upper deck, where Tano Carnevare and the five young men and women who had come onboard with him were lounging around, while the barkeep and the steward were kept busy.
Alessandro and Rosa were one deck lower, sitting on the terrace at the stern of the yacht in front of the open frosted doors of the saloon, which contained a billiard table and a gold-framed flat-screen TV. They had made themselves comfortable in two deck chairs, looking out at the sea and the Sicilian coast far behind them. The sun shone down from starboard, and a warm sea breeze played in Rosa’s long hair.
Alessandro wore a white T-shirt, pale summer pants, and sports shoes. Although his hair was so much shorter than Rosa’s, he seemed to have just as much trouble keeping its unruly, curly strands out of his eyes.
“You were right.” She breathed in deeply as she looked at him over the little paper parasol in her cocktail. “And I don’t like having to say that.”
His straw slipped from his lips. “Right about what?”
“This really is the most fabulously showy yacht I’ve ever set eyes on. We see plenty of them around in Brooklyn, of course. Now and then. On TV.”
He smiled. “My father knew how to spend money. My mother hated the way this yacht is decorated. All that marble, and the African woods, half a jungle was probably razed to the ground to provide them.”
“How about you?”
“I haven’t been onboard often. Only twice, before he sent me to the States.”
“You can sell it if you want to. It belongs to you, doesn’t it?”
“Not until my eighteenth birthday. If I live that long.” He said that without any emotion at all.
Rosa leaned back and listened to the noises drifting down to them through the music from the sundeck. “That bunch up there don’t look like killers out to get you.”
A shadow flitted over his face. “That’s the problem with killers. They never look like what they are.” Suddenly he was smiling again. “You’re not drinking that cocktail.”
She shook her head. “I don’t drink alcohol.”
“I’ll get you something else.”
“No, that’s okay. I’m still working off the aftereffects of Fundling’s coffee.”
He grinned. “He ought to have warned you about that.”
“Never mind. Nice of him to think of getting some.”
“He didn’t scare you, did he? I know what he can be like. Sometimes he says odd things.”
She didn’t even flush when she said, “Not to me.”
His eyes showed that he doubted that. “Did he tell you about himself?”
Rosa shook her head. “He wasn’t particularly talkative.”
“My mother saved his life.”
“She did?” Rosa removed the little parasol from the maraschino cherry and chewed the sharp end of the cocktail stick.
“Fundling wasn’t much more than a baby at the time; he could hardly walk. My father’s men rescued him from a fire in a hotel near Agrigento … of course they were the ones who’d started the fire in the first place.”
“Of course.”
“The hotelier hadn’t paid his debts. And maybe he told the wrong people who he’d borrowed money from. A lot of the hotel guests and staff died in the fire, and they rescued just that one little boy from the flames. The hotel burned to its foundations; there were no papers left, nothing to tell anyone whose child he was. All reduced to ashes.”
“And no one made inquiries? No relations?”
Alessandro shook his head. “No one. Looked like no one missed him.”
She fished the cherry out of the glass with the cocktail stick, and after a good deal of hesitation put it in her mouth. Sticky and far too sweet. “Odd, don’t you think?”
“Not really.”
“How do you mean ?”
“The whole thing happened at the time of the big family feuds, everyone against everyone else. Gunmen shooting out of moving cars, whole clans butchered on the street in broad daylight. Children of enemy families were often kidnapped and held hostage to be used in blackmail demands.”
She
Alessandro and Rosa were one deck lower, sitting on the terrace at the stern of the yacht in front of the open frosted doors of the saloon, which contained a billiard table and a gold-framed flat-screen TV. They had made themselves comfortable in two deck chairs, looking out at the sea and the Sicilian coast far behind them. The sun shone down from starboard, and a warm sea breeze played in Rosa’s long hair.
Alessandro wore a white T-shirt, pale summer pants, and sports shoes. Although his hair was so much shorter than Rosa’s, he seemed to have just as much trouble keeping its unruly, curly strands out of his eyes.
“You were right.” She breathed in deeply as she looked at him over the little paper parasol in her cocktail. “And I don’t like having to say that.”
His straw slipped from his lips. “Right about what?”
“This really is the most fabulously showy yacht I’ve ever set eyes on. We see plenty of them around in Brooklyn, of course. Now and then. On TV.”
He smiled. “My father knew how to spend money. My mother hated the way this yacht is decorated. All that marble, and the African woods, half a jungle was probably razed to the ground to provide them.”
“How about you?”
“I haven’t been onboard often. Only twice, before he sent me to the States.”
“You can sell it if you want to. It belongs to you, doesn’t it?”
“Not until my eighteenth birthday. If I live that long.” He said that without any emotion at all.
Rosa leaned back and listened to the noises drifting down to them through the music from the sundeck. “That bunch up there don’t look like killers out to get you.”
A shadow flitted over his face. “That’s the problem with killers. They never look like what they are.” Suddenly he was smiling again. “You’re not drinking that cocktail.”
She shook her head. “I don’t drink alcohol.”
“I’ll get you something else.”
“No, that’s okay. I’m still working off the aftereffects of Fundling’s coffee.”
He grinned. “He ought to have warned you about that.”
“Never mind. Nice of him to think of getting some.”
“He didn’t scare you, did he? I know what he can be like. Sometimes he says odd things.”
She didn’t even flush when she said, “Not to me.”
His eyes showed that he doubted that. “Did he tell you about himself?”
Rosa shook her head. “He wasn’t particularly talkative.”
“My mother saved his life.”
“She did?” Rosa removed the little parasol from the maraschino cherry and chewed the sharp end of the cocktail stick.
“Fundling wasn’t much more than a baby at the time; he could hardly walk. My father’s men rescued him from a fire in a hotel near Agrigento … of course they were the ones who’d started the fire in the first place.”
“Of course.”
“The hotelier hadn’t paid his debts. And maybe he told the wrong people who he’d borrowed money from. A lot of the hotel guests and staff died in the fire, and they rescued just that one little boy from the flames. The hotel burned to its foundations; there were no papers left, nothing to tell anyone whose child he was. All reduced to ashes.”
“And no one made inquiries? No relations?”
Alessandro shook his head. “No one. Looked like no one missed him.”
She fished the cherry out of the glass with the cocktail stick, and after a good deal of hesitation put it in her mouth. Sticky and far too sweet. “Odd, don’t you think?”
“Not really.”
“How do you mean ?”
“The whole thing happened at the time of the big family feuds, everyone against everyone else. Gunmen shooting out of moving cars, whole clans butchered on the street in broad daylight. Children of enemy families were often kidnapped and held hostage to be used in blackmail demands.”
She
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