That assumption was fueling the seething anger which was steadily building among the canalers and the Arsenalotti. Most of Venice’s working poor had no love for the Dandelos at the best of times. Now that the Dandelos had crossed the line by messing with a well-known citizen of the Republic . . . a poor one, true, but a canaler, not a vagrant . . .
There was going to be an explosion soon, Benito thought. And a lot bigger one than the initial rash of attacks on Dandelo retainers who had been unlucky enough to be caught in the open when the news of Maria’s escape—and the identity of her captors—had raced through the city. Four Dandelo hangers-on, one of them a distant relation of the family, had been stabbed or beaten to death in two separate incidents within hours. After that, all the Dandelos and their retainers had hastily retreated to their fortresslike building to wait out the storm.
The canalers and Arsenalotti were now waiting to see what measures, if any, the authorities would take against the Dandelos for their flagrant transgression of the unspoken “rules.” So far, however, all the signs were that the Signori di Notte intended to remain carefully blind to what the Dandelos had been up to. In which case . . . all hell was going to break loose, soon enough.
Maria herself, it seemed, had already waited long enough. She intended to start her own vendetta—now!—and she’d come to Benito first. He felt a strange, great thrill at that fact.
“Si!” Benito replied. He owed them too. Maria gave him hell sometimes, but he was fond of her. Kind of like a sister, except sometimes she made him think unsisterly things. Ever since he’d seen her in those Case Vecchie clothes . . . he’d realized she was beautiful. Not that she was interested in anyone but Caesare, of course. “Si, Maria, you got me. You say, how and when.”
The hunched shoulders relaxed a bit; she favored him with a ghost of a smile. “Knew you wasn’t all bad,” she said, grabbing the railing and pulling herself to her feet.
* * *
Benito wasn’t all fool, either; he knew where his primary loyalty lay—with the man he’d privately chosen as his model and mentor, Caesare Aldanto. When Benito had arrived at Caesare’s Castello apartment—which they all called “home” now—that afternoon, he’d first checked to make sure that Marco and Maria weren’t home. Caesare was sitting reading. Benito felt no qualms about disturbing him with a terse report of Maria’s attempt to recruit him.
The warm, comfortable sitting room seemed to turn cold as Aldanto’s expression chilled. Aldanto’s hands tightened a little on the sheaf of papers he was holding; his blue eyes went cloudy. Benito knew him now, too—knew by those slight signs that Aldanto was not happy with this little piece of news.
Benito clasped his hands in front of him and tried to look older than his fifteen years—older, and capable; capable enough to run with Maria. Maybe even to ride herd a little on Maria.
“Caesare—” he offered, then before Aldanto could speak to forbid him to help, “you know I’m not bad at roof-walking. You’ve seen me; you’ve set me jobs yourself. You know if I tell her ‘no’ she’s just going to go it alone. Let me help, huh? Happens I can keep her out of real bad trouble. Happens if she’s got me along, she maybe won’t go looking for bad trouble so damn hard, figuring she’s got to keep me out of it.”
A good hit, that last; Maria was likely to feel at least a little bit responsible for Benito, if only because she was maybe two years older than him. That was the line Valentina had taken when he was along on one of her jobs, and she was one of the least responsible people Benito knew. Aldanto tilted his head to the side and looked thoughtful when Benito had finished, then put the papers down on the couch to one side of him, crossing his arms over his chest and tapping his lips with one long, aristocratic finger. “How about if I tell you to keep her out of trouble?” he asked finally.