The Fallen Angel

Donati’s armor.”
    “You won’t be disappointed.”
    “What’s she like?”
    “She would have been the perfect match for Donati if he’d chosen a different occupation.”
    “It’s more than an occupation. And I’m sure Donati had very little to do with choosing it.”
    “You believe it’s truly a calling?”
    “I’m the daughter of a rabbi. I know it’s a calling.” Chiara examined her appearance in the mirror for a moment before resuming work on her exquisite face. “For the record, I was right about Donati from the beginning. I told you he had a past. And I warned you that he was hiding something.”
    “He had no choice.”
    “Really?”
    “If he’d told me the truth, that he wanted me to go to war with a made Mafia man like Carlo Marchese, I would have finished the Caravaggio and left town as quickly as possible.”
    “It’s still an option.”
    Gabriel, with a glance into the mirror, made clear it wasn’t.
    “You have no idea what you’re getting into, darling. I grew up in this country. I know them better than you.”
    “I never realized the Jewish ghetto of Venice was such a hotbed of Mafia activity.”
    “They’re everywhere,” Chiara replied with a frown. “And they kill anyone who gets between them and their money—judges, politicians, policemen, any one. Carlo has already killed two people to protect his secret. And he won’t hesitate to kill you too if he thinks you’re a threat.”
    “I’m not a politician. And I’m not a policeman, either.”
    “What does that mean?”
    “It means they have to play by the rules. I don’t.” Gabriel removed the handkerchief from his pocket and smoothed the front of his suit jacket.
    “I liked it better before,” Chiara said.
    “I didn’t.”
    “They’re very fashionable these days.”
    “That’s why I don’t like it.”
    Chiara wordlessly returned the handkerchief to Gabriel’s pocket. “I never thought I’d meet a woman whose love life was more complicated than my own,” she said, inspecting her work. “First Veronica falls in love with a priest who’s lost his faith in God. Then, when the priest dumps her, she marries a Mafia chieftain who’s running a global crime syndicate.”
    “Donati didn’t dump her,” Gabriel replied. “And Veronica Marchese has no idea where her husband gets his money.”
    “Maybe,” Chiara said without conviction. “Or maybe she sees exactly what she wants to see and turns a blind eye to the rest. It’s easier that way, especially when there’s a great deal of money involved.”
    “Is that why you married me? For the money?”
    “No,” she said, “I married you because I adore your fatalistic sense of humor. You always make dreadful jokes when you’re upset about something and you’re trying to hide it.”
    “Why would I be upset?”
    “Because you came to Rome to restore one of your favorite paintings. And now you’re about to make an enemy of a man who could kill you with one phone call.”
    “I’m not so easy to kill.”
    Chiara gathered up her hair and turned her back toward Gabriel. He raised the zipper of her dress slowly and then pressed his lips against the nape of her neck. In the mirror he could see her eyes closing.
    “Why do you suppose he wants us at his dinner table tonight?” Chiara asked.
    “I can only imagine that he intends to send me a message.”
    “What are you going to do?”
    “I’m going to listen very carefully,” Gabriel said, kissing her neck one last time. “And then I’m going to send him one in return.”

16
     
    THE VIA VENETO, ROME
     
    T HE M ARCHESES LIVED WITHIN walking distance of the Piazza di Spagna, on a quiet street off the Via Veneto where the ceaseless march of time seemed to have stopped, however briefly, in an age of grace. This was the Rome that travelers dreamed of but rarely saw, the Rome of poets and painters and the fabulously rich. In Carlo’s private little corner of the Eternal City, la dolce vita endured, if only for the moment.
    His home was not a real home but a vast ocher-colored palazzo set amid an expanse of parkland. Surrounding it was an iron fence topped with many security cameras—so many, in fact, the property was often mistaken for an embassy or a government building. A large Baroque fountain splashed in the forecourt, and in the entrance hall loomed an armless statue of Pluto, lord of the underworld. Standing next to it was Veronica Marchese, dressed in a flowing gown of crushed green silk.