The Complete Series

by Angela Scipioni

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to butt in, it’s just that…”

  “Everything’s cool, Capo,” Max said. “Now, we can lose these guys and concentrate on us.”

  All Iris really wanted to concentrate on at that point was the feel of a soft pillow beneath her head. After all the travel and tension and cocktails and food and talk and wine, she was bone-weary. It was odd that the farther away she was from the comfort of her own bed, the more it appealed to her. That was where Gregorio had been with his tummy full of tripe when she had exchanged good night messages with him from the toilet of the restaurant, before switching her phone off.

  Outside, everybody kissed everybody else’s cheeks good night; Peppe handed Iris her tote bag, then slid behind the steering wheel of the van. He looked exhausted, too, and in no condition to drive all the way back to Rome, even if Iris had been heartless enough to have Max ask him. Before the subject could be brought up, the van was in motion, and Peppe drove off with the rest of the guys.

  “How are we getting back to town?” Iris asked, watching with mixed feelings as the taillights receded into the darkness, together with any illusions that she could still back out of spending the night with Max.

  “We’re not,” Max said. “Come with me.” He took her hand and led her down a walkway that passed behind the restaurant to a little marina on the lake, where a small fleet of sleeping sailboats bobbed in the water. It was a weekday, and not yet high season. There was no one else in sight.

  “How peaceful this is,” Iris said. Though spoken softly, her words were loud enough to send a large bird flapping away. She jumped. “What was that?”

  “I’d guess it was a heron,” Max said, as they reached a floating dock. “All kinds of birds nest here.”

  Woozy from the wine, Iris focused on following Max’s steps as he walked down the dock. She nearly tripped over him when he stopped suddenly, crouching by the bollard to which one of the sailboats was tied up.

  “Is this your boat?” she asked.

  Max chuckled. “I wouldn’t be caught dead with a boat here. Let’s just say it’s a little perk that comes with the job.” He untied the moorings, then tugged the ropes, pulling the boat closer to the dock. “Hop aboard, Capo!”

  “You want to take me out on this little boat? In the dark?”

  “A surprise loses its surprise if you ask too many questions. Hop on. You’ll see.”

  If someone had told her that morning that Max was planning to take her on a moonlight cruise, she would have thought it incredibly romantic and adventurous. She loved anything romantic and adventurous, as much as she loved surprises, at least that was what she always said. Maybe she was just out of practice, but honestly, a boat ride was one of the last things she was in the mood for, especially after all she’d had to drink. Especially when the sky was pitch black, without even a sliver of moon.

  “Go ahead. Obey your Capitano. Or are you one of those rompipalle women who puke on boats?”

  “Who, me?” She hopped onto the bow, then stepped aside to make room for Max, holding on to the mast for balance. The owner of the boat, whoever that may be, would want her to take her shoes off, but at least she wasn’t wearing high heels. Those were ruled out by her practical sense when she had set out that morning, and were packed in her bag together with the little black dress she had never managed to change into.

  “Just sit down and relax, while I take care of everything,” Max said. It wasn’t clear where she was to sit; the deck was still soaked with rain. She looked up at the inky, impenetrable sky, then down at the water, just as black and mysterious. She felt so vulnerable surrounded by all that darkness; that was one of the reasons why she never went swimming at night, and had always refused to go scuba diving with Gregorio. She hoped to God Max wasn’t planning to cruise out of the lake and into the open sea. She also hoped he didn’t want to start screwing around out there; she would be terrified of ending up in the water. The boat did have a cabin, but it looked small, and was certainly dank. She could see herself throwing up as soon as she went below. Driving to Rome in a van with a drunk was starting to look like the safe bet. Too bad she had passed. Too bad the outboard motor sputtered to life.

  “Where are you taking me?” she called to Max.

  “It’s a surprise, remember?” Max said. “Trust me.”

  He looked reasonably capable of handling the boat as he maneuvered it out of its slip - but trust him? What did she really know about him? The very characteristics that had attracted her to Max were what worried her now. He had no use for all those rules that suffocated Iris and dictated her daily existence, but what if his recklessness went well beyond his lack of discretion when writing to a married woman at her place of business? What if he turned out to be some kind of psychopath?

  “I don’t really like the water at night,” she said, crouching low on her haunches as they picked up speed.

  “It’s just a lake. Doesn’t get any deeper than ten meters.”

  Ten meters were plenty enough to drown in. That is, if he didn’t rape her first, then chop her body into little pieces, then dump them into the water. Who knew what strange creatures were lurking below, waiting for some fresh flesh to nibble on? If the crew asked about her tomorrow, Max would just say she had left first thing in the morning. She had cancelled her meetings in the city, so no one would call the hotel looking for her. Gregorio would call in the morning, but her phone would be at the bottom of the lake. He would never know what had happened to her after her alleged dinner of bucatini with the seminarians. No one knew where she was. Not a soul. She should have told Beatrix of her plans, but she was in Milan, and something had held Iris back from calling. She hadn’t wanted to be encouraged or discouraged; she had wanted to follow her instincts, and leave the rest up to fate. Except now, a very different fate might await her. A shiver of fear ran up her spine.

  “Hey, Capo!” Max shouted over the putt-putting of the engine. The totally natural sound of his voice as he called out his pet name for her calmed her slightly. No, Max did not sound like a psychopath. Then again, the best psychopaths probably never did, did they?

  “See those lights over there?” He pointed straight ahead, to a shore where flecks of brightness blinked at her, intermittently hidden by a thicket of trees whose branches swayed in the wind. “That’s part of the surprise!”

  His voice sounded playful, but Iris remained on guard, a she-cat ready to pounce, her hands gripping the rails, her tote bag clutched between her ankles. It was difficult to discern the distance to their destination, impossible to know how much safer it would be than the boat. From her perch, the place looked rather desolate, even sinister. The cool night air washed over her, and she drank it in, hoping it would clear her head of unsettling fantasies, and sharpen her ability to recognize real danger.

  She glanced over her shoulder at Max, who smiled and gave her a thumbs-up. Tilting her head back, she scanned the sky, where she could now pick out a few scattered stars, and a half-moon playing peek-a-boo through the clouds. The briny, marshy smell of the air, though different from the scent of a Ligurian sea breeze, was not altogether unpleasant. The water, though frightfully dark, was calm, and snatches of peace settled over her as they motored along at a slow and steady pace. By the time Max came alongside another floating dock, tied the boat up, and cut the engine, she was breathing more easily. Maybe she would live to see another dawn, after all.

  “So, what do you think, Capo?” Max said, pushing his way through the heavy wooden doors. They were the last obstacle to be overcome by the ring of keys that had granted them passage through the massive wrought iron gate and a series of smaller gates in the park surrounding the villa.

  Iris peered through the dark interior at the vast marble foyer which appeared unfurnished, save for an immense crystal chandelier hanging at its center. She had not expected anything to happen when Max flipped the switch but, miraculously, the fixture lit up, instantly exposing an ostentation of austerity similar to
the style Iris had noted back in town. The chandelier’s many bulbs cast fragmented shadows on the high marble walls, which she could now see were lined with a series of glass cabinets and frames displaying what appeared to be documents, military medals, photographs and other memorabilia.

  “What is this place?” she asked. She had not enjoyed the walk through the dense, dripping vegetation of the dimly lit park leading to the entrance, nor did she feel at ease once inside. There was something inherently disconcerting about the setting, the atmosphere, the feeling.

  “Actually, it’s a museum,” Max said. “This is where we’re shooting tomorrow morning.”

  “Are we allowed to be in here?”

  “We didn’t break in, did we? I have the keys.” Max dangled the key ring in front of her face.

  “Where did you get them, anyway?”

  “From the woman at the town hall. I told her we had to start at first light. So I gave her the choice of either coming to open up at five o’clock, or giving me the keys. She gave me the keys.”

  “But are you sure it’s all right for me to be here, too?” She still felt like a trespasser, but was reassured by the fact that other people would be turning up first thing in the morning.

  “Relax, Capo. You’ve gotta stop thinking about rules all the time. They’re for idiots who aren’t smart enough to think for themselves, not for people like you and me.” He took her by the hand and led her over to a wall. “See that?”

  Max pointed his finger at a framed black and white photograph portraying a balding man in riding clothes on a white horse, and a dark-haired woman looking up at him in obvious adoration.

  “Guess who they are,” Max said.

  “I don’t know.” The man looked like a proud landowner, sitting tall in the saddle of his steed, his head held high, his chest and chin thrust out. “The owners of this place?”

  “You’re half right,” Max said. “The woman was Marianna Guidoboni Moldrone. Contessa Guidoboni Moldrone. A Roman noblewoman whose family was related to some pope. Not sure which one, so don’t ask me.”

  “And that was her husband, I take it?” Iris said. “The Count?”

  “Not quite. He was her lover. One of them, anyway. You want another clue?”

  Curiosity whittled away at the discomfort Iris felt at being in this rambling relic of an estate, studying a picture of dead people she didn’t know. “Go ahead. Give me another clue. I’ve never heard of this Contessa before, so I doubt I can figure out who he is. But he does look vaguely familiar.”

  “Read the dedication. The handwriting is illegible, but there’s a typewritten label. See it?”

  “Yes. It says, ‘Ringrazia ogni giorno devotamente Dio perchè ti ha fatta italiana.’”

  “Do you recognize that phrase?”

  “Give devout thanks to God each day, for He has made you Italian,” she repeated. It sounded familiar. Like something Isabella may have said to Gregorio or Cinzia or her grandsons (but never to Iris), when she clucked her tongue at events being broadcast on the evening news, especially when they occurred in the United States. “Actually, I think I may have heard someone say that before.”

  “He’s the one who said it first.” Max pointed to the man. “The Duce.”

  “The Duce? You mean Mussolini? Oh, my God, that’s him?”

  “You got it! Come over here, look at these,” Max said, leading her to another group of black and white photographs of the Duce standing by or sitting with the Contessa in a series of old Italian automobiles. “He loved Alfa Romeos. Everyone knew about his passion for cars, but not so many knew about his passion for the Contessa, or his little field trips to Sabaudia. She kept it quiet until her death, but the story came out when her heirs discovered she had left the villa and everything inside it to the town, as long as they turned the place into a museum. You can imagine how pissed off her family must have been!”

  Iris shook her head; history could be pretty interesting when it was brought down to a more personal level. She had a fact of her own to share with Max. “Mussolini ruined my grandparents,” she said.

  “In what sense?”

  “Well, my Grandma Capotosti had a breakdown when one of her daughters drowned, and the doctor thought it would be a good idea for her to be close to all her relatives. So Grandpa loaded them all aboard a steamer and brought them back over here, to Abruzzo. He had some savings, and used the money toward opening a hotel in Avezzano. Albergo Italia. I remember seeing this picture of my Grandma seated in a horse-drawn carriage in front of the sign.”

  “So the hotel business runs in your blood.”

  “Unfortunately, they didn’t exactly end up like the Hiltons. The story goes that the hotel was taken over as some sort of barracks for Fascist soldiers, only no one ever paid the bill. Grandpa’s business went bust, so they sailed over to America a second time, broke but not broken.”

  “Sounds like you come from pretty tough stock.”

  “You don’t know the half of it. Fortunately, we Capotostis don’t get discouraged very easily. But I wish I could get back at Mussolini for what he put my poor grandparents through.”

  “Well, Capo. You just may have come to the right place.”

  Max took her hand and led her across the foyer, pointing out a framed letter along the way, signed “Gabriele d’Annunzio,” by the hand of the great Italian poet, and dated 1915, in Rome. When they reached the grand staircase, Max unhooked the red velvet rope that cordoned off the entrance, and gestured for Iris to pass. She hesitated on seeing a “Privato” sign hanging from the rope, but by now she figured it was useless to ask whether they had permission.

  “Go on!” Max said. He placed his hands on her buttocks, and pushed her up the stairs, then took the lead again, using the flickering flame of a cigarette lighter he took from his pocket to find his way down a dark corridor, pulling her along until they reached the entrance to another cordoned off room. He removed the velvet rope and nudged her inside with such unexpected force that she stumbled in the dark, landing on a bed.

  “Make yourself comfortable.” Max laughed, and lit a candle that stood on the bedside table, then took a cigarette from his shirt pocket, and lit that, too. The pungent odor of pot snaked into the room. He offered the joint to Iris, who shook her head. What she craved was a cigarette, but she wouldn’t feel right smoking in the bedroom of a museum. She wanted to tell Max not to, either, but doubted it would do any good.

  “Shall I tuck you in and read you a bedtime story?” he said.

  “I love stories,” Iris said. She would actually enjoy snuggling up with Max as he told her more of his many stories, although this particular bed, covered in a scratchy, musty-smelling brocade fabric, was not very inviting. “But I hate canopy beds. They give me the creeps.”

  “Well, this is not just any canopy bed. It’s the one where your friend the Duce screwed the brains out of the lovely Contessa.”

  “You’re kidding me!” Iris said, jumping to her feet. Fear, in one form or another, had been stalking her all day, straining her, harassing her, scaring her, but now the danger of being caught or killed in the immediate future was retreating. She felt more thrilled than threatened.

  “Apparently it was a turn-on, having that De Chirico staring down at them.” Max said, pointing to an enormous canvas depicting two faceless mannequins in the shadow of an imposing tower. “The one hanging there’s a copy, though,” he added. Iris thought that anyone who could feel pleasure looking at that painting must be deeply disturbed.

  She looked back at Max, who squinted through the smoke at her. Holding the joint between his teeth, he unbuttoned his shirt. She dropped her eyes to his chest; it was tanned, hairless. He drew on the joint again, then placed it between Iris’s lips.

  “Take a toke,” he said. “You still seem kind of uptight.”

  The entire situation seemed so surreal. For all the meandering of her imagination, it never would have found its way here, to this villa, to this bedroom. Maybe a toke would
n’t hurt. The smoke burned her throat, but almost instantly, her head seemed to float away, up to the vaulted ceiling.

  “Wow,” she said. It felt good to not have her mind tell her mouth what to say.

  “It’s pretty decent weed,” Max said. “You feeling good?” Iris nodded. Something in the painting caught her eye; Iris wondered how the figures could move around like that. She opened her mouth to ask Max, and he placed the joint between her lips again. She took another hit. That should keep her head up in the ceiling for a while, so the rest of her could do what it wanted. Like run her hands over his Max’s bare chest, and slide the shirt from his shoulders, for starters.

  Max spit onto his thumb and index finger, used them to snuff out the joint. He stood facing her, tracing a line with his damp finger down the middle of her forehead, along the slope of her nose, over her lips. Her skin tingled beneath his touch as he parted her lips with his finger, then placed his mouth over hers. He grabbed her buttocks with both hands, pulled her body close to his. Her tongue was hungry for his, her hands ran over his bare chest, pushed his open shirt from his shoulders, helped him shake his arms free from the sleeves and throw the shirt to the floor. She moaned when Max pulled away from her and looked into her eyes with an intensity that made her shiver. His stare told her he would probe every inch of her body, and still want more. He would get inside her, possess her body, penetrate her heart, bare her soul. Pushing down on her shoulders, Max made her sit on the bed. He remained standing in front of her, his legs slightly parted.

  “You do the rest,” he said to her, dropping his arms to his sides.

  Seeing him standing there in this room where they shouldn’t be, waiting for her to strip his pants off while she was still fully dressed, Iris experienced a type arousal she had never felt before. She was crossing new boundaries, entering a new territory where neither Gregorio’s scientifically proven preliminaries nor Claudio’s well-rehearsed finesse had ever had the power to take her.

  She reached out and unbuttoned his fly. His stomach muscles twitched as she lowered the zipper slowly, then slid the worn denim down over his hips, to his knees. Max kicked off his shoes and let Iris free his legs of the jeans. His underwear was tight-fitting, unlike the baggy boxer shorts worn by the only two other men she had ever seen take their pants off. Max placed a hand behind Iris’s head and pulled it toward his crotch. He was hot and hard, and full of that smell she had picked up the first time she stood near him.