Veretti's Dark Vengeance

‘Yes, Perroni Glass is his, and they’re the two best. When he owns Larezzo as well he’ll dominate the whole industry. Nobody will be able to challenge him, which is just how he likes it. You can demand a high price. There’s a bank loan to be paid off but there’ll be enough money left after that to keep you safe. Don’t refuse me, cara. Let me have the pleasure of knowing that I’ve looked after you, as you have looked after me.’

‘But I don’t need money,’ she reminded him. ‘I have plenty of my own, which you saved for me. You looked after me very effectively then.’

‘Then let me look after you some more, to thank you for your care of me.’

‘But we cared for each other,’ she thought now. ‘He showed me that all men aren’t grasping and rapacious. Now he’s gone and I can’t see the way ahead.’

It was a long journey, first across the Atlantic to Paris, then a three-hour wait for the connecting flight to Venice. By the time she reached her destination she was nodding off. When she finally emerged from Customs she was met by an escort from the hotel. It was bliss to leave everything to him.

She had a vague awareness of the motor-boat trip across the lagoon and down the Grand Canal to the Illyria Hotel, where hands assisted her from the boat. Once in her room she nibbled at the meal that was sent up, before climbing into bed and sinking into a heavy, jet-lagged sleep.

As the hours passed her sleep became lighter and she found that Antonio was there again in her dreams, cheerful, jokey, despite his impending death, because it was his way to ignore the future as long as he could enjoy the present.

Because he flourished in hot weather they had gone to live in Miami, where they spent long, lazy days together, in contented mutual devotion. To please him she’d learned to speak Italian, and then also learned the Venetian dialect because he’d bet her she couldn’t do it.

He’d tricked her about that. She’d thought it would be easy, imagining a dialect was little more than a change in pronunciation. Too late she’d discovered that Venetian was a whole different language.

Antonio had enjoyed the joke, laughing until he brought on a coughing fit and had to use his inhaler.

‘Fooled you!’ he gasped. ‘Bet you can’t do it.’

After that she had to try, and surprised herself and him by becoming good at both languages.

Antonio showed her pictures of his family, especially Salvatore, his cousin once removed, he told her, carefully stressing the ‘removed’, because he admired Salvatore only in a distant way, and tended to avoid him. He hadn’t invited him to the wedding, or even told him about it.

‘He’s a hard man,’ he said. ‘I was always the black sheep of the family, and he disapproved of me.’

‘But you’re more than twenty years older than he is,’ she pointed out. ‘Shouldn’t it be you disapproving of him?’

‘I wish!’ Antonio said ruefully. ‘I preferred to leave running the factory to my manager, so that I could enjoy myself.’

‘And Salvatore doesn’t enjoy himself?’

‘Well—it depends what you mean by enjoyment. Ever since he grew up he could have any woman he wanted, but they always came second to ruling the roost. He’s a bit of a puritan, which is odd in a Venetian. We tend to think more about relishing life today and letting tomorrow take care of itself. But not Salvatore.

‘It might be something to do with his father, my cousin, Giorgio, a man who really knew how to have a good time. Perhaps he overdid it a little with too many women. His poor wife certainly thought so. Salvatore also takes his pleasures freely, but he’s more discreet, and no woman is allowed to impinge on his real life.

‘Everyone’s afraid of him. Even me. Venice wasn’t big enough to hold both of us, so I left, travelled the world, went to England, met you, and have been happy ever since.’

Salvatore’s picture showed that he was handsome, slightly fierce, with a face that was a little too firm and a mysterious air about him that Antonio told her attracted women.

‘They all think they’ll be the one to soften him, but none ever has. I keep meaning to take you to Venice to meet him, but I dare not.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘You’re so beautiful he’d make a play for you in minutes.’

‘Then he’d be wasting his time,’ Helena had told him, laughing. ‘Let’s make that trip. I should like to see Venice.’

Now she was seeing Venice, but not in the way she’d hoped.

‘We should have come here together,’ she told Antonio, and on the words she awoke.

At first she didn’t know where she was. Then she saw the high painted ceiling, elaborately decorated with cherubs, and the exotic furnishings that might have come from the eighteenth century. Slipping out of bed, she pulled on a light robe and went to the window, pushing it open to find herself bathed in dazzling light.

It was like stepping into a new universe, brilliant, magical, and she stood entranced. The water that flowed past the building was busy with boats. The landing stages were crowded with people, and everywhere she looked there was activity.

A shower brought her fully back to life, ready to go out and explore. She chose clothes that were elegant but functional, being particularly careful about the shoes.

‘The stones of Venice are the hardest in the world,’ Antonio had groaned. ‘If you’re going to walk—and you have to walk because there are no cars—don’t wear high heels.’

To placate his nagging ghost she selected a pair that were flat and efficient and that looked good with hip-hugging wine-red trousers and a white blouse. Her glorious hair was swept back and fixed so that it hung down her back. Then she stood before the mirror to regard herself critically.

Neat, slightly severe, nothing that would hog attention. Good.

Having breakfast in her room would be too dull, so she went down to the restaurant to confront the banquet there.

It was one of the pleasures of her life that she could eat whatever she liked without putting on weight. Now she enjoyed herself to the full, then went to the information desk to collect some leaflets about the city. Serious business could wait while she had some fun. The young man behind the counter asked politely if she had any special reason to come to Venice.

‘I’m interested in glass,’ she said casually. ‘I believe there are several glass factories here.’

‘They are on the island of Murano, just across the water. Murano glass is the very finest in the world.’

‘So I’ve heard. I believe there’s one called Larezzo that’s supposed to be the best of all.’

‘Some say it is, some say that Perroni is the best. They’re about equal. If you’re interested in seeing a glass works there’s a tour going to Larezzo today.’

‘Thank you, I should like to join it.’

An hour later a large motor boat drew up by the hotel landing stage and she boarded it, along with five others. Ten tourists were already there, and the driver proclaimed that they had now made the last stop, and could head for Murano.

‘Once the factories were in Venice,’ Antonio had told her. ‘But the city fathers were afraid of those roaring foundries, in case they started a fire that would consume the whole city. So, in the thirteenth century, they banished the glass makers to Murano.’

There they had remained ever since, dominating the art with their inventive techniques and the unrivalled beauty of their products.

Now Helena stood near the front of the boat, full of curiosity about what she would discover, and revelling in the sensation of the wind whipping about her. Of course, it made good business sense to inspect her property incognito before confronting Salvatore, but she knew, if she was honest, that she was simply enjoying this.

After fifteen minutes they arrived. Hands reached out to help them ashore, and a guide pointed out the factory.

She had never been anywhere like it before. The exhibition of finished glass objects was pleasing enough, but beyond that were the secrets of how these beautiful things were made. The furnaces, the designers, the vases being blown by hand—all these things entranced her.

She let herself fall back to the edge of the crowd, then slipped away out of sight. Now she was free to wander alone, pausing to watch as the fancy took her. It was like another universe, one where the most dazzling arts were practised with an almost casual skill.

At last she reckoned she should rejoin the others. They were just below, at the foot of the stairs, and by passing a nearby door she could reach them quietly.

The door was half-open, giving her a glimpse of a man talking into the telephone in a harsh, angry voice. She slipped past, unnoticed, and would have proceeded to the head of the stairs, had not the sound of her own name pulled her up short.

‘Signora Helena Veretti, I suppose we must call her, though it goes against the grain.’

Slowly she moved backwards until she could just make him out again. He had his back to her, but suddenly he turned, giving her a glimpse of his face and making her pull back sharply.

Salvatore Veretti.