He shook his head. “And all the broken lives?” he asked.
“Which ones?” she replied quickly. “Mine? My brothers’? Bracci’s, for God’s sake? Don’t presume to judge there. What about the lives you and your stubbornness have broken? Young Nic, who put his relationship with that lovely American in jeopardy because he thought something you valued, some distant, hazy notion of justice, was more precious than a simple human emotion like love? And you? Doesn’t it seem somewhat ironic that my only real regret in all this concerns what happened to you? And that is the very last thing on your own mind?”
“I do what I do!”
She stood up and pulled his jacket collar more tightly over his shirt. The wind was rising. The evening was closing in. Cold nights were surely on the way, weeks before their time.
“So what happens now, Inspector Falcone?” she demanded. “You have a woman here who is willing to look after you for a while, and God knows you’re a man who needs caring for. Shouldn’t we both be a little selfish for once?”
“This isn’t about you or me. It’s about the law . . .”
“Damn the law! What law stopped Hugo Massiter being what he was? What law do all those bent politicians and crooked policemen feel they’re beholden to? Play the martyr if you must, but at least find a better cause than that.”
He felt lost for words. Tired, too. That happened a lot lately. He was an invalid, however much he fought the idea.
She took out her mobile phone. “I’ll have to call for one of those taxi thieves now. It’s just as well I have a little money at last.”
“We haven’t finished!” he objected.
Raffaella looked at him, her face full of sympathy and affection. Leo Falcone felt lost. Venice was, he realised, beyond him, and always had been. It was simply his own arrogance that had tried to persuade him otherwise.
“As far as this matter’s concerned, we have, Leo,” she said firmly. “I’m taking you back to the hospital now. Next week we will begin to make arrangements for moving you to Rome. I hope you’ll want me to come, but that’s entirely up to you.”
“Get me out of here sooner,” he said, almost without thinking. “I’ve had enough of this place.”
She smiled, then, before he could object, leaned down and kissed his cheek. Leo Falcone felt her soft lips brush against his skin, damp, warm, inviting, and tried to remember how long it had been since he’d been embraced by a woman.
“You’re not alone in that,” she said. “But this is finished, Leo. What we’ve discussed here I will never talk about again. Never, do you understand? The world is for the living, not the dead.”
“But . . .”
A single slender finger came and fell upon his lips. “But nothing. That is the arrangement. Should you break it . . . should you be so rash as to drag me into a police station someday and try to raise these matters again, I will, I swear, do something you’ll come to regret.”
He waited.
“I’ll confess, Leo,” she said sweetly, taking hold of the wheelchair, propelling him towards the exit. “And that’s a promise.”
GIANNI PERONI STOOD BY THE LITTLE RIO, SAYING THE g-word over and over, pointing the empty leaden weapon at the evening sky. Perhaps it was the gun. Or the possibility of change. Whatever the cause, Teresa Lupo, watching him, felt that her senses were preternaturally alert. She could hear every last mosquito whirring busily in the reeds, the croak of frogs, the discordant squawk of squabbling gulls, and, so soft they scarcely mattered, the occasional ghostly plaint of a far-off city vaporetto.
Then, nearby, something subtler. Crawling, squirming, hiding all the time, an animal that lurked in the undergrowth, watching him, waiting, trying to decode what its senses revealed.
She sat at the picnic table, eyeing the papers with the little farm’s photos uppermost, determined not to peek at the details, since she knew they’d simply discourage her. It was a small, run-down place. A world away from the bustle of the centro storico. A possibility for them. She put it no higher than that.
Peroni barked the g-word again. Still the animal didn’t come.
She considered the situation. The last boat back to the city went in half an hour. She’d no intention of staying in Piero Scacchi’s shack for the night. There really was no alternative.
“I take it back,” she declared, throwing the box of shells, which, grinning at her, he caught in one gigantic hand. “Give the dog what it wants. If you can, that is.”
Peroni cocked his head. A single glinting eye winked at her. She was surprised, and also a little dismayed, to see the way he was able to grab a couple of cartridges from the box, drop the rest, then rattle two into the gun without even having to look, snapping the weapon shut with a certain, loud clatter.
“If I can?” he asked. “I’m a country boy. Born and bred. You should never forget that.”
“So, country boy . . .” she started to say, when what he did made everything unnecessary.
“Dog!” he barked with a fresh, commanding insistence.
Within the space of a few seconds a feathery shape emerged from the reeds, its lithe body rising like a bullet, chased on its way by what sounded like a rough, sharp bark. Peroni swung the gun. A single, now familiar, sound rent the peace of the lagoon. Teresa watched in shocked admiration, and a little wonder, as the bundle of feathers turned in on itself, rolled into a ball, then tumbled into some prickly thicket on the far side of the rio.
A black shape chased through the water after it, half swimming, half leaping, disappearing into the vegetation for a moment before emerging with a triumphant, energetic swagger, something soft held tight in its jaws.
Gianni Peroni broke the gun, dropped the two cartridges, one spent, one live, on the ground, held the weapon over his arm, then extended his open hand across the rio.
“Good dog,” he declared loudly. “Good dog. Now come.”
Piero Scacchi’s spaniel emerged from the reeds carrying the dead bird, marching towards him, full of pride and expectation.
Fur matted and dishevelled, it looked as skinny as an abandoned orphan. Xerxes walked up to Peroni, dropped its prize at his feet, then sat, a tired black triangle wagging a short stumpy tail uncertainly, eyes never leaving his face, rapt in the man’s approval.
Teresa Lupo watched the two of them admiring each other and said nothing.
Eventually Peroni looked up at her, patting that small black head, his face as serious as she’d ever known it.
“You don’t want to go, do you?” he asked.
“No,” she said, without hesitation. “Not yet anyway.”
Not when the possibility became real. It wasn’t cowardice either. Something told Teresa that dreams were meant to be hunted down on home territory, not chased in some neverland around an unknown corner.
It was a sweet dog all the same. Quite unsuited for the city, where it would be terrified by the noise and the traffic and the commotion.
“Laila would love him,” she added. The girl was another of Peroni’s rescues, too, a bright, recovering teenager out on a farm in Tuscany, someone who’d adore the animal, given half a chance.
“I know,” Peroni agreed, with a swiftness that made her realise this thought had been with him all along. He didn’t look disappointed at all. He was good at hiding his feelings. She knew that.