Dorma’s eyes narrowed. “I read caution in what you say. I’ll employ him with caution. You’re very honest, Marco.”
“Good,” said Lodovico Montescue, his snowy brows drawing together. “Because I need to ask some honest questions which need honest answers.”
Dorma sighed. “I’ll leave you to ask them, Signor Montescue. Just remember, my arm is very long.” This was said completely pleasantly and urbanely. Yet the feeling of power and potential threat went with it. “But now my duty to the Republic calls. I shall see you boys at the Casa Dorma tonight.”
Lodovico Montescue watched him go. “Francesca said he was the rising man and I should throw him my support. I can believe her now.” He turned to face the youngsters. “But I’ll throw him my support soon enough. For the moment—Marco Valdosta, answer me honestly. What are your intentions as regards my granddaughter?”
Looking at him, Marco knew that if he said the wrong thing, no threat of Dorma or even the Doge would stop this fierce old man. “None. I’m married. I have a baby daughter. But . . .” He paused. “If that were not the case—and Kat would have me—I’d have married her, even if you or hell stood in my way. I was a fool not to have asked her the moment I saw her.”
Kat leaned over him. “And if you lay just one finger on him, I’ll . . . I’ll . . .”
Montescue patted her arm. Smiled his crooked smile. “He’s very like his grandfather Luciano. One of the good Valdostas. Gentle and soft, but good steel underneath. I tried to have you killed once, boy. My best chance came nearly two years ago now. My agents searched Ferrara, Milan, even Rome. Then I got word one had found you here in Venice. He never came back for the bounty.”
“I killed the assassin,” said Marco quietly. “It was an accident and I was lucky.”
Lodovico snorted. “Luck? I doubt that. Any more than it was luck that enabled you to evade my spies thereafter.” He coughed. “Who were, I admit, not the most competent at their trade.”
His granddaughter was glaring so fiercely at him that the family resemblance, not usually that noticeable, was now obvious. Old Montescue winced.
“I gave it up entirely anyway, Kat, a few months ago. Stopped even looking for the lads. After Francesca—” He coughed again. “Well. I had a dream, also. About my boyhood friend Luciano. I woke up thinking I had ordered the death of a boy like Luciano. It was chilling.”
He made a bit of a rally, presenting a stiff face to Marco. “So I called off my dogs, boy. But I still think your father had my children killed. I won’t bring his sins on your head. My vendetta is over, and I have given my word. But there can be no friendship between you and Katerina, with this between us. Not even an honorable one. You have your life, and your wife. Go and live that life with your wife.”
“And I respect your decision,” responded Marco, just as stiffly. “But I must know one thing. Did you have my mother killed?”
The white-haired head of the Casa Montescue shook his head. “No. Her defenses were too good. I wasn’t really hunting her, anyway. I wanted the Valdosta sons . . . you, in particular. Word of a Montescue. I didn’t have anything to do with her death. She was involved with Montagnards, you know. The only ones who could have easily penetrated her defenses are her own people.”
Marco nodded. “That’s what Chiano and my brother both said. I chose not to believe them for years.”
The old man struggled to his feet. Both Marco and Benito stepped forward to help. He waved Marco off. “I’ll take this other Dorma lad’s arm, Valdosta. I’m not ready to take yours.”
Marco nodded. “I’ll meet you at the foot of the winged Lion of Saint Mark, Benito. Good-bye, Kat.”
* * *
Kat found herself unable to speak. Her eyes burned, but she managed a tremulous wave. They set off, leaving Marco behind in the rapidly emptying piazza. Benito provided support for the old man, who leaned on his shoulder. “Sorry, boy. That was too much for me. I ran . . . I’m too old.” He sighed.