He wasn’t going to leave a letter for Benito. Best not to.
Although it caused him a physical pain as sharp as Gianni’s knife to do so, he left Angelina’s letter folded up inside Caesare’s under the wine carafe, so Caesare would be able to see for himself how Angelina had woven a fantasy around him.
* * *
His throat and stomach were hurting again, but he forced the bread and cheese down. He wouldn’t be getting any more of that in the swamp. There was no way of keeping anything for more than a day or two in the marshes anyway. If it didn’t go moldy it drew vermin. From now on anything he ate—not that food was real attractive at the moment—he’d have to catch or find it when he wanted to eat.
He’d oiled the hinges of the door last night; now he eased down the hallway, and slid back all of the locks and bolts as carefully as he could. He froze half a dozen times, agonizing over the slightest sound, and finally inched through the door, opened just enough so that he could slip through. The sharp-edged cold hit him hard, waking him completely. He closed the door and relocked it. He couldn’t do the bolts of course, but at least the door was locked. He posted the key gently back under it. Then he went softly down the water-stairs and sneaked past old Minna’s and Tonio’s and Maria’s empty gondolas all tied up at the bottom. The gondolas stayed silent, their occupants tucked up in all the blankets they owned. Except for Maria, who was tucked up with Caesare—
He stomach lurched. Oh, Angelina!
Now came the hardest part of all—
* * *
He knew Angelina would never be up this early; the Case Vecchie kept hours like Caesare’s. He trotted down the wet walkways, watching carefully for slippery pools, as the sun began turning the edge of the sky a bloody red. No fog this morning, but it was as cold as Brunelli’s heart, and there might be more rain or even sleet before the day was over. The wind was cutting, cold and bitter. There were a few hearty souls about, even this early: boatmen, folk on their way to work or coming home from it. The cold kept the stink down; the sharp breeze smelled mostly of smoke and wet wool.
Once he thought he saw Claudia’s raven head with her bold red scarf tied about her hair to confine it—so he quickly chose another way. Claudia could be damnably persuasive when she wanted to be. And he didn’t want to be talked out of the only honorable course he had left.
Dorma’s doorkeeper wasn’t even awake—thank the Lord. Marco managed to slip his sealed letter to Angelina into the hollow block she had shown him to leave her private billets-doux in. Billets-doux she thought had come from the fascinating, dangerous Caesare. This was no love letter. It was, however, five pages long—and ended with a poem so that she’d believe it really was him who had written the others.
Now she’d hate him forever. It couldn’t be helped. It wasn’t in agreement with Valdosta honor that he leave Caesare entangled in a lie, nor that he let Angelina continue to believe that same lie.
So why didn’t he feel better?
Now to Cannaregio, for his pack, then Giaccomo’s.
Lying staring into the dark, he’d made some hard decisions last night. Given all the trouble he’d caused him, the best thing he could do for Caesare Aldanto was to cut his ties with the man. All of his ties, including the job with the Ventuccios, so not even they could hold that over his head.
He sniffed in the cold, his eyes burning and watering—surely from the early-morning woodsmoke—and rubbed his eyes and nose across his sleeve.
Woodsmoke. Sure. Be honest with yourself, Marco Valdosta, even if you’ve lied to everyone else.
This was hurting more than he’d ever thought it would. For a little while he’d had a family. A weird family, but a family all the same. It hurt to cut loose.
And he had to cut loose; and do it before he managed to do something that couldn’t be repaired.