressing him by his title—and they believed every word he said, and didn’t pressure him once. Someone asked something about Alfred, and he hesitated several seconds, then softly said, “Si.”

  Alfred Contini was gently swathed in a giant sheet, then taken away. The piazza began to clear.

  Chris watched, shivering. She buried her face in her hands, and of all things, absently realized that she had lost an earring. What could an earring matter when Alfred had died…?

  Marcus gave Chris a little shake.

  “Alfred is gone, Chris. We must go home. You must rest from the shock, and I…” He inhaled deeply and exhaled sadly. “I must tell my mother, and Sophia.”

  Chris nodded again. Somehow she was able to walk beside Marcus.

  Marcus…

  Oh, God! What had Alfred been trying to tell her? Was Marcus truly her friend, or was he the dark and sinister danger that she should be fearing?

  Marcus…

  She closed her eyes and swallowed a new rush of tears. Now, feeling his touch, his warmth, his tenderness and his strength, she could believe no evil.

  It was strange. With shock and pain foremost in her heart, still she was comforted, and yet trembling again in another way. It felt right to be with Marcus now. But it had always felt somehow right to be with Marcus. Since that first night when she had seen him she had felt the draw, so powerful….

  Was she falling in love with him?

  Or falling into a trap—from which there would be no escape?

  CHAPTER 6

  Three days later Alfred Contini was taken down the Grand Canal one last time.

  His gondola was shrouded in black; behind the coffin, keeping a silent vigil, were Sophia Calabrese and Gina di Medici. They, too, were shrouded in black.

  Chris, in the next boat between Marcus and Tony, realized that she was more a part of the scene than she would perhaps have been willing to be had she not spent the hours and the days following Alfred’s death in an absolute daze.

  Like Gina and Sophia, she was clad in black. And she wore a low-brimmed black hat with a black veil.

  Everything had been draped in black: the galleries and the palazzo, even the small chiesa or church near the galleries where Alfred had attended Mass almost every Sunday for thirty-odd years.

  Contini had been a name of importance in his city of merchant princes. And his city had turned out for him. As the parade of gondolas and launches in funeral black traveled along the canal, people lined the streets to throw flowers into the water and murmur prayers for his soul.

  Bells were chiming across the city; they seemed to toll heavily upon Chris’s heart.

  In the days of Alfred’s wake she had carefully withdrawn. Sophia had not cried; she had retired to their quarters, begging to be allowed to grieve in private. Gina had cried; Chris had been impressed by her earnest emotion. Alfred Contini had enjoyed one true friend in life, at least.

  Tony had been uncustomarily somber; Marcus had been quiet—and completely efficient. He had closed the galleries for several days so that the last of their original founders could be mourned.

  The gondolas came to the little chiesa. Chris slipped into a pew, between Marcus and Tony once again.

  Only Gina could be heard, weeping during the long service and the Mass. Sophia held to her silence.

  When it was over the mourners filed from the church. Chris could see a workman tearing at the stones of the floor to the left of the altar; Alfred would be interred in the church he had patronized, as he had planned during his lifetime.

  The gondolas, still shrouded in black, began their slow journey back to the palazzo.

  But this night no one would be grieving in private. The numerous friends and acquaintances of Alfred Contini would all be pouring into the palazzo. Food and wine would be served in abundance, and Alfred would be eulogized by one and all.

  Chris had never felt so lost in a foreign land in all her life. There were so many people there, and they were all speaking in Italian. Marcus never faltered as a host; Chris was introduced to everyone. She noticed that a number of people stared at her peculiarly when they heard her name. Why not? They all assumed that she was the daughter of a man who had murdered a di Medici—it probably did seem strange that she was in the household.

  One name in particular caught Chris’s attention: Anna Garibaldi. The woman appeared to be in her late twenties; she was very confident in herself and in her movements, which made sense because she was beautiful in a fashion that only an Italian woman could be, Chris thought. Her deep-brown eyes were huge and hidden by luxurious lashes. Her waist was tiny; her hips and breasts flared like any man’s fantasy.

  Although none of her actions was overt or the slightest bit in bad taste, it was obvious to Chris that she knew both Marcus and Tony very well, and that she was warmly welcomed by Sophia and Gina.

  Perfect wife material? Chris wondered, and she couldn’t help but feel a horrible stab of jealousy. She didn’t really know Marcus at all; she should mistrust him like a snake. He seemed unwaveringly positive that her father was a murderer and Chris wasn’t at all certain that he didn’t really totally dislike her.

  But, she decided, watching him move smoothly among his guests, exchanging quiet words here and there, she must be in really bad shape. No matter what logic said, no matter how sternly she warned herself that he had more reason to be her enemy than her friend, she could not stop her feelings. In her heart she was sure that Marcus could be trusted.

  Chris sipped a glass of dark dry wine, wondering if anyone would notice—or care—if she escaped to her room. But right when she was feeling so lost and lonely that she was ready to fly to the stairs, Sal came to her, kissing her cheeks and smiling in warm greeting.

  “Chris, how very sad this is for you. I hope you are bearing up all right.”

  “Yes, yes, I am. Thank you, Sal.”

  “What will you do now?” he asked her.

  She hadn’t really thought about it. She should leave; Alfred had asked her here, but now Alfred was dead. Yet how could she leave when she knew he had been murdered and that he had been paying a blackmailer?

  Yet how could she stay? she wondered with a shiver. She hadn’t been asked to
talk to the police. They had simply assumed that he’d had a heart attack while she was with him.

  Chris hadn’t told a soul about the figure with the knife. Instinct had warned her that her life might depend on her silence.

  She hadn’t even tried to talk to Marcus. He had been extremely remote. And in the darkness of the night she had begun to doubt herself. Marcus was a di Medici. He had been awfully close—and come awfully quickly—to the scene of the crime. And he needed money.

  No, no, no. Marcus would not hide behind a hood and cape; he would not sink to blackmail. He would never have raised a knife against an old and ailing man like Alfred….

  But who, then? The deeper she went, the less sense any of it seemed to make.

  “Christina?”

  “Oh, Sal, I’m sorry. I was thinking, I guess. I—I’m really not sure what I intend to do yet.”

  “Well, you’ve got to stay a week, at least.”

  “For what?”

  “The reading of Alfred’s will.”

  “Why? What could it have to do with me?”

  Sal smiled. “Alfred was my father’s client for years and years. Right after your father left the company, he set up a small trust fund for you.”

  “Oh,” Chris murmured. Then she quickly asked, “Sal, Alfred murmured something to me about a new will once. Does that mean anything to you?”

  Sal frowned. “Yes, come to think of it. Last week he called my father at the office and asked him a lot of questions about wills. Dad told him that his was all in order, and Alfred asked what he had to do to legally constitute a new will. But as far as I know he never made one out.” Still frowning, he turned around. Chris paled as she saw that Marcus was right behind him. “Marc, did Alfred say anything to you about making out a new will?”

  Indigo eyes immediately fell scathingly on Chris. They flickered over her features briefly. “No, he said nothing to me. But that isn’t to say that he didn’t. Why? Did you manage to persuade him to bequeath his money to you after all, Christina?”

  “He mentioned a new will right before he died, that’s all,” Chris said, stiffening, but keeping her voice sweet. She smiled at Sal, who appeared ill at ease and startled by the animosity between them. “I assume that the di Medicis inherit the majority of Alfred’s holdings?”