A moment of truth dawned on Frank. That moment of truth, he dimly understood, that eventually comes to young males who aren’t hopelessly self-absorbed—which, of course, excluded most of the beastly critters—that girls have minds of their own. And that they, too, have treacherous inner voices that they’d often like to send to the chopping block. They, too, plan and plot and scheme and—most of all—wonder what they look like to the young man they’re fascinated with.
Hot damn! The little voice was back online, and finally saying something he wanted to hear. She’s actually interested in me! REALLY interested! No fooling!
He gave himself a little mental shake. The plain truth of it was that he was now almost certain that she was The One. The last thing he could afford was to lapse into teenage folly. Be cool, Frank. Maintain!
But she was talking again—and, Frank guessed, had made her own decision that The Right Thing To Do Now Was Stay Cool. “As to the diplomacy, Frank, I think you are fretting unnecessarily. Who cares what the stinking Case Vecchie think? My father will have his own opinion.”
Oh, swell. Antonio Marcoli’s reaction, when he heard about the evening, was exactly what Frank was worried about.
That he would hear about it from Giovanna, Frank didn’t doubt for a moment. What separated Giovanna’s father from a comic opera figure was that the man was genuinely charismatic. Even Frank had felt the pull of Antonio Marcoli’s magnetically intense personality. And that charisma was something he exuded as a father, not simply as the leader of a political group. Giovanna and her brothers—the cousins, too—were closely attached to him and obviously trusted him and confided in him. It simply wouldn’t occur to Giovanna not to tell her father.
Frank cringed, right there on the gondola seat. Another vivid image had just flashed through his mind. If earlier fantasies about Giovanna had caused certain organs to swell, this image caused them to shrivel right up. The Marcolis, lined up in order of seniority, each with a knife in his hand, waiting their turn to carve a large and painful piece out of Frank’s hide. Or—
The organs in question raced for cover, gibbering with terror. Frank almost clutched himself. Fortunately, a further image brought surcease from pain: Antonio Marcoli, passing out pistols to his clan, so that the lot of them could riddle Frank’s poor mutilated body with bullet holes for good measure . . .
To his astonishment, Giovanna burst into laughter. He gaped at her.
“Oh, Frank! The expression on your face—it’s priceless!” She covered her mouth with a hand, trying to stifle the laughter.
“I don’t see what’s so funny,” he growled.
“Why do you think—” She had to break off, overcome by giggles. By the time she recovered, Frank saw that the gondola was about to moor.
I’m dead. The organs in question seemed to have vanished entirely, now. Not that it mattered, of course, since Frank Stone would never have any use for them. Not in the short span of life left to him.
As the gondola drew up, Giovanna came lithely to her feet and extended a hand. “Come. My father will react differently than I think you expect.”
Seeing no option—what the hell, at least he’d go down holding her hand—Frank started to follow her. Over her shoulder, Giovanna smiled and said: “But do not forget to pay the gondolier. That is something to really worry about.”
With a start, Frank realized that he had completely forgotten that small matter. Hastily, he handed over some coins without even trying to figure out if they came to the right amount. From the look on the gondolier’s face, though, he’d overpaid him considerably.
Frank didn’t stop to get change. He had other things on his mind; and, besides, at least the gondolier would mourn his passage.
* * *
Once he stepped ashore, though, he felt himself relax a little. The gondolier had let them off at a pier rather than enter the narrow canals of the island. Murano was a small island just to the north of Venice’s main islands, where Venice’s glassblowing industry had been concentrated since the thirteenth century. But since Murano had a somewhat unsavory reputation, most gondoliers refused to enter it directly.