Page 80 of The Broker
His eyes narrow. “Were you able to hack into mine?”
“Of course.” It wasn’t easy, but I’m not going to tell him that.
“How?”
“I’m not going to tell you.” I wink at him. “A girl’s gotta have a few secrets.”
I debated quite seriously with the idea of quitting. Antonio and I had a long conversation after he returned from his honeymoon. “I’m not going to lie,” he says. “I needed you at the time. But that’s not why I didn’t tell you about Roberto.”
“What was the reason, then?”
“Dante is more than my second-in-command,” he says. “He’s one of my closest friends. I wouldn’t be where I was if it wasn’t for him.” He gives me a small smile. “He wasn’t ready to tell you. I didn’t agree with him—it’s not his smartest decision—but he was my friend, and I respected his wishes. What would you have done in my situation?”
Probably the same thing. And Antonio didn’t kill Roberto, but I owed him a debt anyway. He cleaned up the Venetian Mafia, getting rid of people like Marco. He’s always paid me well, always been a good boss. He even remembers Angelica’s birthday every year and sends her a present without fail.
“You’re my wife’s best friend, Valentina,” he continued. “I don’t want animosity between us. What can I do to make amends?”
I thought about it, and then I had it. “I tracked down another ’54 Spider,” I said. “Well, it’s the chassis of one. Evidently, it sustained extensive fire damage in a race. There’s a lot of interest in this car. People are going to be bidding aggressively.”
“Done,” Antonio said promptly, a smile flickering on his face. “Consider it a wedding present.”
Neil Smith had no known family, so he’s buried in an unmarked grave in Bari. Marco’s family in Lecce had a long, extravagant funeral, but there’s a marked absence of real grief. Andreas’s sister Cecelia didn’t seem to mourn her brother much, either. I think she’s simply relieved.
And so it ends, not with a bang, but a whimper. The fishing accident barely rates a mention in the local newspaper. Life moves on.
Angelica suffers no ill effects from her kidnapping. The actual abduction happened so quickly that she didn’t even register it, and thankfully, she was unconscious after that.
Even so, Dante hires a child psychiatrist to talk to Angelica. But after a couple sessions, the psychiatrist tells us we might be wasting our time. “Angelica is very resilient,” she says. “She’s not burying the incident; she’s quite happy to talk about it. She says that if she’s in danger, her uncle Dante will protect her.”
“He will. She’s right about that. But are you sure—”
“I am. Angelica is thrilled about your upcoming marriage and very excited about her new dogs. She’s a happy child, Signorina Linari. You have nothing to worry about.”
We set a wedding date for the summer. Dante’s not a fan of the delay, but I’m determined not to rush it. “I’m only going to get married once in my life,” I tell him. “I’m not going to rush it. Besides, you waited for ten years. What’s another six months?”
“I don’t want to wait six months preciselybecauseI waited ten years,” he replies, exasperated. “But okay, fine. Where do you want to go on the honeymoon?”
I know the answer to this. When Angelica was three, the two of us went on our first vacation together. We boarded a plane and flew to Nice. Lucia joined us there.
I have so many happy memories from that week. It was the first time Lucia met my daughter, and she brought a gigantic teddy bear bigger than Angelica with her as a present. Angelica took one look at it and promptly burst into tears, and Lucia was so horrified she made my daughter cry that I couldn’t help laughing. The weather was gorgeous. We took Angelica to the Promenade du Paillon, where she scrambled over the giant climbing whale, and to Place Massena to run between the water jet fountains. Neither Lucia nor I had very much money, but we went on picnics and gorged ourselves on cheese and wine, and I felt more like myself than I had in a very long time.
On the flight back to Venice, I sat next to a woman in her thirties. She asked us about my vacation and showed me pictures of hers. “My boyfriend and I rented a boat for my birthday,” she said, showing us pictures of them cruising the canals in the Canal du Midi region. “It was amazing.” I looked at photos of her boyfriend and her lying on the deck, glasses of champagne in their hands, and felt a piercing sense of envy. I vowed one day that I would have enough money to do something like this.
When I tell Dante this story, he listens with a strange look. “You should have told me,” he says quietly when I finish. “I would have made it happen. Hell, I would have bought you a damn boat.”
I kiss his neck, just below his ear. “You can’t magically arrange to buy me everything I want.” It wasn’t just the idea of cruising down French canals that was magical. Her boyfriend had cared enough to do something special for her birthday. The photo of them laughing on the deck as they drank champagne made my heart pang.
She was loved, and I couldn’t imagine that future for myself.
And now I’m marrying a man who will do anything for me and Angelica. I never have to doubt that Dante loves me—he shows me every day in a thousand ways, large and small.
“I think you’ll find that I can.” He moves ever so slightly, and I bite back my smile. My fiancé might think he’s only ticklish on the soles of his feet, but I know better. “And trust me, Valentina,” he says, kissing me possessively, “I will be spoiling my wife and child rotten.”
We get married in July in Antonio’s vineyard north of Verona. A hundred guests gather on the banks of a gently rolling hill to watch our wedding.
The day is a blur, and I remember very little of it. Angelica walks in front of me, scattering rose petals down the aisle. Then Dante is there, his eyes on me, and a lump wells up in my throat.
It’s been ten long years. But Dante Colonna was worth the wait.