Luigi rubbed at his pounding temples. Ironically, the one person who had been loyal to him, other than Arturo, he’d had killed. That bothered him. He hadn’t considered that it would be so difficult, but he had almost convinced himself not to go through with it. He had known all along that Giacinta had to die. He wasn’t a caring man, and he had no idea when emotion had begun to take hold of him. When he began to look forward to their talks. Their chess games. Her laughter. Just having her back in his house after long months in the States.
Giacinta was intelligent and she was loyal to one person – Luigi. He sighed and poured himself a drink, staring sightlessly out the window. Giacinta. She was gone. The one person who brought a little joy into his relentlessly dark world. His own sons couldn’t match her intelligence or her drive. She was a secret weapon he could have used against his enemies. He’d never have another like her. He hadn’t wanted her dead. It was necessary.
“Necessary,” he murmured aloud, and tossed back the rest of his Scotch.
The car arrived in record time, a good mark for Tomasso. He greeted Luigi soberly, aware of the loss of his brother-in-law. The world knew of Aldo’s loss and the scandal of his wife and mistress fighting while the body lay still warm.
“Are you all right, sir?” Tomasso asked, opening the car door for him to the back passenger seat. There was genuine concern in his voice.
Luigi nodded curtly. For some reason the question caused his chest to ache. A great stone pressed down on him. Giacinta. There was no bringing her back. He’d have to live with his decision. Luigi settled into the backseat, prepared for the long drive back to his estate, his sanctuary by the sea. He was grateful Angeline knew nothing of it because he needed peace. Quiet. He needed to come to terms with what he’d done.
“Are you all right, Signor Luigi?” Tomasso asked again softly, glancing at him in the rearview mirror.
Luigi lifted his hand up dismissively. “Just drive. Raise the glass between us.”
He didn’t feel like talking. He liked that the man hadn’t asked a single question about his home, or why he had never mentioned being married. Tomasso would be a good soldier. He was strong. Intelligent. He knew when to keep his mouth shut. Luigi knew ruthless when he saw it. He knew dangerous. Tomasso was all of those things. He was also hungry for a home. Luigi would give that to him. But not now. Now he needed to grieve for his lost niece in peace.
He had contacted Alberto the moment Aldo’s widow had called Angeline hysterically. She needed them desperately and Luigi had rushed Angeline to her side. Luigi was able to see Aldo’s body and the blood at the mistress’s apartment. He got to witness the widow making all kinds of accusations to the mistress, casting suspicion there, but he knew Aldo’s death would be ruled an accident. There was a catfight, with Aldo’s widow trying to claw scars into Lydia’s face. The police had seemed more concerned with that than protecting the crime scene.
The coroner pointed out that little black spot on Aldo’s finger where he’d pressed the doorbell. Around the doorbell the surface was blackened – all from an obvious short. The police told the widow what happened, that Aldo had jumped back from the electrical shock and hit his head on the fountain – the fountain Aldo had given to Lydia. It was priceless. Perfection. While chaos, screaming and weeping took place all around him, he’d stood there in silence, admiring Giacinta’s work. She’d exceeded the master. Using that fountain to kill Aldo was a stroke of genius.
She was invaluable, and he’d been forced to kill her while his useless wife was still alive, an albatross hung around his neck. It hurt. It was so unexpected that he wanted to weep. He had wept. Angeline had seen him and thought he wept for her brother. He had wept for Giacinta. He hadn’t even done that for Arturo and he’d known how much he cared for his friend and bodyguard. Giacinta. He had called Alberto and told him to do it immediately because he knew he would rescind the order if it wasn’t already done. He would have stopped it.
In the week that had passed since Aldo’s and then Giacinta’s death, he had attended Aldo’s funeral. The long procession honoring him had been a joke. What hypocrisy, the man had gone to church every Sunday and had killed men the next day without so much as flinching – but he still got a church funeral with the congregation weeping over him and the priest blessing his casket and saying prayers over his body. That night, Luigi had returned and spit on Aldo’s grave, only by that time, he wished it were Angeline’s grave. Because he had to play his part of loving husband and heir apparent to the Porcelli throne, he hadn’t been able to pay tribute to his niece. To stand by her grave and whisper he was sorry and that he’d always keep her close.