The Devil You Know Page 2

  * * *

  Roberto was already stumbling down the corridor toward 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 barreled into the nursery and saw the nurse there looking for him.

  “Did you get lost? Were you looking for the bathroom?”

  “No,” Roberto 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?”

  Roberto 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.

  Roberto turned to the wall so she would not see his red eyes. He drank the Coca-Cola. It was delicious.

  “Leave me alone,” he said.

  She withdrew, thinking he was a little brat. Roberto 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 toward 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 sidestepped 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 Romansh, 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 … basta!”

  “These sausages? Fine-looking sausages,” Luigi admitted. He took 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. “Scusi, 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 gray eyes, almost silver, like a wolf’s, shaded by long, dark lashes. Mesmerized, 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 gaje think we are all for sale. 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 father was not here. And after all, she had gotten away with the sausages.

  * * *

  Roberto 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. Roberto’s mourning had not been very deep. He had despised his father ever since, as a child, he had heard him crawl to accept Cosimo’s handouts. Ever since that day, his father had taken the handouts from the junior branch of the family. The Principe and Principessa had lived quietly, in comfort, with every modern convenience in their restored palazzo, but as far as Roberto was concerned, they had lived as slaves.

  He had vowed revenge. But he was cleverer than his father. Roberto 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, caro.” Cosimo hugged him close. “Nothing can ever replace the loss of your papa.”

  “Nothing!” Roberto said, weeping himself. “But at least I have you, Uncle. I want to come and work at Parigi Enterprises, to be close to the family.”

  “My boy,” Cosimo had said, smiling through the tears, astonished, “that is wonderful. It will be wonderful to have you close.”

  * * *

  Close he had become. Roberto, 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, Roberto 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. Roberto had a grave charm to him that rendered him a favorite in the boardroom. And he took special care to get close to his cousin Luigi.

  Roberto 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, hang-gliding like Sean Connery in James Bond—there was even one occasion when he jumped from an airplane with a parachute. Cosimo’s wife was unable to have anymore children … well … Roberto 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 Roberto’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 w
itches 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 wild beauty. Hated her fearless spirit. She called him “Roberto” 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 Rome.

  “No, Roberto. My people are used to adjusting,” she said. “Bi-lacio raklo.”

  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, Roberto 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.

  “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 boutonniere, and realized 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 honor 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 symbolize 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 honor.

  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.

  Bullshit. Another son would have been given an inheritance.

  Cosimo gave Roberto a trifling amount of money, barely enough to buy a new villa with, and some useless personal items such as paintings. So what? Roberto was not interested in them. He was interested in the Parigi fortune, but once again he had been left to be dependent on the junior branch.

  * * *

  “You must snap out of this,” Roberto said to Luigi one night, as his cousin burst into a fresh round of tears. “It is not good for you, not what your father would want.”

  “He’s right, carissimo,” Mozel said, stroking her husband’s hair. “Cosimo would not want you to be weeping when the baby comes.”

  A flicker of light crossed Luigi’s face. He reached out to stroke his wife’s swollen belly.

  “When will he be born?”

  “I told you yesterday. A month.” She laughed. “You ask me every day! And besides, it is a girl.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I know. I can feel it,” she said, mysteriously.

  “You should not sit in this gloomy room,” Roberto insisted. “Besides, Rome is so dirty these days. The smoke, the pollution … It isn’t good for babies. And the motorini speeding everywhere, what if they knock Mozel down?”

  Luigi looked alarmed and brushed the tears away. “That’s a good point, Roberto.”

  “Your child should be born in the country, in the woods.”

  Mozel’s face lit up. She hated and mistrusted Roberto. She knew exactly what he thought of her. But she was a daughter of the country and the woods.

  “He’s right, Luigi…”

  “I have that hunting cabin in Umbria. Near the town of San Clemente, which has a wonderful hospital, very modern. An excellent maternity ward, with doctors from America.” This was true; Roberto knew that would be the first thing they would investigate. It was one of the best hospitals in Italy. “And the cabin … it’s actually a lodge. Very luxurious, with three bedrooms, a library, a pool room, and an indoor swimming pool, heated.” He looked at the Contessa. “Swimming is excellent exercise for the heavily pregnant, dear Mozel; you know what your doctor said.”

  She looked down, she truly was as fat as a cow; Mozel longed to move, safely, of course. Roberto knew it. In fact his workmen had only finished with the pool last month.

  “If you want my advice, Luigi, you will take three months off. A month with Mozel, to be in the countryside, and finish your mourning, and then a little time with your child once he is born.”

  “She,” Mozel said.

  “He, she. What does it matter as long as the baby arrives safely, and in good clean air, too?”

  They both nodded their agreement. Fools.

  “But who will run the company?” Luigi protested. “We have contracts to fulfill, mergers on the way, acquisitions…”

  “You’re no good to Parigi in this state,” Roberto said reasonably. “And your firstborn will only arrive once. Are you going to miss the first months for work?”

  “He’s absolutely right,” Mozel said.

  “I can take care of the Dulon merger. We have very capable men running the company, Luigi. Between us we’ll manage for a few months without you.”

  Mozel looked at her husband longingly, and Luigi agreed at once. He could never resist any plea from those intense, pale eyes.

  * * *

  Roberto was cunning. He knew Mozel was suspicious, and he made sure her fears were allayed. He invited their friends to stay in the lodge, and he remained in Milan while the couple enjoyed the country air, and while Luigi went hunting wild boar, his favorite pastime.

  Luigi was intensely grateful, but Roberto brushed his thanks aside.

  “It is the least I can do for my dear cousin,” Roberto said. “After all, we are family.”

  Mozel was surprised to find the hospital was just as Roberto had promised. It had American doctors and British nurses, and catered mostly to wealthy foreigners who did not care for Italy’s friendly, broken-down state care. Her husband’s arrogant cousin had also arranged for specialists to visit her weekly at the lodge, so she could b
e examined in comfort and privacy. Soon she relaxed, and did not worry when he came to visit, even when he disappeared with Luigi in the woods. Each night they came home again, and her friends came and went, and she felt safe.

  The American doctors gave her another cause for joy, too, something that distracted her from her instinctual caution.

  She was not about to have one child. She was going to have three.

  * * *

  Roberto rejoiced loudly and publicly. He threw a party in company headquarters the day his cousin’s babies were born—three girls, ha! Three children and not a boy among them. He shut the entire corporation for a day, giving every employee a long weekend. He filled Mozel’s bright new hospital room with flowers; he had a magnum of champagne delivered to his brother along with a box of Cuban cigars; and he offered the use of the Palazzo for the christening.

  “But when are you coming to see the babies?” Luigi asked him on the end of the phone.

  “I must just finish up some business, then I will come to the lodge. I can’t wait to hold them,” Roberto said. “How adorable.”

  “They are adorable,” said his sappy cousin, voice full of foolish doting pride. “They are the most beautiful children ever born!”

  “I bet they are,” Roberto said. “And the mother?”

  “Mozel is doing wonderfully.”

  “I will arrange the christening, Luigi. Let me take care of everything.”

  “I can’t thank you enough for all you’ve done for us, I feel like a new man,” Luigi said gratefully.

  “Don’t be silly,” Roberto said softly. “I’m family.”

  * * *

  Roberto took a few days to return to San Stefano and start some very public preparations for a grand christening. The cake was ordered, balloons and banners were bought, the Archbishop was booked; Roberto showed himself around town, passing out cigars, receiving congratulations, and ordering from as many suppliers as he could. The town took note of the unusual good humor of the Principe di Parigi. As he had intended.

  And then, finally, all was ready.

  * * *

  When Roberto arrived at the lodge, he was all smiles. Mozel, already back to her normal size three weeks after the birth, greeted him warmly, as if he were truly Luigi’s brother. She was wearing a blue dress that picked out the glossy raven hue of her hair, and he thought how delicious she looked, and how much he would enjoy finally having her.