Chapter Twenty-One

A corsage. An exquisite orchid. The translucent color of a full moon, pale and silvery. That was what Davide Francolini pinned on Isabella. So what was the point of the somber dress if he transformed it into a velvet night sky with his gift of a sublime flower? She didn’t thank him for it but couldn’t bring herself to reject it.

“Tonight is a business arrangement,” she pointed out.

“Of course.”

He smiled at her, his honey-colored eyes amused by the boundaries she was laying down, but he passed no comment on her appearance and led her toward the ballroom of the hotel with a gentlemanly courtesy that she had to admit was appealing.

“You received my note?” she asked.

“I did indeed. There was no need for it.”

“Certainly there was. I wanted to thank you.”

She had not seen hide nor hair of him since Chairman Grassi’s office. She’d wanted to thank him for his help that day but it was almost as if he didn’t want to be seen talking with her, so she had not intruded and had left a note for him with Grassi’s secretary instead.

“Did the meeting turn out as you’d hoped?” he asked.

“Not exactly.”

She gave a small shrug as though it were unimportant. That was one of the perils of living under a Fascist regime; you never knew whom you could trust. But he had risked Grassi’s displeasure for her, and for that she was grateful. She would have liked to ask why, why he had stuck his neck out, but you didn’t ask such questions. In case the answers were too dangerous to know.

She caught his shrewd gaze watching her, so as they entered the ballroom she slid her arm through his and he laughed, pleasantly surprised. Davide Francolini looked good in an evening suit. He possessed the slim build and narrow hips that could wear it effortlessly and look graceful as he escorted her into the crowded room. She was nervous. If Mussolini did turn his greedy eyes her way, she didn’t want him to assume she was easy game.

“This isn’t my favorite kind of event, Signora Berotti,” Francolini commented, “but let’s do Dottore Architetto Martino proud. You never know, he might even grant us the weekend off, if we’re lucky.”

He had no idea that she’d been fired.

She wanted to shout at him. At Martino. At Mussolini. Shout that it was all wrong. Unfair. Unjust. Shout and tear off her corsage. But she didn’t let her smile slip even a millimeter and asked, “What would you do with a weekend off?”

He didn’t hesitate. “That’s easy. I’d head straight up into the mountains where the air is free of this wretched building dust. There are tall green trees and dense undergrowth where wild boar hide, instead of this stark landscape of barren earth.” Suddenly he turned his head to her and drew her closer. “You should come with me. I’ll show you places that—”

Isabella was smiling up at him, astonished by this intimate invitation, when a flashbulb exploded in their faces and she blinked, blinded for a moment. But even in that second of blindness her heart turned over because she knew exactly who would have pressed the trigger on the flash.

Roberto was standing there, unsmiling, wielding his camera. Isabella wanted to snatch her hand from where it lay on Davide Francolini’s arm, but he had wrapped his own around it and was holding it in place. She wanted to step forward to touch Roberto’s lips and tilt their corners into a smile. To laugh with him at the way his broad shoulders sat uneasily in his black dinner jacket, which was too stiff for a man who liked to move freely. She wanted to tell him she had searched for him. Banged on his green front door. But all she’d found was the woman in the red dress prowling his street.

Where were you, Roberto? Tell me.

“Good evening, Signor Falco.” She gave him a wide smile to show she was pleased to see him. “You’ve been busy today.”

“I’ll be busy tonight as well.”

He didn’t step out of their path the way a photographer should. “I hope you also had a busy day that was successful.”

“Thank you. I did.”

He nodded, his gaze intent on hers. “Enjoy your evening, signora.”

So polite. But there was something in his eyes, dark and angry, and she didn’t know if it was meant for her or for Grassi or for the evening’s event itself.

“I’d like a word with you later, if you have a moment,” she said pleasantly.

“Of course, Signora Berotti.”

Briefly his eyes skimmed over Francolini, but others were arriving behind them. Roberto stepped aside. Isabella walked past him, her shoulder almost touching him, but his attention was already on his camera and the next guests.

“Dance?”

“No, thank you, Davide. I don’t.” She gestured to her foot.

“Of course. I’m sorry.”

“No need to be sorry. It gives me an excuse to avoid the crush on the dance floor and”—she laughed to cover his moment of awkwardness—“to watch others making a fool of themselves up there.”

“Is that what you think the dancers do?”

“Make fools of themselves?”

“Yes.”

“Of course they do. Half of them are like elephants on the floor and the other half can’t keep their hands off each other.”

Davide Francolini regarded her with amusement. “No cynicism, then?”

Isabella laughed. “None at all.”

She sipped her glass of prosecco spumante. It was her third. If she had just one more she reckoned the pain would stop. They were seated at a round table for ten people, but the others were off on the dance floor. The ballroom was magnificent, Isabella had to admit that. It was a triumph of Modernist design and a bottomless purse. The walls were clad in handsome white marble from Calacatta with dramatic gray veining, inlaid with black obsidian in bold geometric stripes. At one end a mural had been painted in angular Cubist style depicting a group of Maremmana cattle being herded by men on horseback across the freshly drained grassland, and in the background of the scene Isabella’s own tower soared up toward the sky, pure virgin white. A symbol of the new gleaming Italy that Benito Mussolini was creating.

Over the rim of her glass Isabella stared at the dancers in their finery. Diamonds flashed in the brilliant lights of the chandeliers, and beaded gowns shimmered and rippled like sunlight on water. She used to love to dance. She and Luigi used to dance anywhere that there was music—in bars, on tabletops, at weddings, even once at a funeral. But not now. The idea appalled her. She was a donkey now and had to stick to what donkeys are good at—work. Leave the dancing to the high-stepping ponies. But it made the soles of her feet itch, just to watch.

She finished her drink and turned to face Davide instead. He was smoking a small cigar, his expression somber, as though his thoughts were far away. She couldn’t see Roberto in the crowd but knew he must be somewhere in the room because every now and again she saw a camera flash light up a table.

“Did you fix the crack in the apartment in Via Corelli?” she asked Davide suddenly.

“Yes, I did.”

“Were you able to discover why it occurred?”

“Poor plaster.”

“Oh.”

“It looks good as new now.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.” He patted her wrist. Nothing much, nothing for her to object to. A brief touch of skin. “Don’t worry.”

But she did worry. It could be poor plaster. Or bad brickwork or sandy cement underneath. Or worse. Far worse. Bad foundations. She had to trust him.

“I’ll keep an eye on it,” she commented.

“No need. It’s been repaired.”

She nodded. “Good.” There was a pause, its awkwardness hidden by the sound of the band striking up “Vieni sul Mar.” Isabella placed her glass down on the table and said self-consciously, “I was grateful for your help. If ever I can repay the favor, just ask.”

He smiled slowly, in no hurry, and stubbed out his cigar. “Thank you, Isabella. I will remember that.” There was a burst of laughter from the next table and he waited for it to subside before he pushed back a lock of his soft brown hair and said casually, “Maybe we could drive up into the mountains one Sunday.”

But before Isabella could reply, a man in elaborate uniform suddenly materialized at her elbow. A tightness crept up her throat.

“Signora Berotti, Il Duce requests the pleasure of your company at his table.”

“You will dance with me,” Mussolini announced as soon as Isabella sat down in the chair next to his.

He was looking resplendent in a glaringly white uniform adorned with sash and medals. Like a Roman caesar, she thought, uncompromising in the force of his personality, which again condemned the rest of his table companions to the shade. Chairman Grassi was there, she noticed, and, to her horror, Colonnello Sepe was seated immediately on her right, but it was the three women who stared hard at her, their eyes cold and bright behind their smiles. She was an interloper. Usurping the attention from them during their one moment in the sun.

“I don’t dance, Duce,” she said quietly.

If she made no sound, no amusing chatter, he would grow bored and discard her in favor of one of the glamorous females panting to sink their painted nails in his back.

“Why not?” he demanded. “Every Italian should dance.”

“Because I am lame.” His black eyes widened dramatically. “I was wounded and I limp,” she elaborated. Very nearly added And I have leprosy, but decided even he wouldn’t swallow that one.

“Ah, yes.” He leaned close to her, eyes scouring hers, his breath sickly with the stink of brandy. “You were Luigi Berotti’s wife.”

“The day my husband was shot in Milan I was shot too. I don’t know who the murderer was. Neither do the police, it seems.”

He slid an arm along the back of her chair, coiling it around her shoulders, and let his scowl slide past her to Colonnello Sepe.

“Is that true, Sepe?”

“I know none of the details, Duce. It was the Milan police who dealt with the case.”

A roar of displeasure bellowed in Isabella’s ear. “Luigi Berotti was one of my loyal Fascisti and deserves better than this.” His eyes flicked hungrily over Isabella, and she looked away in time to see the other women at the table lick their lips. “His wife deserves better than this.”

“Yes, Duce.”

“Then we must give her better.” As quickly as it came the dark pall of anger vanished, and just as a tenor launched himself into the anguished “Dicitencello Vuie” song on stage, Mussolini’s voice softened to a purr. “You see, little one, I, Benito Mussolini, care about each and every one of my faithful followers.”

Isabella’s breathing grew shallow. “Duce, my husband fought hard for the Fascist cause, and the imprint he made on my own life is still there. He was a warrior. If you can discover who cut off his young life, please tell me.” Seconds slid by in a noisy silence between them. “Please,” she said again.

Mussolini leaned his bulky frame back in his chair, the glare of the chandeliers rebounding off his gleaming scalp like darts of lightning as he quietly contemplated her for a full minute. She didn’t like the shrewdness of his narrowed eyes or his awareness of her need. This man was good at wrapping his fist around a person’s naked soul.

“My dear Isabella,” he said without lowering his voice a jot, “I can remove that beautiful orchid of yours if you think it will make you less noticeable. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

Sepe at her shoulder uttered a snort of scorn but she didn’t look around, didn’t risk dropping her eyes from Il Duce’s.

“That’s why you’re wearing those hideous clothes, I assume,” he continued. “Isn’t it?”

“Yes, Duce, it is. I want people to respect the memory of my husband.”

He released a bark of laughter and her entire body jumped when he rested his hand on hers. For ten seconds she stared at it, then took her hand away. She realized she didn’t know what to say to him or how to act, if she was to drag out of him what she wanted to hear. He reached forward and unpinned the orchid, his fingers fumbling with the material of her dress, his wrists brushed against her breast. She knew this man believed he was beyond all rules.

He tossed the bruised bloom onto the table and listened for a nostalgic moment with his head on one side to the final verse of “Dicitencello Vuie”:

I want you so much, I want you so very much,

This bond between us will never break!

“Now”—he touched a finger to her hot cheek—“signora, let us go somewhere quiet and private to discuss the killer you seek.”