The Villa

artist was the grape.
    He stepped outside into the brisk winter air. He had two hours before sunset, and vines to tend.
     
    Donato Giambelli had a headache of outrageous proportions. Her name was Gina, and she was his wife. When the summons from La Signora had come, he had been happily engaged in eye-crossing sex with his current mistress, a multitalented aspiring actress with thighs strong enough to crack walnuts. Unlike his wife, all the mistress required was the occasional bauble and a sweaty romp three times a week. She did not require conversation.
    There were times he thought Gina required nothing else.
    She babbled at him. Babbled at each of their three children. Babbled at his mother until the air in the company jet vibrated with the endless stream of words.
    Between her, the baby's screaming, little Cezare's banging and Tereza Maria's bouncing, Don gave serious thought to opening the hatch and shoving his entire family off the plane and into oblivion.
    Only his mother was quiet, and only because she'd taken a sleeping pill, an air-sickness pill, an allergy pill and God knew what else, washed them all down with two glasses of Merlot before putting her eye mask in place and passing out.
    She'd spent most of her life, at least the portion he knew of it, medicated and oblivious. At the moment, he considered that superior wisdom.
    He could only sit, his temples throbbing, and damn his aunt Tereza to hell and beyond for insisting his entire family make the trip.
    He was executive vice president of Giambelli, Venice, was he not? Any business that needed to be conducted required him, not his family.
    Why had God plagued him with such a family?
    Not that he didn't love them. Of course he loved them. But the baby was as fat as a turkey, and there was Gina pulling out a breast for its greedy mouth.
    Once, that breast had been a work of art, he thought. Gold and firm and tasting of peaches. Now it was stretched like an overfilled balloon, and, had he been inclined to taste, flavored with baby drool.
    And the woman was already making noises about yet another one.
    The woman he'd married had been ripe, lush, sexually charged and empty of head. She had been perfection. In five short years she had become fat, sloppy and her head was full of babies.
    Was it any wonder he sought his comfort elsewhere?
    "Donny, I think Zia Tereza will give you a big promotion, and we'll all move into the castello." She lusted for the great house of Giambelli—all those lovely rooms, all the servants. Her children would be raised in luxury, with privilege.
    Fine clothes, the best schools and, one day, the Giambelli fortune at their feet.
    She was the only one giving La Signora babies, wasn't she? That would count for quite a bit.
    "Cezare," she said to her son as he tore the head off his sister's doll. "Stop that! Now you made your sister cry. Here now, here, give me the doll. Mama will fix."
    Little Cezare, eyes glinting, tossed the head gleefully over his shoulder and began to taunt his sister.
    "English, Cezare!" She shook a finger at him. "We're going to America. You'll speak English to your zia Tereza and show her what a smart boy you are. Come, come."
    Tereza Maria, screaming over the death of her doll, retrieved the severed head and raced up and down the cabin in a flurry of grief and rage.
    "Cezare! Do as Mama says."
    In response, the boy flung himself to the floor, arms and legs hammering.
    Don lurched up, stumbled away and locked himself in the sanctuary of his in-flight office.
     
    Anthony Avano enjoyed the finer things. He'd chosen his two-story penthouse in San Francisco's Back Bay with care and deliberation, then had hired the top decorator in the city to outfit it for him. Status and style were high priorities. Having them without having to make any real effort was another.
    He failed to see how a man could be comfortable without those basic elements.
    His rooms reflected what he thought of as classic taste—from the silk moire walls, the Oriental carpets, to the gleaming oak furniture. He'd chosen, or his decorator had, rich fabrics in neutral tones with a few splashes of bold colors artfully arranged.
    The modern art, which meant absolutely nothing to him, was, he'd been told, a striking counterpoint to the quiet elegance.
    He relied heavily on the services of decorators, tailors, brokers, jewelers and dealers to guide him into surrounding himself with the best.
    Some of his detractors had been known to say Tony Avano was