“Well—my friend, Rafael de Tomaso, was talking about there being a suite of rooms at a boarding house not far from Zianetti’s. He was kind of wishing he knew somebody he could trust to split it with him. I think he was hinting at me. He’s Father Bellini’s protégé, in art.”
Petro nodded again. “A good choice. I think we can arrange that. What else?”
This was daring, but— “Caesare Aldanto isn’t where Milady got her drugs. There isn’t much he hasn’t done, but that’s not one of them.” He coughed a little, shamed, but offered the confession to balance the secrets he’d stumbled on. “A while back, I think I found out where the introit of lotos shipments was. This was about two months ago. This . . . problem with your mother has been going on for some time longer than that hasn’t it? And Caesare Aldanto didn’t know about the lotos sales then. So . . . I can’t prove it, not yet, but—it wasn’t him.”
“So?” Petro’s voice was neutral.
“Before I say anything to Milady Angelina, I want to be able to prove to her that it wasn’t Caesare. I want everything clean between us.”
Dell’este honor.
He sighed. “I want her making her choices without any lies. I messed her up with lies before; I don’t want to do it again. If she knows the truth—she might make different choices. And that’s her right.”
Petro folded his arms across his chest; the sky behind him deepened to blue and the first stars sprinkled across it. “I can respect that,” he said, a certain warmth coming into his voice. “I can respect that and I can understand that. Of course as the head of family, I can tell you that Aldanto will never be acceptable to Dorma. And you know that I serve as one of the Signori di Notte. Since Lord Calenti’s death we know the damned lotos trade has started up again. Even if it was not my mother, I’d want to know. Because it is . . . I want to know badly. Very well—you seek your proofs and I’ll see about getting you moved out of Dorma so that you can have your time to think. But please. The wedding has to be soon.”
“Thank you, milord,” Marco replied quietly and turned to go.
“Marco—”
He stopped and turned back.
He could just see Petro’s smile in the blue dusk.
“You are part of our secrets. Therefore, you are part of us. Whatever decision you make regarding a marriage to my sister—welcome to Casa Dorma, Marco.”
* * *
Marco was in a daze after he left Casa Dorma. Now that he was no longer in the presence of Petro Dorma, the Head of the House, matters of family responsibility and honor seemed less overwhelming. His personal hopes and desires loomed far larger.
I have to talk to someone!
But who? He considered Benito, but ruled him out almost immediately. His younger brother’s advice on this matter would be useless, or even worse.
Rafael, perhaps. Marco needed to speak to him anyway, on the subject of the lodgings.
But, as he made his way through the narrow streets, dark now that evening had fallen, Rafael’s advice on the matter seemed less and less attractive. Marco couldn’t help but remember that the last time he’d taken Rafael’s advice on a matter of the heart, the results had been . . . mixed, to say the least. For all of Rafael’s self-confidence and ease, the truth was that he was still too young himself to really understand what would be the right course.
Thoughts of Rafael, however, triggered thoughts of Chiano. Or Dottore Luciano Marina, as he was now. Chiano will have good advice.
Marco didn’t know where Chiano lived. But he was sure that Rafael did. The student would be reluctant to tell him, since Marco was not another Strega. But that he would, Marco had no doubt. He would just have to be persuasive.
At the moment, Marco was certain he could persuade a stone to talk. Compared to everything else, persuasion seemed the easiest task in the world.