Olivia arrived at the opera house at a quarter to eight. She was directed up the wide sweeping staircase to the Apollo Room, where an attendant took her coat. The bar adjoining the salon was packed, and Olivia took a glass of champagne from the tray that was being offered around.
Alessandro’s father’s friends looked very affluent. Every woman there was dressed in an elegant, flawless way that made her think of Kate Middleton or Michelle Obama. Pearls and diamonds graced their necks and sparkled on their earlobes and fingers. The men, from young to old, were dressed impeccably in dark suits, and expensive watches peaked out under diamond-cuffed white shirts. Women and men alike greeted each other warmly with kisses on both cheeks.
Not knowing anyone, Olivia felt awkward. But the fact she was dressed well in a new cream cashmere dress helped give her some confidence, and if the violet Murano beads weren’t diamonds or pearls, she knew how much they flattered her.
She was glad she hadn’t told anyone she was coming to this event. She wanted to keep it to herself. Silvio would want her to network, something she wanted a break from, while Marco would want all the details about Alessandro. But she still didn’t know where this was going, and if things didn’t work out, she wanted to be saved the pain and embarrassment of having to explain. After all, she’d met him only three times, and in one of those meetings she’d been under suspicion of having planted a bomb in an airport.
She took her champagne and walked from the lounge area into the hall itself. She was looking for Alessandro, of course, and she finally glimpsed him near the stage standing next to a distinguished older gentleman who was clearly his father. They were surrounded by people, and Alessandro was talking to a very elderly couple. Tonight he was wearing a formal jacket, not his black leather, but the effect was every bit as devastating.
She had no hope of getting near him, so she had just resigned herself to waiting for the recital when he looked at her. He gave her that sexy smile, and she raised a hand in greeting. Then he was swallowed back into the crowd before suddenly appearing at her side.
“Come here,” he whispered, and taking her by the elbow, he led her through the crowded salon, making his apologies as he went. Moments later, they were alone in the green room.
“I’m so glad you made it!” he said.
“Me too,” she said a little breathlessly. She started to add something conversational about his father having a lot of friends when she noticed him staring at her with alarm.
“What is it?” she said.
“Your necklace . . .”
“What? Don’t you like it? It’s from Murano.”
“It’s my wife’s . . . I mean, she made it. Where did you get it?”
“It was a Christmas present from Marco. I’m sorry, I didn’t know. Your wife was a glassblower? Rocco Zucaro told me his sister Katarina made it . . . Oh my God, Rocco’s sister was your wife, Katarina! I’m so sorry.” She was out of her depth here. What was she supposed to do? Her hands flew to the back of her neck to undo the clasp.
“No, no, leave it on,” he said. He gently took her hands in his. “It was just a shock to see you wearing it. Other than what I and her family have, most of her work has ended up in the hands of American collectors. It would’ve been a shock seeing her work anywhere—but especially since we . . .”
His voice tapered off, and Olivia sought to fill in the blank: especially since what? We just met, we know each other, we’re friends, we’re dating?
It was a strange coincidence. More than one, in fact. Not only was she wearing his wife’s beads, she’d also met his brother-in-law that very morning. But then everything about meeting Alessandro had been strange, starting from how they’d met in the airport. It was beginning to feel like destiny, if she even believed in such a thing. “I can take it off if it makes you uncomfortable,” she said.
“No, of course not,” he said. “I’d like to say it was made for you, but as beautiful as those beads are, they’re no match for your eyes. I can’t think of anyone they’d look lovelier on.” He smiled, and she saw herself reflected back in his dark eyes. The compliment was maybe a little over the top, but he seemed sincere in his intentions not to let this reminder of his wife come between them.
“Look,” he said, “I have to go soon, but I have something to ask—”
He was interrupted by a knock. “Alessandro?” someone said through the door. “Your father would like to see you.”
“I’ll be right there.” He looked disappointed as he released her hands.
“You can ask me later,” she said. “Although if I leave through that door, your father’s going to wonder what we’ve been up to.”
He laughed. “I’ll just tell him you’re a groupie—my only groupie, I might add. Still, yes, you’re probably right. He’d be thrilled to see me with a woman, but maybe this isn’t the best time. I don’t want him to have a heart attack on his birthday. I’ll introduce you after the recital.”
He opened the door leading to the hall. Looking with mock furtiveness in either direction, he whispered comically, “It’s safe to go now. See you after the show!” He kissed her quickly on either cheek, and she thought how if anyone saw her, they’d conclude by the size of her smile that she’d indeed been up to no good with the star.
She found her way back to the Apollo Room just as the lights flicked off and on, the signal for people to find their seats. She took one close to where she was standing, while Alessandro walked with his father to the microphone at the front of the stage.
When the audience was quiet, Alessandro’s father spoke. “Thank you, everyone, for coming. I am truly blessed to have so many good friends.”
Someone from the audience called out, “We love you, Antonio!” A woman started singing “Happy Birthday” and was joined by everyone in the room. This ended in cheers and applause, and Olivia could see that both father and son were touched.
It took Antonio a moment to regain his composure before speaking, but when he did he thanked them again for coming. “I also want to thank Alessandro for helping me celebrate tonight. Like most fathers, I dreamed my son would follow in my footsteps, and when I held him in my arms that first time, I could already imagine him racing the cars I made . . .”
Oh my God! Alessandro belonged to that Rossi family?! Rossi racing cars were absolutely iconic—right up there with Lamborghini, Porsche, and Ferrari. No wonder his friends looked so well heeled! He was probably one of the richest men in all of Italy! Another reason why she hadn’t connected Alessandro’s wife with Rocco’s sister. Silvio had said Rocco’s sister had married into a wealthy family. It had never occurred to her that Alessandro was wealthy. He was a cop—though the palazzo on the Giudecca should’ve been a clue.
Suddenly, the enormity of his wife’s death struck Olivia with a force it hadn’t before. He’d given up the lifestyle of the super-rich to pursue his wife’s kidnapper and killer. It spoke of incredible devotion, and she was right to be cautious. Katarina Zucaro was going to be a hard act to follow.
“But like all rebellious young boys,” Alessandro’s father continued, “he spurned the family business and decided to play the piano instead. I was, of course, disappointed,” and smiling, he turned to face Alessandro, “and I hope you forgive me that. And I do thank you for humoring me by racing now and again.”
Alessandro placed an arm around his father’s shoulders, while his father continued. “I came to accept it and used to joke that when he inherited the business, he’d turn the car factories into piano factories.” There was a ripple of laughter, and Olivia remembered her Grand Prix–loving brother-in-law, Phil, once mentioning while watching a race on TV that the Italian driver was also a concert pianist. She’d said that it was a peculiar mix of talents, but she’d thought nothing of it at the time, not even bothering to look up at the screen where she would’ve seen Alessandro.
The laughter died, and Antonio concluded emotionally: “But I have to say, his playing has been one of the great joys of my life. I wish Katarina could be here tonight. But I trust she can hear anyway and sends her blessings.”
Olivia wondered how Alessandro would react to this mention of his wife and was surprised when he looked at her through the crowd and gave her one of his heart-stabbing smiles. Don’t get ahead of yourself, she reminded herself, knowing full well she might as well try to stop breathing.
Alessandro started by thanking everyone for coming and helping his father celebrate his birthday. “These have been difficult years, and I thank my father for convincing me to perform again. Here’s to friends and family, to old memories and making new ones. Tonight, I will be playing my father’s favorites.”
As he sat at the piano, a hush fell over the audience. Alessandro began with “Clair de lune” by Debussy. It was familiar to Olivia, but she’d never heard it played like this, a subtle blending of harmonies like colors on a canvas, an Impressionist painting in sound. His hands appeared to float over the keys rather than strike them.
Alessandro played for an hour. When it was over, he bowed and smiled and was rewarded with a standing ovation and calls of Bravo! Bravo!
He went back to the piano and waited for the applause to stop before addressing the audience. “Thank you all again. Please stay and have another drink. I understand there’s marvelous food. Let’s make this a birthday my father will never forget. And now for the encore. I’m going to play something new but already very special to me. So while the rest of the program is dedicated to my father, this one is for the girl with eyes like violet Murano glass.”
An almost electrified murmur went through the crowd. If curiosity and surprise had a sound, it would be this, Olivia thought. The woman next to her looked at her curiously, and Olivia’s hands went to her throat as if covering the beads would hide her identity.
But now he was playing again, and she forgot the curious looks and listened to the beautiful music that was being played just for her.