Swift intake of breath. “God—no! Not after all this time! How’d you get away?”
“I just—outran him.” Don’t let him know what really happened. He’ll think he has to share the danger. Marco had been careful never to let his brother even guess that he’d had to kill—and more than once.
“All right.” The voice in the dark took on a new firmness. “That’s it. You’re not gonna run any more, big brother. Running don’t cut it. You need a protector, somebody with weight.”
“Get serious!” Marco answered bitterly. “Where am I going to find somebody willing to stand up for me?”
Benito chuckled. “Been thinking about that. New man in town—got contacts, got weight—everywhere, seems like. Been watching him.”
“Big fat deal—what reason is he going to have to help me?”
“Name’s Aldanto. Caesare Aldanto. Familiar?”
Marco sucked in his breath. “Lord and Saints . . .”
“Thought I ‘membered,” Benito replied with satisfaction.
Marco did indeed remember that name—it went all the way back to their being exiled to Venice, an exile that Grandfather Dell’este thought would take them out of the reach of Mama’s pro-Milanese friends and of her lover. Caesare Aldanto had been one of the Milanese agents in Ferrara—a friend of Mama’s lover Carlo Sforza. Carlo was (presumably) Benito’s father—that was probably why the name ‘Aldanto’ had stuck so fortuitously in Benito’s memory.
“You can never forget anything, brother. What’s the Aldanto you saw look like?”
Marco closed his eyes and rocked back and forth a little, letting his mind drift back—Lord and Saints, he’d been a seven, maybe, eight-year-old boy—
“Blond. Pretty guy. Moved like a cat, or a dancer. Blue eyes—tall, dressed really well.”
“Dunno about the eyes, but the rest is him. It’s the same man. Appears to me he’d have reason to help us. Appears to me you’d want to get Mama’s message to him, no?”
“Lord—” Marco said, not quite believing this turn of events. “It’s—”
“Like that story you used to tell me? Yeah, well, maybe. I’m more interested in seeing you safe, and I think this Caesare Aldanto can do that. Right then, we’ll go find him. Now. Tonight.”
Marco started to scramble up, but Benito forestalled him. “No way you’re going to pass in the town, brother. Not dressed like that.”
“Oh. Yes.”
“You wait here—I won’t be long.”
* * *
Benito thought he’d managed that rather cleverly; he thought he’d remembered Caesare Aldanto’s name when he’d first heard it, and he had just been biding his time, waiting for the opportunity to get Marco to take the bait he was going to offer. The marshes were no place for Marco—sooner or later someone or something would get him. Venice was safer, by far. Besides, since he’d been thrown out from Theodoro’s family, Benito had been getting lonelier and lonelier. He had friends—Lola, for instance. Well, she was sort of a friend. Mercutio, he was fun, and he looked out for Benito. But it wasn’t the same as having Marco around. He wanted his big brother back!
Well, now—first things first; a set of clothing that wouldn’t stand out in the Solstice crowds. Benito took to the rooftops and thought while he climbed. Nearest secondhand clothing store was close to the Palazzo Mastelli. That was the area he was hanging out in at present—no go. Off limits. He could hear Valentina now, cracking him over the ear for even thinking about it. “Never soil your own nest, boy. Rule one.”
The air up here was fresher, the breeze carrying away a lot of the stink. Benito slipped around chimneypots and skylights as easily as if he’d been on a level walkway. So: the next closest was over toward the Ca’ d’Oro. Old man Mirko was a stingy bastardo, too cheap to put good shutters in his windows. And the Dalmatian wouldn’t miss the loss. Mirko’s place it was.
He crossed the bridges on the support beams below, keeping a sharp eye out for watchers, finally getting himself up on the supports of the high-level bridge that crossed the Rio Malpaga. Mirko had a second-story window just below and to one side of it. Benito unwound the light rope and grapnel from his waist, spied a sturdy cornice, and made his cast.