He charged down the cobbles to Aldanto’s, wiping hot, angry eyes with his fists. He only slowed when he got to their house, because he had to talk to the gate-guard, and he wouldn’t be crying in front of anyone, not if he died for it. So he composed himself—holding his sorrow and his rage under tightest of masks; opened the door with his key—
Started to. The door opened at the first rattle of key in lock, and he found himself looking at Aldanto himself.
He just stared, frozen.
“You’re late,” Aldanto had said, grabbing his arm and hauling him inside. “You should have been back—”
“Let me go!” Benito snarled, voice crackling again, pulling his arm away so fast his shirt sleeve nearly tore.
Aldanto gave him a startled look, then a measured one. He let go of Benito’s arm and turned back to the door, careful to throw all the locks—and only then turned back to Benito.
“What happened?” he asked quietly, neutrally.
He’d told himself, over and over, that he was not going to tell Aldanto what had happened.
But Caesare was a skillful interrogator; Benito couldn’t resist the steady barrage of quiet questions, not when Aldanto was between him and the door. Syllable by tortured syllable, the handsome blond dragged the night’s escapade out of him, as Benito stared at the floor, smoldering sullenly, determined not to break down a second time. He got to know every crack and cranny of the entryway floor before it was over.
Silence. Then, “I’m sorry,” Aldanto said quietly. “I’m sorry about your friend.”
Benito looked up. Aldanto’s face was unreadable, but his eyes were murky with thought, memory, something. He looked past Benito for a moment.
“But you know very well,” he said, noncommittally, “that was a damned fool stunt.”
Benito snarled and made a dash for the stairs. Aldanto made no move to stop him. He tore up the stairs, stubbing his toes twice, getting up and resuming his run—got to Caesare’s bedroom and through it, not caring if Maria was in the bed—to the roof-trap and out, slamming it behind him—
And out onto the roof, into the dark, the night, the sheltering night, where he huddled beside the chimney and cried and cried and cried. . . .
* * *
Dawn brought the return of sense, the return of thought.
Valentina was right, he thought bleakly. She told me and told me. Must have been a million times. She told me Mercutio was a fool. She told me he wouldn’t see twenty. She was right. Him and his ideas—”gonna be rich and famous.” So what’s he come to? Blown away ’cause some ol’ fool thinks he’s Jewel. And ain’t nobody going to remember him but me.
He crouched on his haunches, both arms wrapped around his knees, rocking back and forth and shivering a little. Ain’t nobody going to remember him but me. Could have been me. Could have been. Been coasting on my luck, just like Mercutio. Only one day the luck runs out . . .
He stared off across the roofs, to the steeples and turrets of the Accademia. Marco maybe got it right.
He sniffed, and rubbed his cold, tender nose on his sleeve. What have I done? What the hell good am I doing for him, or even for Caesare? The Dell’este has gone and made an heir to the house. And Marco . . . poor fish, doesn’t even begin to know how to be sneaky. Just honest—and honest could wind up with him just as dead as Mama. There’s gotta be somethin’ I can do. There’s got to be . . .
His thoughts went around and around like that for some time until he heard voices below, and saw Maria shutting the door beneath his perch, saw her hop into her gondola and row it away into a shiny patch of sun and past, into the shadows on the canal.
He knew Aldanto would be up.
He unwound himself and crept on hands and knees to the trapdoor; lifted it, and let himself down into the apartment.
“I wondered if you’d gone,” said a voice behind him as he dropped.