Abruptly, he turned away. Nodded at the two men waiting patiently at the entrance to the galleria.
‘You can remove it now,’ he told them.
Without a backward glance, he walked out of the room.
His expression was unreadable. But emotion was heavy within him. Weighing him down. In his head he heard, over and over again, as he had done since he had first listened to her voicemail, Carla’s farewell to him.
‘This is my choice. Please do not try and dissuade me from it.’
Behind him he heard the sounds of the triptych being taken down, dismantled. Packed up.
He walked on, face set.
* * *
Carla was breakfasting with her mother. The weather was cooler today now, and she was glad. Glad, too, that by the time she was in late pregnancy she would be cooler still.
As it did so often, her hand glided protectively over her abdomen. Her thoughts were full. She must stay calm, serene. Let no agitation break through—no emotion or trauma. She had chosen this path—single motherhood—over a tormented marriage to Cesare. It had been the right choice to make.
Her expression changed. Vito was appalled that she was not going to marry Cesare, but she remained adamant. She would not be swayed. And, for himself, Vito had finally found a ray of hope in his search for the woman she had caused to flee. She might have been located at last. She wished him well—hoped that he would find the happiness he sought.
As for herself—well, happiness was beyond her now. Cesare had accepted her decision. She had heard nothing more from him.
I grew up fatherless, and my child will too. But it will have me, and my mother, and safety and love, and that is all that really matters.
That was what she told herself. That was what she must believe. As for Cesare—well, he would marry his marchese’s daughter and live the life he had always planned.
And I will have his child—his gift to me.
It was more than she had ever hoped to have of him. She must be content with that. In time her battered heart would heal, and Cesare would have no place in it any longer.
A sliver of pain pierced her, but she ignored it. Soon, surely, it would cease. The ache in her heart would ease. It must.
It must.
‘The mail, señora.’
Her mother’s maid was placing a stash of post on the table, breaking Carla’s painful reverie. Idly, she watched her mother sort it, then pause.
‘This is for you,’ she said, holding up a bulky envelope, her expression wary.
Carla felt herself tense—the stamp was Italian, the dark, decisive handwriting instantly recognisable. Steeling herself, she opened it, taking out several folded papers.
It will be some sort of legal document I have to sign, foregoing any claim on his estate for the baby, or a contract making me a maintenance allowance or something.
But as she unfolded them she gasped. It was neither of those things.
‘Darling, what is it?’ Marlene’s voice was immediately alarmed.
Carla stared, then looked blankly across at her mother. In a hollow voice she spoke. ‘It’s from a secure art vault in Rome. It tells me...’ She swallowed. ‘It tells me that the Luciezo-Caradino triptych is now in storage. That it is being held in trust—for...for...’
Instinctively her hand went to her ripening abdomen, her eyes distending. She dropped the letter, seized up the piece of paper with Cesare’s handwriting, and the third folded document.
‘Mum, I—I—’
She could say no more—only got to her feet, stumbling slightly as she walked away, past the pool, to find the bench underneath the shade of the bougainvillea arbour, overlooking the beach.
She sat down with trembling legs. Opened Cesare’s letter to read it. The writing came into focus, burned into her retinas—Cesare’s words to her.