The killer is still smiling as he saunters from the boathouse through to the main part of the house. He chats with two new members of the commune, then wanders to the rear drawing room so he can make sure he's with the others when the surprise is sprung.
Old brass bells over the front door of the mansion jangle into life.
Suddenly there's bedlam.
Panic appears on the brows of several senior security guards. A bald man with the kind of face that no doubt always looks serious is loudly announcing who he is. Apparently his name is Carvalho – Major Carvalho. He holds a search warrant high above his head and bustles in like Inspector Clouseau. Monica's killer wonders how long it'll be before the clown trips and breaks something. Behind him marches an army of plain-clothes officers armed with evidence bags and serious expressions. For Monica's murderer, it's almost too amusing for words. Vito finds a large man with rounded shoulders and a fat face blocking his progress from the front door. 'I'm Signor Ancelotti, Mario's lawyer and the commune's attorney. Let me see the warrant.' He stretches out his podgy, well-manicured hand.
Carvalho slaps it in his pink little palm. 'I can assure you, it's in order.'
Dino Ancelotti positions thick black-rimmed glasses over his dark eyes. 'Stop your officers from going any further. They do nothing until I have authenticated this.' He walks away, still scrutinising the paper. 'If there's so much as a spelling mistake, you can be certain we will sue.'
All eyes are on Carvalho. Characteristically, he opts for caution. 'Wait!'
Instantly, his search teams stop, as though playing a game of statues.
'Wait until the lawyer has finished his check. We have ample time.'
As they idle, a woman in blue denim shorts and a blue bikini top glides across the marble floor towards them. A digital camera buzzes, clacks and flashes in her hand. 'Cool! Pigs in the palazzo – can't wait to post these online!' She speaks English with an American accent and stops in front of Valentina. 'My, aren't you fucking gorgeous! A bit sour-faced, but Christ alive, what fabulous bone structure you've got. You ever done porno, honey?'
Valentina fights the fury rising inside her. 'Don't take my picture again.'
The woman in front of her grins defiantly. She's covered in tattoos, they're everywhere, even on her face, and the lieutenant can't help but stare.
'Here, take a picture yourself, looks like you want to,' mocks the tattooed photographer.
Ancelotti reappears before the scene turns ugly. He holds out the warrant to Carvalho. 'It's genuine. Enjoy yourselves, but make sure your children don't break anything – there's a lot of original artwork around the place.'
The major nods and the bustle begins again. Mario Fabianelli watches from the top of the staircase.
He's learned that being a billionaire takes the haste out of life. You can afford to hang back – even suffer some minor losses, if necessary. The cops are going to find a little dope and a smattering of other low-category drugs as well. But working out who owns it – well, that's a whole different problem for them.
Mario strolls down the stairs and offers his hand to the rather determined-looking Carabinieri major. 'Buongiorno, my name's Mario.' He lets the statement sink in. Let's the cop realise he's face to face with a man of incalculable wealth and power. 'Perhaps you would like to talk in a quieter room? I'm sure you have questions. Let me have someone fix some drinks for us.'
The lawyer, Ancelotti, glues himself to his boss. 'You needn't say anything, Mario. Let them waste their time and then go.'
The billionaire smiles. 'But I'd like to, Dino. I'm bored, and this promises to be amusing. Besides, if the Carabinieri need help, then I want to be nothing short of fully cooperative.'
Carvalho glares at him. No envy. No hatred. Just focus. 'A drink and a chat would be good. I take my coffee black, and my conversations truthful.'
CAPITOLO XLI
1777
Isola di San Giorgio Maggiore, Venezia In the flickering peach candlelight of his monastic cell, Tommaso Frascoli keeps his emotions in check as he reads the letter his mother wrote for him more than two decades ago.
His training as a monk has taught him much about writing. The choice of paper, type of ink, nature of the nib and even the chosen script all speak volumes about the writer.
The first thing he notices is that the paper is not cheap. It is an expensive cream-coloured parchment, not unlike the important documents bound with red silk ribbon lying on the grand desk of the abbot.
The second thing to strike him is that the letter is full of strong, bold strokes and ornate loops, written above and below an imaginary line that's been impressively adhered to. Stylistically it's difficult to place; the letters b, d, h, and l, in particular, are beautifully ornamental and remind him of sixteenth-century italic Bastarda script. Then again, some of the mannerisms are more suggestive of the over-disciplined Cancellaresca.
Tommaso's fully aware that he's studying style before substance. He has to fight his curiosity in order to read the meaning of the text before learning more about its author.
He tilts the paper at the candlelight and examines the flow of the earthy black ink, the pressure of the fine but strong nib. It's a cultured hand. Not that of a common whore found working near the shipyards. She must have been one of the intellectual courtesans who – it is rumoured – play music like angels and paint like Canaletto. Or he could be fooling himself. Yes, he's fully aware of the fact that, right from the outset, he wants to think nothing but the best of the writer.
He smooths out the paper on the small table where his Bible and candle rest and finally reads it: My dear child, I have asked the good monks to baptise you as Tommaso. It's not your father's name, simply one that in my dreams I always wanted, should I have a son.
At the time of writing, you are two months old and I know I will be dead before you can crawl, let alone speak. If I did not have this disease, one that doctors say will kill me as surely as the plague took so many of our family, then I would never have deserted you.
My milk is still fresh on your lips and my kisses still wet on your head as I hand you over to the holy brothers. Believe me, they are good people – all my love is with you, and always will be.
Our separation will cause you great pain, of this I am sure. But by arranging it now, I can at least be certain that you are in safe and godly hands. Had I waited for death to take me by surprise, then I know not what may have awaited you.
One day, Tommaso, you will understand why I had to make sure you and your sister had the care of the Holy Lord around you. With this note you will receive a wooden box and inside it something that you must guard – not only with your life, but with your soul. Its meaning is too important and too difficult to explain in a mere letter. It must never leave your care.
Your sister is a year older than you and I have left her with the nuns. A similar box, and duty, await her.
My child, I have separated you both for good reason. As painful as it may be, please believe me that it's best (for you, her and everyone) that you do not seek her out.
The duties that I leave to you both are more easily fulfilled if you never meet.
Your chances of long-term love, happiness and salvation absolutely depend upon you never being reunited.
Tommaso, I love you with all my heart. Please forgive my actions, and grow to understand why I had no choice in this matter.
My darling, my dying prayer will be for you and your sister. I am fortified in the knowledge that you will become everything I dream you will be, and through the grace of the good Lord one day we will all be safely together again.
All my love, for ever,
Mamma
Tommaso's stomach is churning.
He's close to tears. Her final words jump out at him – all my love, for ever, Mamma. He feels as if he's going to crumble into dust.