The Vendetta
Table of Contents
The Vendetta
Kecia Adams
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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are fictitious or have been used fictitiously, and are not to be construed as real in any way. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Published By
Etopia Press
1643 Warwick Ave., #124
Warwick, RI 02889
The Vendetta
Copyright © 2011 by Kecia Adams
ISBN: 978-1-936751-66-2
Edited by Katriena Knights
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
First Etopia Press electronic publication: September 2011
~ Dedication ~
For Nick, who read every word, and for Garry who believed.
Chapter One
Niccolo Carnavale hated to wait, but for Italian
Principessa
Giovanna Maria Severino di Giorgio—and her art collection, of course—he had made an exception. To occupy himself, he prowled the gallery of Palazzo Severino and made a professional’s mental catalogue of the room’s objets d’art.
As always, the need to feel the art pricked at his fingers and raised the fine hairs on the back of his neck. He fought the urge to pat the cool marble pate of Julius Caesar, drag his finger down the cracked varnish of a seventeenth century seascape, and upend the Chinese vase to note the maker’s mark. To lessen temptation, he shoved his hands deep into his pockets.
At the end of a thorough circuit, he stood in front of the only incongruity, the only piece that didn’t fit the room’s theme. Over the ornate marble mantle hung a black-and-white photographic portrait of a young woman, taken in perhaps the early part of the twentieth century. Out of all the fine pieces in the principessa’s collection, the artistry of this photo had earned Nick’s highest personal ranking—priceless.
“I can assure you that the pose was as uncomfortable as it looks.” A raspy voice carried the length of the room.
Nick turned to see a white-haired woman in a wheelchair at the entrance to the gallery. A young nurse pushed the chair, and the woman—the principessa—held her back straight and her head high as she rolled forward. Delicate, crocheted shawls in vibrant colors swathed her shoulders and legs down to her feet, clad in beaded slippers. Her only jewelry was a large, yellow diamond on her left ring finger. Her skin had the fragile look of the very old, but her expression was open and interested, her features carved and aristocratic. The wheelchair came to a stop close to where he stood.
“Your Excellency,” said Nick, “I am very honored to meet you. Your collection is stunning.”
“Thank you.” Her mouth twisted into a charming smirk. “I have kept you waiting, have I not?”
When the principessa offered her hand in an elegant gesture, Nick caught a flash of resemblance to the young woman in the photograph. He bent and raised her fingers to his lips.
“I would have waited much longer to meet you,” he said.
“Ah,” she said, squeezing his fingers lightly, “you’re a charmer,
signore
. I did not think young men had such manners anymore.”
Nick gave her a direct look. “My mother was a stickler for manners.”
“Your mother.” Her gaze ran over his face to his hair and down the length of his dark suit to his shoes. “Yes, I imagine she was.”
The principessa pulled her hand out of his and turned to the nurse. “You may go, Laura. I will call you when I need you again.”
The nurse’s mouth dropped open. “But, ma’am, the doctor said—”
“You will go now, if you please. Signore
Carnavale will take care of me.”
“But—”
Nick noted a swift change in the old woman’s demeanor. The principessa commanded with just her eyes.
“Yes, ma’am,” said Laura. The little nurse set the wheelchair brake and rearranged a shawl. Her soft-soled shoes made no sound as she exited the room.
“She’s probably gone to the doctor to tell on me,” the principessa murmured.
“Your Excellency, if—”
“Please, call me
Donna
Giovanna. I find the older I get, the more informal I wish things to be.” She cast a sidelong glance at him. “If you are going to lecture me on my risk taking, Signore Carnavale, save your breath. Even if I am on death’s door, I believe I can safely tolerate a few minutes of conversation.”
He hid a smile. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Now, sit down, please. Since I have kept you waiting, I will get right to the point. My sources tell me you are in search of a certain self-portrait by the Old Master, Rembrandt van Rijn. A very rare one.”
A jolt stabbed his midsection. Had she found it? He had designed his revenge around this painting, but this particular portrait of Rembrandt’s had proved elusive. To have a lifetime of searching come down to a simple transaction between collectors was unimaginable. Nick forced himself to settle calmly into the silk-covered wing chair and smooth his expression.
No, it would not be that easy.
He crossed an ankle over the opposite knee. “Donna Giovanna, it is true I have a personal interest in that painting, but I am also aware that its history is not particularly…ah…savory.”
The principessa snorted. “Signore, let us not mince words here. Savory or not, I have seen the painting. Recently.”
He balled his hand into a fist.
At last
.
“How recently?”
The principessa nodded, her eyes warming with approval. “My curator, Peter Van Alstrand, showed it to me about a month ago. It took me a while to track you down.”
Van Alstrand
. Nick’s eyes narrowed. “Are you sure it was authentic?”
She inclined her head. “I have no doubt.”
The pressure in his chest built as he studied the principessa’s face. This woman had not accumulated nor held onto a world-renowned collection through stupidity or carelessness. He could not afford to underestimate her.
“Just out of curiosity, where is it now?” he said as casually as he could manage.
The principessa patted him on the knee. “Very good, my boy, but you can’t fool me.” Her faded hazel eyes danced with suppressed glee. “You want this painting. I can see it in your face.”
It nearly killed him to calmly brush an invisible speck of lint off of his trousers. Every muscle tensed, and his stomach pulled tight. He let his hands rest loosely on the chair arms and met the principessa’s gaze. His eyebrows lifted when he caught her expectant look.
Suddenly, she grinned. “The painting is in my safe, of course.”
Triumph blazed in his chest and he sat forward.
She held up one hand. “Since the Rembrandt is so important to you, I am willing to offer an exchange,” she said.
He should have known. “An exchange? My collection—”
She cut him off. “I am not interested in your art collection, signore. I have a more personal request.”
She looked down at her hands.
He waited, digging deep for the patience to play out this game.
“I do not have much more time on this earth.” The principessa’s voice sounded hesitant for the first time in their conversation. “So in the time I have, I wish to reconcile with my granddaughter. Five years ago, she lived here with me but we…argued.” Those long hands fluttered on her shawl, pleating and unpleating the delicate fringe. “She left the palazzo, and we have not communicated since.”
The fluttering stopped, and she met Nick’s gaze, her eyes once again sharp and determined. “Here is the bargain, signore. If you will bring her to me, I will give you the Rembrandt.”
A spark of real curiosity eased some of the pressure in his chest. “A priceless painting in return for a long-lost relative. What makes you think she will be interested in coming back for a reunion just because I ask her to? And why won’t she come if you ask her, Donna Giovanna?”
She laughed, but this time the sound was dry and brittle. “Come now, signore…Nick. May I call you Nick?”
At his nod, she continued, “We have already established your charm. Your reputation as a lover of women is well known, even to me. Surely you can convince an attractive, unattached young woman to visit you in the Eternal City.” Donna Giovanna took up the fringe of her shawl again. “She has…resisted my efforts to contact her so far. But once she is in Rome, I know she will change her mind. I will take care of the rest.”
He resisted the urge to rub his hands on his trousers. Something was off here, and he would have to discover exactly what it was. But for now, he couldn’t afford to let the Rembrandt slip away again, no matter what devil’s bargain this woman offered.
The principessa placed a hand on his arm, capturing his full attention. “So do we have a deal, Nick? It may make it easier for you to know that you do have something very important in common with my granddaughter.”
His heart began to pound in earnest, but he drawled, “Really, and what would that be, Your Excellency?”
Donna Giovanna made a gesture encompassing the gallery walls. “The art, Nick
.
You’re both in love with the art.”
* * *
Lisa Schumacher placed the customer’s order—large caramel latte, no whip, soymilk with five, count them,
five
shots of decaf espresso—on the counter of the coffee bar. She called out the drink, and a harried-looking woman in a thousand-dollar ski jacket claimed the sleeve-wrapped paper cup and whirled out the door with barely a nod in Lisa’s direction.
Lisa shook her head as she wiped down the counter with her bar rag. How did a person rationalize five shots of decaf paired with soymilk
and
caramel? That wasn’t coffee—that was an exercise in self-delusion.