Chapter 48
Benito was in as cheerful a mood as he’d ever been in his life. Maria was so pleased with the way he’d been handling himself that she had decided to take him further into her confidence.
Well . . . she’d been damned desperate. But it was a start. Lately, being liked and noticed by Maria had mysteriously become important to him.
She’d flagged him down with the little signal they’d worked out that meant she needed to talk to him somewhere where they weren’t likely to be observed. He finished his current run in double-time; then, when there didn’t seem to be anybody about, ducked under the second bridge at the Rio de San Martino. He eased his way along the ledge at water level.
And there was Maria, holding her gondola steady against the pull of the canal current.
“Ker-whick-a,” Benito chirped, seeing the flash of her eyes as she looked in his direction. He skipped over to the side of the boat, keeping his balance on the ledge with careless ease. “What’s it you need, Maria?”
“I got a problem,” she said in a low, strained voice. “Giaccomo sent me to pick up a payment for him—only after I’d got it, something spooked the Schiopettieri. They’re all over the damned water and they’re stopping gondolas—”
“And if they find you with a bag of coin—” Benito didn’t have to finish the sentence. “Huh. Caesare’d have a helluva time prying you away from the Doge’s torturers. Pass it over, Maria. I got to go by Giaccomo’s anyhow. They won’t stop a runner in House livery, and even if they do, they won’t touch Ventuccio money.”
“If there’s one lira missin’—”
Benito pouted, hurt. “C’mon, Maria, Ventuccio trusts me with cash!”
“I ain’t as stupid as Ventuccio,” Maria replied, but with no real force. “Here.”
She pulled a flat packet out of her skirts, a packet that chinked and was surprisingly heavy. Benito raised a surprised eyebrow. Silver at the least—maybe gold. Something had gone amiss if Giaccomo had sent Maria out to make a pickup of this much coin in broad daylight.
He slipped the package inside his own shirt. “Keep heading up the canal,” he suggested. “If it’s you they’re looking for, an’ lookin’ for you to head for Giaccomo’s, that ought to throw ’em off the scent.”
She snorted, and pushed off from the bank. “Tell me m’own job, landsman,” she replied scornfully. “Just you tend to what I give you.”
“Si, milady,” Benito executed a mocking little bow, then danced back along the ledge to the first water-stair up to a walkway.
Behind him he heard Maria swear half-heartedly at him, and grinned.
* * *
Julio Destre had been trailing that canaler Maria for hours—just as the Dandelos had paid him to do. Then he saw her duck under the bridge—and a moment later, saw that bridge-brat Benito do the same.
He snickered to himself. Keeping tabs on the brat after he dropped out of the bridge-gangs and into “respectability” had been well worth his while, after all.
“Jewel” Destre had graduated from bridge-brat to street bravo in the two years since he and Benito had last tangled. He sported a cheap rapier (that he used like a club) and silk scarves and a constant sneer. There were dozens like Jewel on the walkways of Venice, and “work” enough to keep all of them in grappa and scarves, if you weren’t too particular about who you worked for. Jewel certainly wasn’t. The Casa Dandelo might derive its money from slave-trading but their ducats spent like anyone else’s.
No one had ever beaten Jewel at anything—no one but bridge-brat Benito, that is. Benito had gotten to Jewel’s girl, gotten her off the walkways and out of the gang, into the purview of his mentor Claudia.
Which wasn’t what the brat had intended, but before you could say “surprise” Lola had gotten installed in an acting-group and acquired a very wealthy patron. And had no further need or desire for Jewel and his gang.
It still rankled. Jewel had never forgiven Benito for the way the little bastard had humiliated him. So this looked like a chance to pay Benito back and turn a little profit by way of a couple of Dandelo bonuses.