The Devil You Know (2 page)

and I halve mine. You need money?’

‘I need nothing. I am owed …’

Cosimo cut him off. ‘Let us end this now. You have no legal recourse, or you would already be in the courts.’

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This was true; they both knew it, and Giuseppe’s face clouded

with frustration. ‘I have a duty to you, of course,’ Cosimo went on,

‘one of love … tell me what you need, and I will provide you with

an allowance.’

Giuseppe hesitated, surprised. ‘You will?’

‘I will. Do you think I would let my brother and nephew want for

anything? Let us fix the Palazzo together. But I will draw up the

budget,’ he added hastily, ‘and I will take a look at your books, and

send you an allowance for your family.’

Giuseppe struggled now. He wanted that money so badly he

could taste it. But his pride was still there.

‘I cannot have some stranger look at the fortunes of the Parigi,’ he

said stiffly.

Cosimo sighed. ‘I will do it myself, brother. I am a Parigi too.’

Giuseppe weakened and fell. His brother was disarming him. He

had expected blackmail and shame to work; he had not expected this

kindness. For all his arrogant hauteur, Giuseppe Parigi was funda mentally lazy. He wanted an independent income, preferably one he

controlled … but he would take one somebody else controlled if

need be. Unexpectedly, a blissful future arose before him; he would

live as should an Italian nobleman, and he would not work, and “he

Palazzo would be heated, restored, warm like this place, with o

more rain leaking through the rotting roof beams

‘Cosimo.’ He moved forward and embraced his upstart brother. ‘You have a good heart, fratello. I accept …’

P,.oberto was already stumbling down the corridor towards the nursery, tears in his eyes. He brushed them away and gulped down air. His papa had done nothing, had let Uncle Cosimo run all over him. He hated his father, hated Uncle Cosimo …

He barrelled into the nursery and saw the nurse there looking for him.

‘Did you get lost? Were you looking for the bathroom?’ ‘No,’ P,.oberto muttered.

She was carrying a tray with a big ice-frosted glass full of black Coca-Cola, with ice cubes chinking enticingly. ‘Maybe you are ready for this now, little Conte?’

P,.oberto looked at the Coca-Cola. He could not resist. He took

it, but he burned with shame.

‘Thank you,’ he mumbled.

‘You miss Papa, no? But he is coming back soon,’ said the nurse.

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1

drank the Coca-Cola. It was delicious.

‘Leave me alone,’ he said.

She withdrew, thinking he was a little brat. loberto cared

nothing for her feelings. She was just a servant maid. He wondered

what he would say to his papa on the way home. Probably nothing.

Papa! He despised him …

Luigi never forgot the first time he saw Mozel.

She was running through the market square in Cortona when

Luigi saw her. It was difficult not to. She was clad in green, black and silver, and her full skirts trailed behind her like her black hair. She was also clutching a string of sausages, and she was hurtling towards him, screaming curses at her pursuers.

Luigi laughed and took them in: a fat butcher, waving his knife

and bellowing curses of his own, followed by his assistant, a child, equally tubby, crying for his father. Madonna, but she was a beauty. Her cheekbones were high and haughty, her hair curly and luxuriant, and she had an incredible figure that the loose gypsy clothing did not completely hide.

Well, of course, Luigi thought, I am a fine upstanding citizen of

the Republic and must do my duty. He side-stepped swiftly into the path of the oncoming female who crashed into him, spitting and squealing and trying to get away, but Luigi had her by the arms in his strong grip. He was seventeen, and brawny like his father.

‘Grazie,’ the butcher huffed. ‘Thank you, my friend. You have

caught the witch. Filthy gypsy witch!’ he yelled at her.

The wildcat in Luigi’s arms struggled and snarled in lomansh,

baring her teeth.

The butcher took a wary step back.

‘You hold her, my friend, and I will fetch the police. A night in

the cells should cool her off. Thievery,’ he said malevolently, ‘is a very serious matter. As for you, I will give you a discount on a nice side of lamb. Very good with salt and rosemary.’

Luigi said seriously, ‘Come now, you do not wish to have the

young woman arrested?’

The butcher’s face turned sour. ‘You do not see those sausages?

The magistrates have had enough of the gypsy filth, stealing everywhere, polluting the town … basra!’

‘These sausages? Fine-looking sausages,’ Luigi admitted. He took

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out his wallet and slowly extracted a hundred-thousand-lire note. ‘Does this cover them, do you think?’

The butcher made to snatch the money, greedily, but Luigi held it out of reach. ‘And it also covers the entire unfortunate incident, no?’

The man hesitated, hovering between covetousness and loathing. ‘Who are you, Signore?’

‘I am Count Luigi Parigi,’ Luigi said.

The butcher blinked in surprise. ‘&usi, Don Parigi,’ he said, taking the money and withdrawing, followed by his now bawling child.

Luigi looked at his prisoner. Up close she was even more sensational. As well as the cheeks and hair there were full red lips, a slender nose, and the most amazing, incredible pale-grey eyes, almost silver, like a wolf’s, shaded by long, dark lashes. Mesmerised, he let his grip slacken. She instantly wrenched herself free and strode away

from him, in a flounce of skirts and a .jangle of her coin necklace. ‘Wait,’ Luigi barked.

She spun around to face him. ‘You want something, ,gajo? A gypsy blessing? For saving me?’

He didn’t like her tone.

‘Maybe a kiss,’ Luigi said.

The woman rolled her eyes. ‘The oaje think we are all for sal. I am an honest woman.’

Luigi laughed. ‘The butcher does not think so, Signorina.’ ‘That fat fool,’ she said contemptuously. ‘Tell me your name,’ he said.

‘I know yours.’ The wolf-eyes narrowed. ‘Count Luigi Parigi. It rhymes.’

‘What were my parents thinking?’ he responded, and for the first time she smiled. Her whole face lit up, and Count Luigi, sole son and heir of Count Cosimo Parigi and one of the richest men in Tuscany, fell hopelessly, finally, and without any possibility of reprieve, in love with her.

‘My name is Mozel,’ she said.

‘That’s a strange name.’

‘Not to my people,’ she said confidently. ‘It means “blackcurrant”.’

‘You are very beautiful,’ Luigi said.

‘That’s true,’ Mozel agreed, tossing her hair and laughing.

‘Let me buy you lunch,’ he said.

Mozel agreed. Her father would not like it, of course, but her

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father was not here. And after all, she had gotten away with the sausages.

1Koberto never forgot the instant he laid eyes on Mozel.

It was the crowning moment of his humiliations. His father had died early, of a heart attack. I

He had vowed revenge. But he was cleverer than his father. 1Koberto was not going to bluster in and challenge his enemies until he was able to defeat them.

He had embraced his weeping uncle Cosimo at the funeral.

‘I’m so sorry, taro.’ Cosimo hugged him close. ‘Nothing can ever replace the loss of your papa.’

‘Nothing!’ 1

‘My boy,’ Cosimo had saic[, smiling through the tears, astonished, ‘that is wonderful. It will be wonderful to have you close.’

Close he had become. 1Koberto, the latest Prince of the Parigi, had set himself to learn anything and everything about the company. Not the business; he was not interested in that. Instead, 1Koberto noted who the smart managers and consultants were. That was the extent of success, hiring smart people. His interest was in seeing who was paid off, how the bribes worked, who was close to whom, who were the people Cosimo Parigi trusted. 1Koberto had a grave charm to him that rendered him a favourite in the boardroom. And he took special care to get close to his cousin Luigi.

1Koberto believed that risks should only be taken when necessary. His uncle had contracted hepatitis C after an operation for a skiing accident in an unsanitary mountain hospital, and his health was shaky. Luigi was a playboy, a daredevil who enjoyed not merely skiing, but tearing through the winding hills on his motorino, hanggliding like Sean Connery in James Bond - there was even one occasion when he jumped from an aeroplane with a parachute. Cosimo’s wife was unable to have any more children … well …

IO

loberto was the beloved nephew. There would be no need to rock the boat.

But then there was that day in May when everything changed, when P, oberto’s long-lusted-for inheritance was snatched from under his nose. Luigi came home with tales of a woman, not of a noble Italian family, not even a foreigner of good breeding.., but a gypsy.

The woman was barely a person. Gypsies were lower than the

lowest Italian peasant, they were witches and dirty thieves. Roberto had enjoyed a good laugh. ‘Luigi! That’s funny.’

His cousin’s eyes flashed with that headstrong spark. ‘I am not joking, Roberto.’

‘Not joking! But you must be. It would be a misalliance … your blood …’

‘My blood is hot,’ Luigi grinned, ‘that’s all that matters, don’t you think? It’s the Seventies, bro. She’s something else, too. Smart … sexy … just wait until you see her. You’ll forget all about that antiquated shit …’

Roberto had gritted his teeth, smiled, and said, ‘Of course.

When he was introduced to Mozel, he hated her. Hated her .d beauty. Hated her fearless spirit. She called him ‘R.oberto’ at once, never ‘Principe’, not even the first time.

‘I expect you found it hard to adjust?’ he’d asked her pointedly, as the family sat by the fire in the drawing room of Cosimo’s town house in P,.ome.

‘No, l

He suspected that was an insult in her barbarous tongue from the way her eyes danced.

‘Will you wait to have children?’

‘No. I want as many as possible,’ Mozel purred. ‘Luigi must have heirs.’

Her wild white eyes bored into his. Witch, Poberto thought, wretched witch. She made him want to squirm and wash himself. So now, the fortune due to him would be in the hands not just of his juniors, but of half-breed gypsies.

It would not be. He was more than a match for the wild-eyed little tramp his foolish cousin intended to marry.

II

‘That sounds wonderful,’ Roberto assured her. ‘You bring the wedding date forward. That way you can get started right away.’

Luigi gave him a grateful wink. It was good to have his cousin change his mind. Theirs was a tight, close family; he wanted nothing to alter that.

The wedding was appalling. Roberto had to stand there in the pews of Santa Maria in Ara Coeli in Rome, the traditional and romantic church at the top of the Campidoglio, watching his cousin, a count of the Parigi, unite himself to gypsy scum. The shame of it almost made him feel faint as he stood there in his morning suit, with a crisp red rose as a boutoniere, and realised he was sharing the pew with members of her dirty unwashed tribe, her family. Contessa Mozel Parigi! It was not to be borne. And Uncle Cosimo actually approved. The man had no honour at all. Maybe my grandmother deceived my grandfather, Roberto thought, taking comfort in the idea. That would mean that Cosimo and Luigi were not Parigis at all.

The gypsy wench wore red. Red! It was their tradition, she had told him, the bride wears red to symbolise her virginity. And so she stood there in the church in a huge silken gown, as open and full and red as the poppies scattered across the Roman forum, carrying a bouquet of ivory roses, and wearing a wreath of them in her long, dark hair.

She was beautiful. She was sexy. He wanted her.

And she knew it, too, the little minx, with her laughing eyes flickering over him as he watched her hungrily when the family were together. She called him names in her strange pidgin language, and muttered to herself when he passed her by. Witch things, Roberto thought. How he hated her, and hated Luigi for tainting the family name and honour.

But Roberto had a remedy. He had made his plans. It only remained to put them into effect.

Cosimo lived long enough to see Mozel full with child, but he died before she gave birth. Luigi was inconsolable, and Roberto managed to put on a decent show of grief for his cousin, now his boss, sole owner of the Parigi fortune. Uncle Cosimo left it all to his son, nothing to speak of to Roberto, the Principe - not even a small minority stake. Instead, his will had contained an emotional letter of love, saying that he had thought of Roberto as another son, and which Roberto had thrown into the fire.

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Bullshit. Another son would have been given an inheritance. Cosimo gave P,.oberto a trifling amount of money, barely enough to buy a new villa with, and some useless personal items such as paintings. So what? l