Mysterious Ways (The Rossi Family)

Mysterious Ways Copyright © 2001 Julia Talbot Illustration Copyright © Atta Vazzy All rights reserved. No part of this eBook may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address Torquere Press, PO Box 4351, Grand Junction, CO 81502. ISBN: 0-9748202-8-8 Printed in the United States of America. Torquere Press electronic edition / January 2004 Torquere Press eBooks are published by Torquere Press, PO Box 4351, Grand Junction, CO 81502. http://www.torquerepress.com.

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dedication for P, who inspired me to join a certain crazy contest and write a novel

Prologue The painting was unexceptional. Really. The subject was typical of its period; a woman, seated, shown only from the waist up. Her hair was confined under a net, but the curls that escaped were a coffee-brown, dark and lustrous. Her face was all angles, pointy chin and high cheeks, with a nose that could have been printed in profile on an ancient coin. Her eyes, a deep, rich greenish-blue, told Jacob that they were probably an artist’s convention, a flattery. They matched the brocaded robe the woman wore over a deep green gown. Her jewels were conventional sixteenth century gaudy; chains and charms dripped from her neck and ears. She smiled at him in the enigmatic manner made famous by the Mona Lisa. Her right hand rested on her breast, modestly covering any exposed cleavage. Her fingers, over-long and freakish as all such hands were painted back then, toyed with the one standout addition to a dull arrangement. The central pendant on her very busy necklace was a winged lion, much like the symbol for Saint Mark, the famous patron saint of Venice. This lion, however had the hindquarters of a seacreature, in the shape of a long scaled tail, split at the end. It was a gorgeous piece, obviously made of roughly polished emeralds and gold, and Jacob couldn’t help but admire it. The portrait itself was painted on wood with egg tempera, a method that dated the artist, if not the painting. The use of egg tempera was well into its decline by the time this painting was completed, thanks to the ease of use that the relatively new oil paints provided. The painter must have been old school to have such talent with the tricky and quick drying egg paints. Yes, quite average, which was why Jacob was puzzled at his reaction to the piece. He was fascinated by it. He’d stared at it for over an hour, noting a crack here, a wormhole there, the unfortunate water damage on the bottom third of the work. Whoever this lady was, she wasn't really beautiful, but Jacob couldn’t take his eyes off her. There was something in her expression, something subtle that Jacob really wouldn’t have expected an artist of mediocre talent to capture. It was a glint in her eye, a tiny quirk to her lips that spoke of mischief. And intelligence. The more he looked, the more he liked her. Her skin was golden, not creamy, which he thought was lovely. So many of the Renaissance ladies he’d seen immortalized on canvas were pasty,

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washed out. It was fashionable for a lady to have moon-pale skin, after all, and so this lady’s warm olive tone was suggestive, as if there were a bit of lusty peasant under all the fine feathers. Her lips were not full, but they had a pleasing shape, and the upper lip was just a bit rounder than the lower. It gave her a very sensual allure. The room seemed overly warm suddenly, and Jacob could feel sweat breaking out over his body, heat blooming in his hidden places: under his arms and between his legs. He shifted on his stool, uncomfortable in clothes that were too heavy and skin that was too tight. Extraordinary that a simple painting could do this to him, but it was. He was becoming aroused. It would be a simple thing to leave the room. Cover the painting with its drape and go. There was a trattoria not far from his office at the University. He should go, have a glass of wine, and forget about the mystery lady for the rest of the night. He just couldn’t do it, though. He sat there, and stared, like a horny high-school kid with a really hot substitute teacher. Why did she capture his imagination so? His imagination, and a few other things, Jacob thought ruefully as he adjusted himself. It had been so long since he’s had a hard on that he barely remember the last one, but this one was making itself known in a painful way. As if they were separate entities from the rest of his body Jacob’s hands burrowed under his stifling clothes and found his erection. He gasped at the first touch on his throbbing cock, unable to remember in that moment anything that had ever felt better. He traced his fingers over the head of his penis and down the ridged underside, learning things about his body that he’d forgotten as pleasure snaked up his spine. His eyes stayed locked on the portrait as he stroked himself, greedily taking in curve of chin and throat, the way her hand rested just on the valley between her breasts. Jacob imagined putting his face there and taking in her scent, which would be a mix of musk, citrus, and night-blooming flowers. Beginning to pant now, not enough air in the room, and his cock was going to explode. Faster and faster he stroked until his hand was a blur and all he could hear was the slap of his skin and the thump of his heart. Those impossible green eyes laughed back at him, and he felt their impact throb in his balls. Jacob’s toes curled and his head snapped back as his orgasm ripped out of him in shuddering spurts. When it was over, Jacob was more than a little embarrassed to find himself on the floor, having slid

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from his precarious seat on the tiny studio stool. He cleaned himself thoroughly, the looked at the painting, sighing with relief as he saw he hadn’t come all over it. Carefully keeping his eyes on the lower half of the painting only, Jacob tossed the dust drape back over it and tidied his office so he could leave for the day. Very deliberately not thinking about what had just happened, Jacob walked away from the painting, and his work, locking the door behind him.

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chapter one The house was palatial. Father Jacob Ellory wished heartily that someone had told him that. It took up several city blocks, a monstrosity of marble and stucco walls. It had fountains and courtyard gardens, and the very idea of staying there made him feel like he’d swallowed a bowling ball. The hired car let him off outside the beautifully arched entryway, and the art student in him could appreciate the symmetry of it, the glorious carved busts of Bacchus, even as he gibbered. He really shouldn’t be surprised at how lush the place was. He was there to study an art collection, after all. What sort of people had art collections? Rich people. Bracing, as if for something truly unpleasant, Jacob pulled the tasseled bell-rope just to the left of the massive doors. A liveried footman (liveried!) opened the door and examined his note of invitation carefully before stepping back to let him in. “Welcome to the Palazzo Miggliozzi, Father.” he said. He gestured to Jacob’s single, scuffed bag. “You may leave your bag here, and it will be taken to your room. Do you need to freshen yourself before you meet Signore Miggliozzi?” Setting down his bag, Jacob shook his head. He was trying not to stare at the foyer, which was just as grand inside as the entry was outside. Marble columns reached for the sky, and a frieze of nymphs and satyrs cavorted around the tops of the walls. The paintings on the vaulted ceilings were extraordinary, blue skies with clouds and birds of all sorts, with a magnificently plumed peacock taking center stage. When he looked back at the footman his cheeks went hot, because the man was looking at him with the sort of amused patience that a city boy shows a country bumpkin. “No, I’m fine,” Jacob muttered. Nodding, the footman gestured for Jacob to follow him. Down the hall they went, and Jacob gaped. Silly, he knew, to be so amazed at the opulence, but he was. Maybe it was his Puritan American upbringing, but the sheer ostentation of Italian palaces amazed him. As did their echoing emptiness. Take the salon they had just entered. It was cavernous, and richly decorated with green silk walls and gold trim, but it held only a few small groupings of furniture and a scattering of wellchosen accents. A statue here and a painting there, a few ornaments on tables, all perfectly matched

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to the room without being contrived. He was startled out of his thoughts when the footman offered him a drink, which he declined. “Your English is very good,” he blurted without thinking. That got him a faint smile. “The signore and signora make sure we are all educated, Father. If there is anything else you require, please just ring.” He waved towards a bell rope on the back wall. “Have a seat, if you like, and the signore will be with you soon.” And with that he was gone, leaving Jacob alone in the huge room. The paintings drew him, so instead of planting his butt on one of the dainty settees Jacob wandered about looking at them. Mostly landscapes, they were obviously picked for their varying shades of green, to match the salon. The only notable exception was a view of the city of Venice, beautifully rendered. Without looking at the signature, Jacob knew he was looking at a Canaletto, an original, and he practically drooled. How many opportunities would he have to study art such as this? Suddenly the house was less intimidating, more interesting. “Father Ellory?” The words, spoken in a deep voice, flavored with the heavy accent of Rome, made him turn back towards the door. “Yes,” he replied, and studied the man who was obviously his host. Not a tall man, just a few inches taller than Jacob’s own five foot nine, but he had the sort of presence that made him look towering. Black hair, with just a bit of gray at the temples and eyes so dark they seemed to absorb the light. Not a handsome man, this one, too harshly featured for that, like he was cut from a particularly hard piece of stone. Not an ounce of superfluous flesh on him anywhere, which was disconcerting, as Jacob was expecting a pampered aristocrat. He felt doughy in comparison, for all that he kept himself in shape playing softball and basketball for the diocese. The suit was Italian silk, expensive yet understated. The haircut probably cost more than Jacob’s entire wardrobe. It would be a mistake to think this man was soft in any way. “Signore Miggliozzi?”

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“Si.” The man smiled and held out his hand. “Marco Miggliozzi, Father. A pleasure to meet you.” They were still several yards apart, but the signore didn’t move, forcing Jacob to be the one to advance. Macho man tactics, as effective as they were amusing. Jacob crossed the space and shook hands firmly. “Thank you for inviting me to your home, sir.” “Thank you for coming. I hope you’ll enjoy your time here.” “It would be impossible not to.” And that was true enough. Jacob couldn’t believe his good fortune. As a scholarship exchange student in art restoration he had been assigned a painting rescued from a rotting old villa in Venice. Nothing special, he had been told, and indeed he didn’t think so either. Until he had found the name signed on it under layers of grime and mildew. Matteo Venetti. Student of the Venice academy masters. His paintings were beyond brilliant. They were masterpieces. Pictures of sin in every dark permutation, tortured souls writhing on the canvas, the man had a vision of Hell that was unrivaled by anyone except maybe Heironymus Bosch. Once Jacob had established that Venetti was the painter of his ordinary little portrait, all sorts of doors opened for him. Including this one, and invitation to the Palazzo Miggliozzi in Rome, home of the single largest private collection of Venetti art in the world. The Miggliozzis were an old family, and quite a presence in Italy. They'd amassed a huge fortune by controlling trade routes in the Middle Ages and Renaissance, and had used it to patron the arts. Their collections were immense, and jealously guarded. For a scholar to be invited to view them was practically unheard of. For a young American priest doing graduate work in art history, it was a miraculous thing. He was still reeling from the pleasure of being allowed to use them for his thesis “I only hope I can make some sense of my research,” Jacob said with a self-conscious smile. “I would hate to waste your time, sir.” “Anything that furthers our knowledge of the arts is hardly a waste of time,” the signore answered smoothly. “And you must call me Marco. I know you must be anxious to get started, but the collection’s overseer will not be here until tomorrow. So, I hope today you will simply unpack your

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things and rest, and join us for dinner tonight. My wife will be there, as will my brother and two of my wife’s brothers. It will be good for you to meet some of the family, become familiar with the house. Dinner will be informal tonight, and we meet in the gold salon a half-hour before for drinks. Will that suit you?” Barely giving Jacob time to nod, Marco strode to the bell cord and pulled. A few short moments later a uniformed maid appeared, and Marco instructed her to show Jacob to his suite. His initial interview was obviously over. He followed the maid on a seemingly endless hike through hall and rooms and finally found himself in a sumptuous suite on the third floor. He was sure it had some name, something like the blue suite, or the Neptune suite, as it was done in shades of blue and the artwork was all naiads and sea creatures. The University had sent on his satchels full of books and supplies, and they were neatly stacked against one wall of the sitting room. The bathroom had a tub as big as a swimming pool, and a shower besides, and here the nymphs were naked and, frankly, more suggestive. Jacob loosened his collar and took off his black jacket. He would unpack, then see if that sumptuous tester bed was as comfy as it looked. Then he’d get up and shower and shave to be presentable for dinner. And then he’d take some time to pray, because any place this comfortable had to be rife with sin, and it would be far too easy to let himself fall into it.

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chapter two

Freshly bathed and dressed, Jacob felt a hundred percent better. By the time it was time for dinner, he had convinced himself that he didn’t need to worry about getting used to his new, luxurious surroundings. He’d be locked up in a tiny room with bright lights studying paint patterns most of the time he was here anyway. Feeling much more in control, he rang the servant’s bell to get someone to take him downstairs. It made him uncomfortable to ring a bell and have someone wait on him, but until he found his way around this mausoleum of a house, he’d just get lost if he went alone. The maid that showed up to get him was different from the earlier one, and Jacob wondered idly how many servants it took to keep a place like this running. She paced along a half step ahead of him, and soon he realized she was shooting speculative glances at him out of the corner of her eye. He smiled at her, and was encouraged when she smiled back. She was pretty enough, with sloe eyes, as his mother had always called them, and masses of dark hair pulled back into a neat knot. “Do you speak English?” he asked. She nodded. “Si. My English is not so bad.” She tilted her head to get a better look at him, and her smile widened. “So, you are the priest, yes?” ‘Yes. What’s your name?” “Cristina,” she replied as they stopped outside a set of grand double doors. “The gold salon, Father.” Cristina looked him over from the top of his head with its floppy brown curls to his sensible shoes, lingering for a long moment on his collar. Then she grinned, and she was pure imp. “Pity that,” she said, then flounced off with a swish of her ass, leaving him standing there with his mouth hanging open. The doors opened with a gentle nudge from him, and he was dazzled immediately by the room he entered. Gold salon indeed. Gilt everywhere, writhing about the ceiling and walls. The only other

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accent color was a pale, soothing ivory, and the effect was overwhelming. The people in the room were just as intimidating. He was surprised there was any more oxygen in there, the way their presence sucked it up. Four men and one woman, all cut from the same mold. Marco was there, as was a man that was obviously his brother. Giovanni was his name, Jacob found out, and he was some five years younger than Marco. He shared his brother’s razor sharp looks, and probably his keen mind. The two other men were brothers as well, twins in fact. These were the wife’s brothers, Damien and Gianni Rossi. Next to them, Jacob felt small and pale, and he was glad he wasn’t a vain man. They shared the same dark hair and greenish-blue eyes, and Jacob knew he’d seen that eye color somewhere before, just recently. It was a mark of how awed he was by these people that it didn’t hit him immediately. It did come to him, though, when he turned to the final inhabitant of the room. Cecilia Miggliozzi was not a beautiful woman. She was hard and angular with an oversized nose. And she had green-blue eyes. Put her in a gown to match them and drape her with jewels, and he had his Renaissance lady in Venetti’s painting, right there before him. He couldn’t breathe. A quizzical smile showed that her two front teeth had just the slightest gap, and he could easily understand why vanity would cause her to smile with her lips closed for a portrait. Except she wasn't the same person as the one in his painting. One had died over four hundred years ago, and this one was very much alive, holding out one slim golden hand and expecting him to talk to her with some sort of coherency. He wasn’t sure he could, and he found himself reaching out and grabbing her hand like a lifeline. Holding his hand for a moment, she smiled at him again, this time reassuringly, as if she thought he was rather frightened by it all. She led him to a settee and pushed him down gently, disengaging her hand and going to get him a drink. Campari and soda, he thought, as he gulped down the palate cleansing drink, and it did help him to regain some sense of normalcy. Which immediately caused his cheeks to heat with a fierce blush as he remembered what he had done to himself the last time he had seen this woman, or at least her painted double. Over Cecilia’s shoulder he saw Damien and Gianni exchange an amused glance, and he knew he had to pull himself together before he embarrassed himself any further.

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“I’m sorry, Signora,” he said. “But, clichéd as it sounds you bear a striking resemblance to the lady in the portrait I’m restoring.” With a delighted laugh she dropped down next to him on the sofa. “Really? The Venetti?” Her voice was lovely, deep and husky, feminine in a way her face could never be. Jacob wanted to hear more of it, and thinking about the whys of that rather unnerved him. He simply nodded. “Wonderful!” She grabbed his hand abruptly and stood, pulling him up with her. “Come,” she said. “We have time before dinner to show you one of the most prized Venettis in our collection.” And with a laughing apology to her family she dragged him out of the room. Another astounding procession of hallways followed, and Jacob wondered how anyone could figure out the warren that was this house. Finally they arrived at their destination, a library that made him so dizzy with want that he felt like he needed to sit down and put his head between his knees. The Vatican might have a library like this. Maybe the British Museum. God above, he was glad he’d come here. Laughing at him, Cecilia smacked him lightly on the arm. “Snap out of it. You can explore later. Come. It’s over here.” “It” took up practically the entire wall of a reading alcove at one end of the room. Massive, looming over him, framed in carved wood and gilt, it had to be the most extraordinary example of painting by Matteo Venetti he had ever seen. And he was considered a relative expert on the few publicly owned paintings there were out there. A spiraling mountain of fire dominated the center of the painting, garish flames rising into a cavern that was somehow infinite, even within the confines of the canvas. The levels of Hell were represented as ledges along the mountain, each one holding an explosion of activity that drew the eye. Every sort of sin was here, and every torment as well, painted in a fury of movement that made him reel. He could smell the brimstone. It made him sweat. And he knew he could stand here for hours and not see everything. He loved it. Every new angle gave him something else to see, something hideous and dark climbing out from every new crevice and crack. This was the thundering retribution of a Medieval God, the God of a

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boy who had grown up far from the city and had no knowledge of a more secular world until his father sent him to apprentice in Venice. It was brilliant. Looking at it, comparing it to the other works, Jacob experienced a moment of disorientation, of something wrong. It staggered him for a minute, and in the next he found Cecilia Miggliozzi holding his arm and peering at him in concern. “Are you all right?” she asked, and he nodded. “Yes, I’m sorry, I was just a bit dizzy.” “It’s overwhelming isn’t it? My husband hates it. He rarely comes in here. I rather like it, though.” “It’s extraordinary.” Jacob paused, searching for what it was that bothered him. ‘It’s only just...” “What?” Blowing out a frustrated breath, Jacob shook his head. “I’m not sure. It just seems unreal, that the same man who painted the portrait I’m working with did this.” “There’s something for your scholarly journals then, mmm? Me, I just look at them and admire. We should get to dinner before Marco comes looking for me.” The feel of her hand on his arm warmed him, soothed the itch of feeling that niggled at the back of his mind. He could stand there all night and let her touch him, and Cecelia seemed as content as he, her fingers moving lightly on his arm, petting him unconsciously. Then his stomach growled, and they both started. "Come," Cecilia said, "we should go to dinner." She guided him out of the room, and he spent the rest of the night gorging himself on rich food and talking with his hosts. They were a fascinating group. The men were charming and well spoken, but they had an edge to them that reminded Jacob of a pack of wolves choosing a new alpha. They insulted each other with impunity, and were faultlessly polite to him. Cecilia flirted with her

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husband and chatted with Jacob and jumped in to make peace whenever someone looked ready to go for blood. The twins caught his attention over and over, especially when they retired to the drawing room after dinner, where yet another servant amused them with music on the piano and they drank brandy. Maybe it was because he had no siblings of his own, but he was endlessly amused by their jibes and pokes, by their small touches and their synchronized looks and speech. They seemed to have their own language that consisted of expressions and sounds and he could have studied them long into the night if they had not retired early, saying they were going out for the rest of the evening. The gathering broke up soon after, and Cecilia gave him the choice of a tour of the house or of an escort back to his room. He chose the former, wanting to spend more time in the lady's company. She beamed at him, and took his hand in hers, and led him through the house. She chattered amiably enough, but Jacob had no idea what she said. The feel of her skin made his heart pound, and all he could do was stare at her as she dragged him through a dizzying procession of rooms. Soon enough, Jacob realized that Cecilia had stopped talking, had indeed stopped walking, and was standing close to him, holding his hand in both of hers. "You are tired, si? I should have let you go to bed." "No. I, well, I suppose I am tired." Yes, that was undoubtedly his best excuse, for in saying that he might escape the intensity of her extraordinary eyes. That color was no artist's convention. It was real, shifting and changing with the light, and with her expression going from concern to something he could not name, dark and somehow as hot as the flames of Venetti's Hell. "Then I will let you go and rest." Cecilia let go of him, rather suddenly, and only after she summoned a maid and he was led away did Jacob realize his hand bore marks where her nails had dug into it. The maid was quiet, so

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Jacob was left alone with his thoughts on the long trek to his room. The door closing behind him sounded very much like a cell door clicking shut. Ridiculous. Feeling unsettled, Jacob sat at the writing desk in the sitting room and noted down his first impressions of the Venetti in the library, jotting down a few words about the notable resemblance of his hostess to the mysterious lady in his painting, as well as his extraordinary reaction to her. He wrote about the utterly odd feeling he'd had looking at the painting, and made a note to look more closely into Matteo Venetti's background Finally he was unable to keep his eyes open any longer, and he went to bed, settling deep into the feather bolster and dropping into sleep like a stone into water. Dreams came to him that night, dark unsettling, things that he couldn’t remember clearly and was glad that he did not. Faces swam in and out of focus, people he knew, and many that he didn’t. The images disturbed him in ways that he couldn’t describe, and when he woke in the morning he was twisted in the sheets and smelled of old sweat. He was also achingly hard. More so than he could remember being in his usual morning routine. It embarrassed him somehow, even though he could easily explain it away as a typical male phenomenon. He slid out of bed and skulked to the bathroom like a guilty child. By the time he bathed and dressed, he had rationalized it all and was feeling up to facing the day. He was escorted to breakfast, which was a groaning English style buffet, and then to the “morning room” to see the lady of the house. Jacob was starting to feel like he was trapped in one of those Daphne du Maurier or Barbara Cartland novels his mother adored so much. This house was so full of bowing and scraping and my ladys that he could very well have stepped back in time. There was no casual flirting this morning. Cecilia was kind, but rather short. She had household work to catch up on, would he mind terribly if her brothers amused him until the Venetti expert arrived? He tried not to stare when she beamed at him when he said he didn’t mind. She wore a silk shirt this morning, casual but elegant, and she smelled of citrus and flowers, just as he knew she would. He snapped out of his admiring stupor when she made a vicious jab at a letter with her little knife-

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like opener. So much for the sweet ladylike demeanor. Her brothers, Damien and Gianni (or was it Gianni and Damien?) chose that very moment to arrive, and she waved them away with a distracted smile, every inch the mistress of the manner, giving him no time to analyze his reaction to her, which was as strong as the night before. The twins shrugged and smiled in unison, and pulled him off, chattering amiably at each other in Italian, and occasionally in English to him. They reminded him of the Siamese cats in a movie he’d seen when he was a kid, Lady and the Tramp, if he could trust his childhood memories. The cats had twined around each other constantly, finishing each other’s sentences and looking at everything with bright, curious eyes. These two were exactly that way, and Jacob knew that if they wanted to, they could be nothing but trouble. He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, but I expected the curator of the collection to be here today. I believe that’s what the signore told me.” Another look passed between them and another smile. “Si, si. She’s due in today, but ...” “is not here yet.” One of them started, the other finished and if they didn’t stop that, Jacob was going to get whiplash. “Please, could you not do that?” “Sorry,” they said, once again in unison, and Jacob sighed. He had a feeling it was going to be a long morning. He asked them for a tour of the house, noting that while the exchanged a surprised glance, they did not mention his previous nights' tour. They were polite enough to nod and smile, and lead him off into the depths of the house. Jacob hoped this time he might actually see something, as he didn't have Cecilia to distract him. As it turned out, the twins were enthusiastic, if not always reliable tour guides. They showed him all of the main rooms of the palazzo: the grand formal drawing room with its soaring ceilings and the

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monstrous dining room complete with musician’s galleries. They poked and prodded him through the hall of portraits, protesting that these were not their ancestors, but Marco’s so how should they know who they were? He would have to come back later and look at the paintings, for some of them had familiar styles, and Jacob figured he'd find the names of great masters on them. They were great ones for touching, the two brothers, with no sense of personal space. One or the other, if not both, always seemed to have a hand on him, guiding him over to see this painting, or that bust. Some of the more casually displayed items made him sweat, but when he asked them about the wisdom of leaving something so valuable lying about, they shrugged. Yes, both of them. “But who is going to steal them?” Damien asked, clearly amazed at the question. “The servants? They are more likely to break them while cleaning.” “And besides,” Gianni finished, “they are, how would you say? Only things. They are nothing unless someone can see them, and enjoy them, no?” Only things. That was the difference in coming from a country that had only four hundred years of history at best, to one that had thousands. To an American, a piece of Roman glass was a priceless gem. To a Rossi, it was a pretty thing. Jacob shook his head. Only if he started getting used to that idea would he worry. Still, he eagerly followed them on their eclectic tour, soaking in the paintings by Renaissance celebrities and ornaments like a Cellini ewer and a Tang figurine. Somewhere during the time he spent with them that morning, Jacob found that he was not only fascinated with the twins, but he liked them too. They had a sly humor, and a sort of openness that he had to admire. He felt camaraderie with them, emphasized by their frequent physical contact and their brash familiarity. He could even make out most of what they said. It was almost a disappointment when lunch was announced and they were forced to break off the tour and join the rest of the family. Almost, because his growling stomach told him that it was nearly two o’clock in the afternoon, much later than he was used to filling his belly. Lunch was another buffet affair, relatively informal, and it was there that Jacob finally got to meet

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the Miggliozzis’ collection supervisor, Teresa Bonnell. She was American also, which surprised him. A tall, cool blonde with sharp gray eyes, whose business suit made him think more of lawyers than museum curators, Terri was polite, and willing to help him in any way, which made him wonder about her. Scholars generally guarded their pet projects jealously, and resented any intrusion into their little realms. To find on that was honestly willing to welcome another “expert” to the field was astonishing. After lunch, Jacob was eager to get to work, but realized that everyone else in the house, including Teresa, was taking the traditional siesta type relaxation period. He wandered around for a long while on his own, revisiting room the twins had whisked him through, and soon found himself back in the library he'd visited with Cecilia the night before. The Venetti called to him, and he walked over to stand before it, drinking in the minute details of it like a man dying of thirst. It was not a pretty thing. Not at all. It was profoundly disturbing. But it was unquestionably a masterpiece, one of the finest examples of Venetti’s work, period. Jacob was dazzled. Taken as a whole, it was a vision from a child’s nightmare of Hell. Then you moved closer and took each scene as it was, and you realized that no child could come up with anything like this. The levels of Hell, as he’d thought before, but also the sins, the seven deadliest, laid bare for all to see. “Eerie, isn’t it?” came a voice from his elbow, and he jumped nearly a foot into the air. He turned to see Teresa, the collection curator, standing next to him. She smiled slightly. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you, but you were so engrossed.” His own smile was self-deprecating. “No problem. It is eerie. It’s also breathtaking.” “I’m glad you think so. Not everyone likes Venetti. And very few of the people who do are clergy.” Jacob frowned. “I was under the impression that his relative unpopularity was because of a lack of access. So many Venettis are in private collections.” “Perhaps that’s true of the general populace, but can you think of a painter during the Italian Renaissance that had no patrons within the Church besides Matteo Venetti?”

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Shaking his head, Jacob countered, “Well, no, but I’m not getting any resistance from the Church for studying him. And it’s not like they don’t own any of his paintings.” Obviously warming to the debate, Teresa gestured for him to come with her. “Come, I’ll show you to your work room. Now think about it, Father, the Venettis you have studied. How many of them were owned by the Church?” When he opened his mouth to reply, Jacob realized he couldn’t think of a single one beyond the portrait he had so recently begun work on. He grinned. “Well I’m sure there must be some someplace. And what about the one I‘ve been working on?” Pulling out a huge ring of keys, Teresa opened up a door he had not seen in before, and led the way down a utilitarian servant’s hallway lit by fluorescent lighting. “Why do you think,” she said, “that you have been allowed to come here and study, Father?” “Please, it’s Jacob.” “Jacob, then,” she nodded. “Why?” “Because the Church assigned me to the painting. Because I want to do a dissertation on the marked differences between Venetti’s early work and his later pieces. I assumed it was because the Miggliozzis have a good relationship with the Vatican.” Her short, sharp laugh surprised him. “Hardly. It’s because the Church wants the thing off its hands. They’ve offered to sell the piece to us. They didn’t want to pull their prodigy’s thesis out from under him though, so you got sent to us too. You will still have the option to finish restoration.” Finally realizing Jacob had stopped short, Teresa turned back to look at him. He stood and stared at her, stunned. “You can’t be serious.” “Never more so, “ she replied. “The Church has never owned a Venetti for more than a few weeks.

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They’ve always passed them on as soon as they could.” “You have documentation for this?” It was hard for Jacob to take in. He'd seen Venetti paintings in private collection catalogs and art histories while he was an undergrad, and the stark differences in the painter's methods had piqued Jacob's curiosity, but he'd never studied the man's work at a church institution, save the newest one, so it could very well be true. “Yes, of course. I’ll make sure it’s made available to you. Here we are.” They stopped outside a steel door, for which Teresa had a key, naturally. She let him in, and he found himself in a perfectly arranged workroom, with everything he could possibly need to restore, authenticate, or test a painting. He was a bit overwhelmed. “Like it?” she asked. “Oh yes. Thank you Teresa.” “Terri. Your painting is over there.” She pointed to a drape-covered easel. “Enjoy. I’ll show you the rest of the collection tomorrow. I’ll have that documentation for you by then, too. Dinner will be at eight. Formal. Your jacket and collar will do fine. If you need anything between now and then just pick up the phone and dial 9.” With that, she left him to his new home and office. He explored. He had a sink and a worktable, several kinds of easels and all sorts of track lamps that simulated different light types. He had paints and solvents and sponges and brushes. He had drop cloths and drapes and smocks to cover his clothes. The list went on and on and Jacob started to feel as though he understood the term embarrassment of riches. He knew his inventory could only put off the inevitable for so long, though, so he finally went to what he was, sadly, thinking of as his painting and lifted the cover. The jolt was stronger this time, because he had the added recognition of a live double for this

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woman, whoever she was. His palms began to sweat, and his heart speeded its beat. Jacob studied the painting, trying, he realized, to find the differences rather than the similarities. That little crescent shaped scar next to her mouth, for instance. That it was the same was a coincidence, a remarkable one, but a coincidence nonetheless. How else could he explain it? Jacob sighed. The painting tingled in him, bringing hot blood to his face and, humiliatingly, to his groin. He wanted to deny it, he tried to keep his flesh as pure as he could, but he wasn’t one for lying to himself. His mysterious lady resonated in him. Deciding to do something more useful, Jacob searched about until he found a sketchpad and a set of colored pencils. Then he set about making a drawing of the sea lion pendant on the necklace she wore. It had a look about it that made him think of family crests, and perhaps that would be his first step in the direction of finding out who she was. He noted it down with careful attention to detail, ignoring her modestly covered chest and the gentle swell of breast undisguised by the drape of fabric and hand. When he noticed his attention wander for about the fifth time to her neck or her waist where it disappeared under the damage to the painting, he decided to stop. Jacob checked his copy of the sea lion against the original and pronounced it good enough to research by. Then he gently covered the painting again, and headed back to the library. He looked for books on family crests and willed his cock to go down, and soon enough it did, leaving him relieved, and able to concentrate on his research. It was a frustrating project at best, but Jacob loved nothing more than to delve into history. The next few days were idyllic. He ate his meals with the family, who generally consisted of Cecilia and Marco, Giovanni and Terri. The twins came and went like the cats he now associated them with. He worked on the painting in his studio and ploughed through book after book in the library, looking for any reference to the winged sea lion, with no real success. Before he knew it, it was Sunday, and time to go to Mass. He hadn’t once seen the other Venetti paintings in the house, and Terri hadn’t given him any source information regarding the Church and the painter. He hadn’t thought about it until now, and that in itself amazed him. The family, he found out from the maid, Cristina, had a private chapel where they heard mass and received communion. Of course. Jacob had not been invited to attend. Cristina, who had taken

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something of a fancy to him, asked him to accompany her, and he accepted gladly, knowing he’d never make it back to the church at the University in time. They went to a beautiful old church nestled into the narrow, twisted streets in the older section of town. When he walked through the doors, Jacob experienced another one of those moments of disorientation, of wrongness, and it shook him to the core. He’d been too wrapped up in his new and relentlessly secular little world. He’d have to make up for that, and soon. Hearing the mass and going to confession soothed him. Jacob felt as if the world titled back on its axis to the proper angle. He was calmer, and he knew he had missed church, without really missing it, if that made any sense. Cristina’s family asked him to eat with them afterwards, which he declined as graciously s he could. He decided instead to walk for a while and get a feel for a part of the city he hadn’t really explored yet. That was the problem with being both a priest and an art scholar. You spent most of your time inside institutions that had no need for contact with the outside world. And after a few days at the Miggliozzi house, Jacob felt as though he had simply traded one museum for another. The priest was standing at the doorway of the church, shaking hands and inquiring about family when Jacob walked out. He was starting down the steps when he felt a hand descend on his arm. He turned and the priest smiled at him. “Scusi,” he said, then continued in English. “American, yes?” “Yes.” Jacob smiled. “Is it that obvious?” The other priest smiled back and shook his head. “No. But you came here with Cristina Ghiradelli. So, I think you must be the young American priest.” “That would be me.” “Good.” The man patted his arm. “Stay for a moment? I need to finish here, but then I would like to talk to you.”

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Surprised but happy to oblige, Jacob nodded and went back into the church. He spent the wait wandering around, admiring stained glass and polished wood, and breathing in the scent of lemon oil and lingering perfume. He liked this church. It was simple, but beautiful and he thought he might just make it his home away from home, whenever he needed perspective and distance from the Miggliozzi house. He settled into a pew at the back of the church and let his mind wander, enjoying the cool and quiet. The priest’s name was Father Bertolli. When he was done with the thank yous, he left his young assistant in charge of any stragglers and led Jacob off for an excellent lunch of cold meat and cheese and warm, crusty bread. Jacob would have protested, but the middle-aged man with the kind but shrewd eyes wouldn’t let him get away with it. You took what the Lord provided, he said, and were grateful. They chatted amiably, Jacob’s fair Italian mixing with the Bertolli’s decent English to form a wonderful tapestry of language. It was only after the meal was finished that Father Bertolli got down to business. “So,” he started when they were both replete, leaning back to accommodate full bellies. “You are working at the Palazzo Miggliozzi, then?” “Yes, they’ve graciously let me come and study their collection.” A raised brow came presaged a question. “Collection of what?” The tone was almost snide, and Jacob looked at Father Bertolli closely, trying to gauge his expression. The Father’s face remained impassive, but there was a twinkle in his eye, and Jacob was relieved, deciding he must have been teasing. “Their collection of paintings by a rather obscure Venetian painter.” “Matteo Venetti?” “Yes. How did you know?” “He may be rather obscure to you, and not terribly popular with the Church, but he was a rather

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infamous Italian. And we like our infamous citizens, we Italians. I studied him in history, just like everyone else. Besides, it’s well known that the Miggliozzis have a large collection of his paintings.” “That’s certainly true.” Jacob thought for a moment. “You say he’s not popular with the Church. You’re the second person to say that to me, and it comes as something of a surprise to me. They tell me the University is offering to sell a newly discovered Venetti to the Miggliozzis as a matter of fact. I’d love to hear your opinion. Why on earth would they do that?” Crossing his hands over his belly and stretching his feet out in front of him, Father Bertolli took on a lecturing tone. “Well, first of all, he was excommunicated. You know that, right?” “I knew he committed suicide and was buried in a pauper’s grave.” “Yes, but that was after.” “Really?” Jacob hadn’t heard that, which amazed him, though with a subject as enigmatic as Venetti, one could easily be an expert on the paintings and not the man “What did he do?” “Oh the accusations were endless. They say he sold his soul. I think what actually got him was Easter, but it was one of those things like your Al Capone. Take the little crime like tax evasion and jail him for it to make up for the big things.” “Easter,” Jacob repeated incredulously. “You mean he didn’t confess.” “Exactly.” Father Bertolli shrugged. “You know how the Church was back then. Not so different than now really, except that it had even more power. An Inquisitor could do whatever they wanted. At any rate, the paintings of Matteo Venetti and the Miggliozzi family are well suited to each other.” That startled a laugh out of Jacob. “I’m told they don’t get on well with the Church.” “The Church is rather afraid of them I think.” The Father leaned in and took on a serious

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expression. “May I offer some advice, Father Ellory?” “Of course.” “Be careful with the Miggliozzis. And the Rossis. Cecilia and her brothers especially. They do not think like we do. They don’t follow our rules. Study your painting. Write your paper. Move on before you are sucked in. Do you understand?” Defensive, Jacob felt a blush heat his face and he damned his pale skin. “No, Father, I don’t think I do.” “Perhaps you will soon. Just keep my words in mind.” The other priest stood and Jacob knew their lunch was over. He rose too, and thanked his host for the excellent meal. They parted with a friendly goodbye, and an admonition from Father Bertolli that if Jacob ever needed a Father Confessor, or just a friendly ear, he would be there. As he made his way back to the Palazzo, Jacob tried very hard to convince himself that he had no idea what the other father had meant.

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chapter Three

It was slow going. Jacob found that as cooperative as Terri and the household staff seemed, they could be remarkably inefficient when they wanted to. It took almost a week after his meeting with Father Bertolli to get Terri to let him into the main Venetti collection. It took another two or three days to get his hands on even a fraction of the documentation she promised him. He finally put his foot down and demanded it, and she smiled at him and told him of course, he could have it the next day. His access to the main part of the house was complete, though. The library, the grand entertaining rooms, the gorgeous little domed room off the west garden that had the ceiling painted in a vision of the skies and heaven so grand it hurt, all of this and more was open to him. The doors he most needed to open, however, seemed to stay resolutely closed. Sunday came again, and as he was getting ready to go to mass, having told Cristina he would, Terri knocked at his door. “I have those sale records for you, Jacob. Would you like to read them now? Or shall I have them taken to the library for you to read later?” “No. I’ll take them now. I’ll just drop them off at the library before I go to mass.” Something like amusement glinted in her eyes for a moment, but was gone too quickly for him to be sure. “Certainly, Father.” She handed him a folder stuffed full of photocopies and left him with a wave and a smile. Shaking his head, a little bemused by her attitude, Jacob headed for the library. He began leafing through the folder, and saw that it was full of copies of sale records, abstracts from older records, pictures of each painting in the collection, and authentication records. He was thrilled. This was more information in one chunk than he had received in two weeks. Jacob wandered down to the library, occasionally bumping into walls and stair rails as he read, only realizing when he arrived that he hadn’t needed help finding the place. Settling himself at the large worktable he had appropriated for his research materials, Jacob pored over the information, and quickly lost himself

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in the history of Venetti’s paintings. It seemed impossible when Terri mentioned it the first time, but it was soon apparent that she was right. Almost every Venetti in the Miggliozzi collection had once been owned by the Church. And within a few weeks of acquiring the paintings, the Church turned right around and sold them. What was even more interesting to him, though, was that the paintings were not sold to the Miggliozzi family. They were all recorded as being sold to the Rossis. Up to and including the brand new bill of sale for the new and as yet unnamed portrait of a lady, which was purchased two short days ago by one Alessandro Rossi of Palermo. He was, if Jacob remembered the gossip correctly, Cecilia’s oldest brother. Possibly even more interesting were the authentication reports on each painting. Quite recently, they had all been appraised and authenticated for insurance purposes. Each set of papers was signed and dated by the appraiser from the insurance company, the Venetti expert (in most cases Teresa Bonnell) and a member of the Rossi family. The names were widely varied, ranging from the already mentioned Alessandro, to one of the twins, to Cecilia herself. Some of the names he had never heard before, but he filed them away for later. What stopped him cold was the seal carefully imprinted on each piece of paper. It was a grand medieval family crest, all flowing lines and rampant animals, and taking center stage was a magnificent winged lion with the tail of a sea creature. The only other one he had seen like it was on his mysterious lady in the Venetti portrait. Questions piled up in his head. He needed to make some phone calls and talk to Terri. Soon. But it would have to wait until after mass. Jacob tidied up and carefully tucked the papers away in their folder, intending to lock them up in his room, just in case. He glanced at his watch and was dismayed to see that it was mid-afternoon. He’d been so wrapped up in his studies that he had missed not only church, but lunch as well. Jacob’s stomach chose that moment to remind him that food was a good thing. He shrugged. If he skipped dinner with the family Miggliozzi, he could go to evening mass at Father Bertolli’s church. He nodded to himself, and trudged back to his room with the papers before wandering off to the kitchen to find something to munch on. The kitchen was one of those cavernous places full of stainless steel and copper that looked like it belonged in a four star restaurant. It did have one cozy corner, the domain of the housekeeper, not

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the cook. She made lace. He’d heard all about it the first time he’d gone down looking for a snack. Heard that and a long tirade about how that damned cook the lady had hired wasn’t even family, and didn’t even live in the house. Jacob smiled, and made for the enormous side-by-side refrigerator, knowing that was where the leftovers were kept. Just as he was settling in to eat a nice bit of antipasto, a high-pitched noise, a scream abruptly cut off, made him jump to his feet. He started towards the pantry, since the sound came from that direction, and listened closely, barely breathing. More noise, muffled thumps and grunts, and Jacob eased back into the dry storage area, ready to do who knew what to help if someone were buried under an avalanche of canned goods. There, in the very back corner of the dimly lit pantry, someone was struggling, apparently with the small stepstool that was used to reach the higher shelves. His mouth was already open to ask if he could help before the image burned into his eyeballs, and Jacob realized what he was seeing. A man, sitting on the stool and propped against the wall, with his legs spread out before him was holding a woman on his lap. His hands bracketed her hips and his fingers dug into her buttocks. She, in turn, straddled the man, moving up and down on him. Her breasts bounced as she rode, and her head was flung back in a posture of unrestrained delight. She had one hand stuffed into her mouth to muffle the sounds she was making, which would, no doubt, be very shrill. The woman was Cristina, the flirty maid. The man was Giovanni Miggliozzi, Marco’s younger brother. They were like a pair of animals, grunting and shoving. Jacob could smell them, hot and musky, sweat and sex. He wanted to turn around and leave. Part of him was utterly disgusted by the display. The other part was even more disgusted, but with himself. It was fascinating to watch. They were primal, completely uninhibited. Their hands moved over each other greedily, his roaming from her breasts to her waist, but always coming back to her hips when he wanted to change the pace. Hers twisted in his chest hair and rubbed across his nipples, dipping every so often to the place between their legs to touch their joining. It took forever, but was over in mere minutes, and Jacob couldn’t tear his eyes away from them. Soft and round, hard and muscular, they twisted and turned together like a scene from Venetti’s

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Hell, a scene called lust. When they came, their bodies heaved and rolled, Giovanni’s hips pumping up and up and Cristina clung to Vanni as she rode it out, finally collapsing in a breathless heap on his chest. Snapping out of his stupor, Jacob moved backwards, jerkily, towards the door. Giovanni’s head came up, and their eyes met, the other man’s dark stare burning into him, and Jacob blushed painfully. He stood there and stared back, unable to move any further until Giovanni smiled at him, slow and suggestive, and Jacob turned and bolted for the door. By the time he got back to his room, his legs shook and he was breathing like he’d run a mile. Which was entirely possible. He slammed the door behind him and locked it, and forgot about mass and food and anything else but the shame in him for his actions, and the heavy ache that spread from the pit of his stomach to his groin. When the family called for him at dinner, he pleaded a headache and hid in his room. Morning found him feeling ridiculous. Okay, so he had walked in on something he shouldn’t have. And he’d been riveted. Who wouldn’t be? People were naturally fascinated with things that were supposed to be private. He did, however, need to apologize to Giovanni, and he vowed he would do that sometime during they day. After he did a little research and got out of the house for a little while. He wanted to ask some questions. And he wanted to see Father Bertolli. Breakfast was not as tense as he expected, because they only person there was Teresa. Jacob kept the conversation light, the topics neutral, and made an appointment with her for later in the day. He made some calls afterwards, made a few more appointments, then escaped the confines of the house to go out and run errands in the city. The church was quiet on Monday morning, and peaceful. It smelled of wood soap and candles and all of the things that Jacob had considered right and good as a child. He breathed it all in, and it made him feel better, just as it always did. It quieted his jangled thoughts. Father Bertolli met him there and they went to his office to talk. He offered the father a bag of pastry he’d picked up on the way, and it was gratefully accepted. “So,” Father Bertolli began, “you wished to see me?”

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“I needed to talk to someone, Father.” “Well, here I am.” Sighing, Jacob tried to figure out where to begin. “I missed mass yesterday.” “That’s hardly punishable by death.” “I know.” Jacob offered up a small smile. “But I feel like I was maneuvered into it. Then I think I’m just being paranoid. But, really, I feel like they’re just playing games with me.” “The Miggliozzis you mean?” He nodded. “Getting information from them is like pulling teeth. But the manipulation is so subtle that I don’t realize it’s happening until it’s too late.” ‘May I be blunt?” Father Bertolli dusted the crumbs of his late breakfast off his hands, and leaned forward, all seriousness. At Jacob’s nod he continued. “I warned you to be careful with them. The price of your study on the Venetti paintings will be playing mouse to their cat. There’s no other way with them. Are you prepared for that?” “I thought so. But I didn’t realize...” Jacob trailed off. “I suppose I wasn’t aware of the stakes before.” “I don’t think you are now,” Father Bertolli said cryptically. “Still, there are ways. Make sure you get out of the house at least once a day. Don’t get wrapped up in the fantasy.” “That’s what I’m trying to do today.” “Good.” Father Bertolli stood suddenly. “Now, since you missed church yesterday I would be happy to hear your confession. That way you can come to early Mass next week.”

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Smiling a little wryly, Jacob consented. “Thank you, Father. Would you mind if I came to visit? Often?” “Not at all. And if I am not here, I understand the churchyard is quite good for meditation on the nature of sin.” “Oh? Perhaps I might have some use for that.” He confessed, leaving nothing out, and feeling no self-consciousness in doing so. Once on the other side of the confessional, he knew Father Bertolli was impersonal, no longer giving advice, but giving penance, as a vessel for God. The courtyard was indeed good for meditation, and Jacob spent a quiet hour there, watching tourists and parishioners alike come and go and musing on the turns his life had taken in recent days. Much renewed, he made his way through his other appointments. The library at the University yielded a fine book on the history of Italian family names and heraldry. He also picked up a few reference books from his tiny office there, and checked his messages. Nothing. His next appointment wasn’t for another hour, so Jacob took the opportunity to wander around part of the city and look at some of the gorgeous statuary. It also served to clear his head a bit, and he tried to organize his thoughts for his meeting with Father Fermozzi, the prelate who had handled the sale of the Venetti to the Miggliozzis. Or rather the Rossis. Father Fermozzi was a small, nervous looking man who wore wire-rimmed glasses and a traditional floor length cassock. He stuttered a bit when speaking English, so Jacob switched to Italian to put him at ease. It didn’t work. Jacob couldn’t imagine this man executing a business deal with the likes of Marco or Cecilia Miggliozzi. They sat down together in the father’s wood paneled office, and Fermozzi pulled out an ashtray and a cigarette case. After offering one to Jacob, and being refused, he lit one with obvious relief. It must have steadied his nerves. Waiting for the man to settle down, Jacob smiled pleasantly and relaxed into the most uncomfortable office chair he’d ever sat on. Father Fermozzi finally got around to asking what he could do for him after fifteen solid minutes of puffing his foul smelling smokes and making small talk about everything from the weather to the state of the Church bank. Jacob found, as an

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American, that he sometimes got impatient with these little rituals, but he’d been in Italy long enough now to expect them. “It’s about the Venetti painting, Father,” Jacob stated. “Si. Si, si. Of course. The Venetti. You want to know what the status of it is? You needn’t worry. You have permission to use it as long as you need to, along with the others in the collection. Such a fine collection.” Interrupting, Jacob said, “Actually father, I wanted to know why the Church decided to sell it at all.” A blank look was his reply for a long moment. Then Fermozzi smiled at him like he was a very small child. “The Church wants nothing to do with that man’s paintings.” It was said with absolute conviction and sincerity. Jacob was stumped. “So why am I still working on it then?” “Because you are an art historian. And you have a legitimate thesis to discuss about Venetti’s paintings. We cannot stop you from doing it. But we can decide not to harbor the works of an excommunicated heretic” “Heretic. That’s strong wording, isn’t it? For a man who missed Easter confession?” “Bah. He was a monster.” Looking askance at Fermozzi, Jacob defended, “But how do you know that? There’s little to no documentation as to why Venetti painted what he did, or why he killed himself. I have studied him for over a year, and I didn’t even know he was excommunicated until just recently.” “Perhaps you have not been looking in the right places.”

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“Maybe not. Could you point me towards some source material?” “I am certain the Miggliozzis can help you with that.” “Fine.” Jacob knew his frustration was starting to show in his voice, but he couldn’t help himself. “I did want to ask you one other thing, Father. You sold the painting to an Alessandro Rossi. That’s Cecilia Miggliozzi’s older brother, right?” “Si.” “Why?” The priest looked confused. “Why?” “Yes. If it’s a Miggliozzi collection, why sell it to a Rossi?” “Ah.” Fermozzi’s expression cleared. “Because the collection is really on loan to the Miggliozzis, if you will. It was a wedding gift from the two oldest brothers to their sister. It’s always belonged to the Rossis, you see.” “I see.” He didn’t, not really, but Father Fermozzi was tapping out his latest cigarette and shooting back his cuff to check his watch. Jacob had a feeling the interview was over. He thanked the man for his time, and left. He’d been given a lot to think about. Why would the Rossis buy up a collection of paintings and then hand them over to the Miggliozzis? A wedding gift made sense, he supposed, but Cecilia had said very plainly that Marco didn't even like Venetti's paintings, so he supposed they must have gone to her. He would be very interested in finding out why. The only thing left on his list for the day was his meeting with Terri Bonnell. Well, that and finding Giovanni and apologizing, which he didn’t really want to do, but knew was only polite. Jacob decided to take his life in his hands and take a cab back to the house, which proved to be about all of the excitement he could stand for one day. Gasping his thanks, he paid and tipped the driver, and staggered into the house as the footman held the door for him. Apparently, he was just in time

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for lunch. The dizzying array of food, and the company of the Rossi twins made him feel relaxed and happy. The wine didn’t hurt either, and he felt perfectly able to seek Giovanni out before his late afternoon meeting with Teresa. He found the younger Miggliozzi brother in an office on the second floor, looking over a stack of incomprehensible business reports. It was an imposing space, all dark woods and heavy carvings, and Jacob spared a flippant thought for how much more impressive the elder brother’s office must be. Greeting him warmly and inviting him to sit, Giovanni put aside his work and waited with a pleasantly patient expression for Jacob to explain why he was there. Jacob was still a bit tipsy, but it was wearing off, and now that he was here, he was having a bit of trouble spitting out what had seemed so easy to say a few minutes ago when he rehearsed it in the hall. “I’m sorry,” he blurted, and felt like an idiot. The faintly confused look on Giovanni’s (or Vanni as he insisted Jacob call him) didn’t help. “About yesterday. In the kitchen.” Light dawned, and Vanni’s teeth flashed in a bright grin. “Ah. About the thing with Cristina, yes?” A sharp nod. “Yes.” “I was not upset with you, Jacob. Cristina, well she might have had a few things to say if she had seen you.” Vanni rolled his eyes. “She always has something to say. The only way to get her to shut up is to fuck her.” Shocked at the other man’s crudeness, Jacob simply stared. Vanni shrugged. “I’m sorry. Did I upset you? I forget, sometimes that you are a priest. You are also a man, though, so I think you can understand. Besides, it’s a chance you take when you do something like that in the pantry, hmm? Someone could walk in any time. Better you than her mother.” Blushing, attempting not to stammer, Jacob asked, “So why do you do it there then? Doesn’t privacy mean anything to you?”

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Eyebrows waggling lewdly, Giovanni answered, “It adds spice. The fear of getting caught. And the idea of someone watching. I liked it.” The blush was going to become permanent. Jacob could feel it from his hairline all the way to his toes. He decided to leave before it got any worse. “I just wanted to apologize,” he mumbled on his way to the door. Laughter trailed out into the hall after him. ‘I think you liked it too, Father. If you’d just admit it.” Jacob fled.

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chapter four

Impossible. The whole family was impossible and rude and completely unconcerned with things like consideration for other people’s feelings. Jacob fumed about Giovanni most of the afternoon. He cancelled his appointment with Terri and went to his workshop and took out his frustrations on the delicate and damaged third of his Rossi lady. He could only call it coincidence for so long. The pendant was obviously a Rossi crest, even though he hadn’t had time to check the book yet. He knew he would, and he knew too that they were fucking with him over it. Layers of water deposits and grime came off under his careful ministrations. With each one he pondered the layers of subterfuge piled on him by the Miggliozzis. Why? Why all of the run around and resistance? Were they just amusing themselves at his expense? Maybe it made them laugh to think of the poor little priest stumbling around them and begging for scraps. Or maybe they had some other motive, something they wanted him to do for them. What he couldn’t imagine. His imagination ran wild, and he knew he was probably being an idiot, but he was too pissed off to care. Pondering the sinister intentions of his hosts finally wore thin about the same time the solvents started to make him light headed. Jacob staggered out of his workroom sometime late in the evening to find some fresh air. He tip-toed into the kitchen and made himself a fat sandwich out of prosciutto and tomatoes, then went out to the courtyard gardens to tell his tale of woe to the statues, who couldn’t talk back. The night was full of city noises, yet they were removed enough that they simply provided a backdrop of sound to the closer tinkle of water in fountains and chirping crickets. The twins pounced on him from behind a sober Roman senator with no arms and practically scared him into a heart attack. He repressed the shout of surprise by force of will alone, and made himself politely ask what the Hell they wanted. Or at least he thought he was polite. From the identical looks on their faces Jacob figured he must have snarled at them. “Sorry. Did we scare you?” Gianni asked.

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“We didn’t mean to,” Damien continued. “But you weren’t at dinner.” “Again. So we came looking for you.” It was difficult to stay angry with them. Especially since they were the only two in the whole house who had no interest in the Venetti, and had been nothing but kind to him. “I’m sorry. I’m just feeling out of sorts.” Jacob knew it was lame, but at least it was much more along the lines of how he wanted to sound. The twins cocked their heads at him, one to the left, one to the right, like mirror images. Then they both smiled. Gianni once again spoke first. “You work too hard. You need to get out of here more.” “Si. You should come out with us tomorrow. Away from here.” Damien whacked him on the shoulder teasingly. “You need to get out and see some of the city.” Gianni nodded and reached out to stroke Jacob’s priest’s collar. “He has a point, Jacob. Even your God took a day off once in awhile, eh?” Laughing, Jacob protested. “But I haven’t really gotten any work done, thanks to your family. So I need to stay in tomorrow and research.” “Our family? But that’s normal. We do it to each other.” “So you shouldn’t take it personally.” “You make my neck hurt,” Jacob said. “Going back and forth like that.” But he had to grin back at them, they were so earnest and apologetic. He finally agreed to go sightseeing with them the next day, just to get them to leave him alone. They did, with a promise to meet him mid-morning for the grand tour of Rome. Somehow those two always managed to put him in a better mood, which when he really thought about it, probably made them the most dangerous members of the family

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he’d met to date. He finally gave up, throwing up his mental hands and going to bed. He’d dwell on it all in the morning. Sleep came with surprising ease, and was dreamless for a change. The day looked better than he’d thought it would. Jacob decided that after breakfast he’d storm the gates and talk to Cecilia or Marco, or both. As it turned out, he got the chance to do it at breakfast instead, and he drew himself up and put on his best stern priest face for the confrontation. “Good morning,” he started, and the entire family greeted him with enthusiasm. He filled a plate and took a seat, then cleared his throat. “Excuse me, signore and signora.” Marco looked up from his reports, and Cecilia from her letters. Once he knew he had their attention, he continued. “I hate to complain, because your hospitality has been generous. But I feel I must, so you are aware of a few things.” “Certainly, Jacob,” Cecilia nodded. “What is wrong?” “I haven’t seen the collection yet. I have been waiting for research materials for two weeks. I rarely get a straight answer to a question, and I’m beginning to feel like you don’t really want me here. I feel like you’re just humoring me to make the Vatican happy, since they were willing to sell the painting to you. I’m just asking for a bit of cooperation.” It was Marco who came to his aid, strangely enough. He directed a cool look at Terri and asked, “Is that true?” Swallowing a sip of coffee, Terri nodded. “Yes. At least in that he hasn’t seen the collection yet. I gave him the insurance photos, and have been waiting for him to tell me which ones he wants to see.” “I see. And the research materials?”

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“I was unable to get my hands on them immediately. Signore Alba, the solicitor had them.” “Maybe next time you could keep Jacob informed of these things?” Marco’s tone was heavy with sarcasm, and Terri’s answering smile was more a baring of teeth. “Of course” “Bene. As for humoring you, Father, I’m sorry you feel that way.” Marco smiled at him, and Jacob had the fleeting impression of a shark swimming in deep waters. “I hope that, in the future if you have problems you will come to me immediately. I will do my best to help you. It is my house after all.” The last was said with a sweeping, contemptuous glance at the others in the breakfast room. “Thank you, signore.” “Non e niente.” Marco turned his attention back to his papers. Hesitantly, Jacob cleared his throat again. “I hate to ask, because it’s not my place to pry into personal matters.” Here he couldn’t help but look at Vanni, who flashed him and insolent smirk. “But, signore, why is the Venetti collection considered a Miggliozzi collection if it actually belongs to your wife’s family?” Vanni, Terri and the twins suddenly excused themselves, their mass exodus making it clear that Jacob had pushed onto unsafe territory. As the dust of their departure settled, Cecilia and Marco exchanged a long look. Finally, Marco took the lead and spoke up. “My family once owned great collections of art, Jacob. I mean beyond the regular household items you see. Collections like the Venettis, or say, Canalettos. Some time back in the early nineteen hundreds, we went broke.” Blushing, Jacob backtracked. “I’m sorry, I had no idea, I mean, it’s none of my…”

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Interrupting, Cecilia put him at ease. “It’s not a state secret Jacob. If you did a little research, you would find out for yourself.” “At any rate,” Marco continued, “when Cecilia and I married, I found out that the Rossi family had acquired a great many of the works of art that were once in my family’s homes.” “And after our wedding, my brothers gave them to us. However, they are still in the Rossi name legally because Alessandro felt they were better protected that way, insurance-wise.” Cecilia shrugged. “Does that make sense?” Nodding vigorously, Jacob replied, “Yes. Yes of course. I didn’t mean to pry.” “Not at all. Just so you know it’s nothing dark and mysterious.” She smiled at him, and he felt his face heat again. What an effect that woman could have on him when she chose! Jacob spared a glance for Marco and found the man watching his wife with a sort of smug pride. A flash of something, blurred in the corner of his eye, made him dizzy for a moment. An older man sat at the table, looking at his young bride with pride, exclaiming over her beauty. The woman was his lady of the painting, superimposed on Cecilia, eyes modestly downcast, but a curve to her lips that bespoke mischief. It took him a full minute to shake it off, and when he did, both Cecilia and Marco stared at him in concern. “Well, I should get some work done.” Jacob got up and headed for the door. “I’m going sightseeing with Damien and Gianni today.” He heard an indelicate snort of laughter from Cecilia. “Be careful. They might show you things you aren’t ready to see.” Shaking his head at that he made a break for his workroom and locked himself in. Jacob made some notes about what he wanted to research later in the day before he did anything else. He was a scholar, but lately his carefully organized style of finding and working through information just seemed to fly out the window. Somehow the Miggliozzi household really did make him feel oddly

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like he was simply letting things go and drifting along with whatever plan they had for him. So he marshaled his thoughts and put them down on paper before he started work on the Venetti. He also felt like his little flashes of dream, and his odd double vision was something he would have to face up to soon and examine. The reluctance to do so was understandable. No one like to think they were going crazy, or that they were simply hallucinating, but the Lord worked in mysterious ways, and they might indeed be significant. Once he was settled in front of the painting with a pair of forceps and a swab of cotton, Jacob felt much more productive. He started cleaning the delicate egg tempera, and smiled to himself when he remembered thinking that the painter must have been old school, back before he had discovered the signature. He had been half right. Egg tempera became almost obsolete once the easier to manipulate oil paints came onto the scene. Egg tempera, which was a mixture of egg, water, and pigment, was harder to use. It required thin coats of paint to be layered over one another and it dried very quickly. So it was easy to see why the Renaissance masters had embraced oils. Venetti was not an old man when oils became popular, no, but he was a country bumpkin by Venetian standards, and that explained why he was a whiz with egg tempera. Oils were expensive. Growing up, Matteo Venetti would have had to create his own paints, and egg tempera came from materials readily available to a rustic farm boy. So engrossed was he in the painting that he lost track of time until someone pounded on his workroom door. He jumped, barely avoiding taking a swipe of paint off that he didn’t mean to, and stood up. His back hurt from being bent into one position for too long. That was a good thing. Grinning, he opened the door to face a pair of pouting, six foot tall children “Sorry,” he told them with perfect good cheer. “I forgot what time it was.” “Time for you to come out and play,” Gianni said. “Just let me clean up.” They bitched and moaned at him as he carefully tucked away his cleaners, then grabbed him and practically carried him out to change clothes. Yes, yes they knew he was a priest and he would wear

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the collar, but he didn’t have to look like a street sweeper. He laughed with them at his own expense, and couldn’t help but like them more and more as the day progressed. In a way it was perfect that they had no real interest in the family collections. He asked them about their signatures being on some of the insurance forms, and they shrugged it off. Someone had to be there, didn’t they? The family insisted that each and every member do their duty, after all. That was how it was to be a Rossi. They showed him cheesy tourist sights, like the overblown Victor Emmanuel monument and out of the way churches, such as San Clemente, with its intact Mithraeum. They splashed water at him at the Trevi fountain, and bought him a late lunch on the Via Venetto, near the Cappucin cemetery and the Lamborghini dealership. He was dizzy from their ping-pong approach to conversation and their pinball approach to tourism, but Jacob honestly couldn’t remember having a better time with anyone. He also learned more about them, as individuals. Jacob had assumed that they didn’t work, that they were trust fund babies, as much time as they had on their hands. That assumption proved erroneous. They owned their own business, they told him, an export conglomerate named Gemini, Inc., which had offices in major cities in both Europe and America. Gianni, he found out, was a swimmer, while Damien was a runner, and Damien liked dogs, where Gianni was fond of horses. Damien had a passionate hatred for and surprisingly an allergy to most kinds of cheeses, and Gianni thought chicken was of the Devil. Which explained why so many meals at the Palazzo were served buffet style, with such an alarming array of food. They both loved children, and had an almost embarrassed desire for children of their own, but no desire to marry. “What woman,” Damien asked, “would understand that we have to be together?” “They separated us once,” Gianni said, “when they sent us off to school. Damien tried to slit his wrists.” “And Gianni took many pills.” “They never did it again,” they finished together, and Jacob was sad for the children they had once been, separated from the one person who understood and loved them like no other.

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He had forgotten what it was liked to be touched so much. Since he joined the seminary, really, and people had seen the collar first and nothing else, he’d been a little starved for human contact. And they touched. Like the last time they'd given him a tour, they kept a hand on him here, guiding him, or one of them would nudge him with an elbow or knee to get him to notice things. They touched each other just as much, he had seen that before, but when they were sure no one was watching their touches were more intimate. It should disturb him, Jacob knew, but he couldn’t find it in him to disapprove. By the time they got home, Jacob was tired, sore and sunburned. He was also happy. It had been a good day. The twins hugged him before they let him go, and told him they’d see him at dinner. He hugged back just because it felt so good, and then went and took a bath, and actual bath in the sunken tub of his bathroom. The nymphs and mermen cavorted around the edge of the tub and from the submerged position the water-spout looked more phallic than dolphinish. Jacob shook his head at his fancy, and climbed out of the bath, letting water stream off him onto the floor with only a twinge of guilt. To hear the twins tell it, the house maintained so many servants that they had to invent jobs to keep them all busy, and they were all allowed to be as slobbish as they pleased because of it. Apparently it would be just he and the twins at dinner tonight as well, which suited him to the core. They debated the writings of Saint Augustine and the worthiness of secular art, and flung forks full of salad leaves at each other. Jacob laughed at their antics and enjoyed their conversation and felt horrible that he was devoutly glad of the absence of the rest of the family. Cecilia and Marco had gone to some business dinner or other, and Terri had been Giovanni’s date for a charity function, an idea that Jacob found amused him to no end. They were lingering over drinks in the gold salon, with Damien playing a creditable Queen number on the piano, when Marco and Cecilia joined them. Jacob gulped his brandy at the sight of her and tried not to choke. Cecilia wore a little red dress, cut to there and fashioned out of a material that managed to look indecent and still modest at the same time. She sucked all of the air out of the room, and Jacob felt lust hit him like a fist to the gut. His palms were sweating, and he looked at Marco with real resentment. Some small part of himself was amazed at his own thoughts, but he couldn’t make them stop.

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A high-heeled shoe whizzing over his head finally snapped him out of it, and thought for a moment that he had been caught staring. Then Cecilia leaned over and slipped the other shoe off sending it sailing over her shoulder. Jacob watched a footman make a running leap for it and catch it just before it crashed into the chandelier, and he realized this must be something she did often. Not caught after all. Cecilia flopped back onto a settee and wiggled her bare toes at him, grinning that funny grin with the gap between her two front teeth, and Jacob had to shift his drink glass to his lap to cover his reaction. “Grazie a dio,” Cecilia exclaimed. “How I hate those shoes. And those interminable dinners. Tell me again, Marco, why we bother?” “He doesn’t want to tell you, because he’s afraid you won’t go anymore,” came a voice Jacob had never heard before. The voice was smooth, deep and cultured, and the man that it belonged to didn’t match it at all. Jacob stared. He looked like a pirate. Oh, not on the surface, mind you. The suit was Armani, even Jacob could tell that. He was impeccably dressed and groomed. The dark hair was swept back ruthlessly from a face carved in larger, more masculine lines than Cecilia, but similar nonetheless. The twins resembled him too, but where they were all twinkling eyes and mischief, this man was all uncompromising challenge. He radiated power. He smiled lightly along with his words, but the smile never touched his eyes, and Jacob was absolutely mesmerized by him. “Introduce me to your guest?” the man said, and Cecilia had the grace to look a little guilty. “I’m sorry. Alessio, this is Father Jacob Ellory. Father, my brother, Alessandro Rossi.” “Father.” Alessio Rossi held out his hand, and Jacob shook it. He felt the same jolt got through him that he felt every time Cecilia smiled at him a certain way. The other man’s palm was warm and hard against his, and callused instead of soft. He let go just a bit too quickly and ducked his head against Alessio’s quizzical look. “Pleased to meet you, signore.”

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“Alessio will be here for at least a week, Jacob. Perhaps he might be of assistance to you on some of the research you wish to do. He’s quite the family historian.” Cecilia grinned impudently at her brother, who swatted at her on his way over to hug the twins. “Thank you. I’d like that.” Dark eyes flashed at him over one shoulder as Alessio glanced back at him. “So would I, Father. I always enjoy rambling on about the family and our collections.” “And he does. Endlessly. It’s most tedious.” Gianni ducked a well-aimed smack as he finished and was engulfed in a bear hug. They pounded on each other’s backs, then Alessio moved on to embrace Damien. Jacob snickered when the twins hugged each other dramatically afterwards. It was reassuring to Jacob to see such a normal family scene unfold, because for fleeting moments now and then the whole lot of them seemed somehow inhuman. More or less, he wasn’t sure, but simply not. This sort of affectionate display made Jacob feel like they were just people, and that loosened his chest a bit. Jacob spent the rest of the evening sitting quietly and listening to the others insult each other. It was more fun than it sounded like. The addition of Alessio seemed to make everyone, with the possible exception of Marco, more animated. In the case of Damien and Gianni, that made them almost frenzied. They bounced off the walls. Cecilia sparkled. Jacob found himself smiling with her, admiring the dark sheen of her hair and the little gap between her front teeth. He admired the twins just as easily, with their happy smiles and bouncy ways, and he could not help but sneak glances at Alessio as well. The whole lot of them amazed him. The night erased all of the bad feelings he’d had the day before and then some. Agreeing to see Alessio the next day, Jacob excused himself with every intention of going to bed. The spirit of the evening seemed to affect him more than he realized though, because he couldn’t settle down. He tried reading, but the trashy mystery novel he’d brought with him failed to hold his interest. He thought about going to find the twins, but decided not to intrude. Finally he went to the library to grab a few reference books, then retreated to his workroom to make notes and study his Venetti.

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The first book he cracked open was the tome on family crests. Rossi was a very popular surname in Italy. They all had variations of the same heraldic design. A great helm topped by plumes, and a shield cut into four sections holding eagles and lions. Some families living closer to the coasts even had sea lions. But none of them carried the symbol he was looking for. Only one variant was an obscure reference to a family that had held a powerful position in Venice for a brief fifty-year period during the 1600s. Apparently the family was extremely wealthy, and exceptionally infamous. They fell from social grace sometime around 1680 and removed from Venice to settle much farther south, where they were unable to regain their former magnificence. The crest for that particular branch of the family was a radical departure from the others. It showed a shield crowned by a ship instead of a helm, and on the shield itself it had just two images: a bend sinister and a lion extant, with a scaled, finny tail and a glorious pair of feathered wings. Jacob imagined that if he went to the Rossi palazzo in Sicily he would see that crest hanging over the door. Next he went to his volumes on Venetti. He’d been researching the man for the better part of two years. How had he missed references to his excommunication? Obviously it was common knowledge. Father Bertolli and Father Fermozzi both knew about it. He scoured both books that he’d brought from his office at the University and found nothing. No mention of Easter, or excommunication, or trial. The only things the books told him were what he already knew. That Matteo Venetti killed himself, and that he died unshriven, and therefore was not buried on holy ground. Jacob made a note to talk to Father Bertolli about whether or not his knowledge came from school history, as he claimed, or from some obscure Church history. Research wore him out where nothing else had during the day, and Jacob sat and stared into to space for a while, unwilling to make the trek back to his room. The Venetti drew him, as it always did, and he lifted the cover off and stared at it instead of the wall. The painting was much more pleasant. Except that it wasn’t. Once again, Jacob was struck by how very ordinary it was. No hint of the talent that came out in the later allegorical paintings showed in this portrait. It was simply a flat, dull Renaissance picture. It made him crazy. He stared at the painting long and hard, until his vision blurred around the edges, and he couldn’t figure it out. Finally he just let himself drift, running ideas through his mind, but not really thinking,

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which sometimes helped him to organize his thoughts. That night it did little for his organizational skills. It simply pushed him into a light doze. The dreams came, completely unexpected, as vivid as a movie reel. A young man, with long, sensitive fingers, a journeyman painter, filling in the background colors on a portrait started by his master. A woman, dressed in deep blue-green to match her eyes sitting for the painting, flirting, teasing, laughing at him. Too bad, she told him, that he had no patron. No sponsor. That he would always be a poor boy from Venetia who would never be admitted to the academy because his master would never let him paint. The anger coloring the boy’s cheeks, the answering snarl in his voice as he promised to make her eat her words. They were all sailing by in a blur of sight and sound, and when Jacob snapped awake he was still dizzy from the rush. Shocked, Jacob stared at the painting as if he expected it to start talking to him. Like it already had. He quickly covered the painting again and left. He wanted to go to his room and crawl into bed and cover his head. It was like seeing a ghost, and his heart raced and his temples throbbed. Jacob was almost to the door of his suite before he calmed down. When he did, he realized that he needed to write it all down, just in case. No way was he going back to his workroom tonight, though. And he certainly wasn’t taking a chance on the Venetti in the library telling him tales. His notebooks were all in one of those rooms, though, and he didn’t have a single sheet of scrap paper in his room. There was a study downstairs, and if that failed him, Cecilia’s morning room had stationary. It took him a while to find the study, and he kept running the dream through his mind over and over, trying to memorize the details. Now that he was more rational, he wanted to go back and check the details against the actual painting, see if it was just his subconscious playing a nasty trick on him. In the morning. When it was light. He grinned at his silly nervousness. He was turning into an idiot. He had even crossed himself in there somewhere, and automatic action. Silly. The study was dark too, but the smells of leather and ink reassured him. Until he heard the sounds. The sounds resolved themselves into the slap of flesh on flesh and the breathy exhalations that meant sex. His first thought was that the only thing they did in this house was fuck. His second was that he really didn’t want to walk in on another one of Giovanni’s conquests. He backed away, and

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started out, but froze in spite of himself when he heard a moaned name. Damien. Damien was in there, making those noises, and for some reason it pissed Jacob off. Maybe he felt bad for Gianni, although why he should he didn’t know. He used that as an excuse to peer into the dark to see who called Damien’s name, but he couldn’t see anything more than a pair of shadows twisting and turning together on one of the deep leather couches. Moving closer stealthily, Jacob squinted, finally making out more than just a shade. Two bodies rolled and dipped coming together and snapping apart with great force. Damien was on top, on his knees, pushing his hips down into the man beneath him. The man. Jacob saw red. It had to be Vanni. He wanted to scream at Damien, to ask him what the Hell he thought he was doing. Some distant part of his mind was amazed at his rage on behalf of Damien’s twin, but there it was. Didn’t Damien know that this would kill Gianni if he found out? And shouldn’t that thought scare Jacob right down to the core? Closer still, and Jacob could distinguish one body from another now, could smell the sweat and musk of them, mixed with the earthy, animal smell of the leather couch. His mouth was open, he was going to say something, anything, but he couldn’t get the words to come out. The rhythm caught him, and he swayed with them, trying to tell them how wrong they were, but simply unable to speak. The man beneath Damien moaned, pushing back with his ass, pulling Damien deep inside, and his head snapped back, and Jacob saw two identical faces set in perfectly mirrored expressions of pleasure. It might very well kill Gianni, what Damien was doing, but only if Damien fucked him to death. Jacob’s remaining breath left him in one giant whoosh, and his legs trembled beneath the weight of what he saw. Damien and Gianni, brothers, twins, and they moved together with the ease of practiced lovers, whimpering and begging. Muscles bunched, relaxed and strained, and hoarse breathing reverberated around the room. Part of it was his. Jacob’s cock was a live thing in his pants, beating against his zipper, trying to find its way into his hand. Sick revulsion warred with dazed lust in his belly, and he was close enough to touch them, so close. They were moving faster now, bucking into it, and Jacob saw Damien’s hand moving on Gianni’s hard length, up and down in time with his increasingly brutal thrusts.

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His own hips were rolling, his ass clenched as if accepting them into him and Jacob whimpered along with them. He wanted to go as much as he wanted to stay, to go to bed and forget he ever saw this; to forget he ever liked it. He’d never been so hard in his life, not even his mysterious lady had produced this fever, and visions of Hell floated in his mind. Two loud, gasping moans sounded from the pair in front of him, and their bodies stiffened and jerked with orgasmic spasms. Jacob stuffed his fist into his mouth and bit down hard enough to draw blood, and his come was a hot, wet lump in his trousers. The two were like one, now, wrapped around each other in a sweaty pile; their breathing slowing and evening out. Jacob was frozen. He must have made some sound, a small noise, even though he was afraid he’d never be able to force words out again. Two dark heads came up, and they looked at him. Damien and Gianni, who made him laugh, who made him like them, looked at him. And they smiled. The scene was so familiar, just like Giovanni and Cristina, except that their smiles were genuine, not sly. One of them, Damien he thought, held out a hand and beckoned to him, and Jacob stifled a sob. Shaking his head violently, shaking all over really, Jacob backed away. He’d been through a lot these last few weeks in the way of surprises, and arousal and feelings that he had long suppressed. But nothing had ever, not in the last few weeks and not before, been as much of a temptation to him as that outstretched hand and those welcoming smiles. Smiles that melted into concern as they uncoiled and moved toward him, naked bodies gleaming in the dull light from the open door. He ran. He turned on his heel and ran as fast as he could away from them, ignoring their worried shouts. Jacob pelted down the halls to the front door, for once beating the footman to it. Out, out of that house, running like Venetti’s painted Hellspawn had come to life and were on his heels. He didn’t stop running until he was far away from the Palazzo Miggliozzi and all of its insane asylum inhabitants. His lungs hurt, and he was gasping, and his pants were wet and sticky and thoroughly uncomfortable. Where to go? He didn’t have his wallet, so that let out a cab. He didn’t want to go to Father Bertolli yet. Not until he’d had time to get his head on straight. Maybe the University. It would be quite a hike, especially at this time of night, but he could sleep on the little couch in his office, and he had

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some work clothes there he could change into. He walked for what seemed like hours, but it helped to clear his head, so he couldn’t complain. Ever since he’d arrived at the palazzo he’d been off balance. Cecilia, with her resemblance to a dead woman, Cristina’s flirting, Vanni’s innuendo, all of it had conspired to keep him guessing, wondering which end was up. Damien and Gianni were worse, in a way, because they weren’t doing it deliberately, he was sure. But it was another crack in his armor. It had been a long time since Jacob had struggled with feelings like this. Most of his passion over the last few years had been reserved for art, and his studies. He had physical needs, just like any man, but he had been able to ignore them or work through them most of the time. So this was all new. And confusing. Add to that his disorienting visions and dreams, and it was no wonder he couldn't think straight to save him. The University was dark and quiet and Jacob was grateful that he didn’t meet up with any of the other grad students. Or security. He washed up in the public bathroom, and changed into his work clothes, and settled on the uncomfortable couch to try to rest. An hour later he was still squirming and sighing. He couldn’t get the image of the twins out of his mind. He couldn’t get the idea that he was sinking somehow out either. Giving up on sleep, Jacob got up and put his collar back on, and headed for the pretty little chapel not far from his office. He could probably benefit hugely from some prayer. The chapel was so quiet it was almost eerie. Maybe he was just used to the constant low-level buzz of activity at the palazzo. Even at night someone there was buffing floors or washing dishes. Jacob took a minute to light a candle and say a small devotional before going to sit at a pew. He knelt forward onto the knee brace and closed his eyes, folding his hands tightly in front of him. For a long while he simply let his mind wander, meditating on the nature of his sins, and searching his soul for the best ways to atone for them. He needed to confess, to do penance, yes. But he felt that he also needed to take more firm action. To shore himself up against the type of temptation that he was facing. The chance to stay at the Palazzo Miggliozzi was a once in a lifetime gift. Jacob had accepted it readily. Perhaps too readily. Maybe that spoke of pride. He should ask to be allowed to work with

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the collection during the day and spend his nights at his tiny apartment on campus. That would be a step in the right direction. Removing himself from the proximity of his tormenters was not enough. That was avoidance, and he had been taught to meet his problems head on. There had to be something else he could do. Walking into Cecilia’s day room or Marco’s office and accusing them of trying to mess with him wouldn’t work either. Everything that had happened was as much his fault as theirs. Maybe that’s what he had to do to be proactive about all of this. Shoulder his share of the blame. The more he tried to work it out the more tangled it got. The cool, incense filled air of the chapel did nothing for him. He thumped his head against the back of the pew in front of him. Why couldn’t he concentrate? Even the simple, rote words of the Rosary slipped away from him while his thoughts jumped around and around in his head. Sighing, defeated, Jacob went back to his office and pulled out a bottle of wine he’d stored in his desk. He drank until most of the wine was gone, and he was sleepy enough that he could ignore the bad spring on the couch as it dug into his ribs. Dreams were something Jacob was coming to dread. They came to him that night in a flurry of tangled limbs and blue-green eyes, along with lions crouching above him, finned tails wrapping around his legs while wings fanned out around him. He dreamed too of brocaded ladies and men in hose and doublets melting into fiery visions of demons and devils. Flames licked at his skin, blackening him until the pain was enormous, throbbing inside and out. Finally there was just him, running blindly down endless halls until there was nowhere else to run, and he chose to die rather than give up. His own scream woke him, and his hands automatically reached for his throat to make sure it was still intact. There was no bleeding smile across his neck, and he flopped back down on the couch to catch his breath, listening to his heartbeat throb in his ears. By then it was late morning, late enough to call the palazzo and let them know he was all right, and that he would be back sometime during the day to collect his things, could he please make an appointment with signore or signora Miggliozzi? Jacob knew there was a very good chance that he would be denied access to the Venetti collection after this stunt, and certainly after he moved out of the palazzo, but it was the only real solution that presented itself. He was ashamed to admit that he was afraid to go back, but he was. He went to see Father Bertolli instead.

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The young priest that acted as Bertolli’s assistant directed him to the churchyard that the older priest had bragged on when Jacob had visited last. Bertolli sat on a bench supported by two carved angels, feeding a horde of cats from a large can of tuna. He looked up as Jacob settled onto the bench next to him, but stayed quiet. The silence stretched between them, not really uncomfortable, but waiting. They sat, enjoying the sun on their faces, and finally Jacob began to talk. “I’m going to see if they’ll let me work at the palazzo during the day.” “They won’t let you. It’s all or nothing with them.” “I have to try.” “What has happened now?” Bertolli studied him shrewdly. “What are you running away from?” “Myself mostly.” Jacob’s tone was wry. “But also them. I’m a priest. I think I’ve forgotten that. And I don’t think they ever noticed it.” “Bullshit.” Bertolli’s accent turned it into bool sheet, which made Jacob grin. “They know very well what you are. In fact, it makes it more amusing for them. That is not what really attracts them, though.” “So what does?” Turning, Bertolli put a hand on Jacob’s shoulder and looked at him earnestly. “Your naiveté.” His mouth flapped open, and he stared.. "Oh come on, Father. I can't be that bad. I mean, I know I'm not nearly so worldly as they are, but I'm hardly a child." "You might as well be." Father Bertolli reached down to pet one of the cats that came forward in search of more food. The animal flinched away, hissing, reminding Jacob that it was no pampered

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house pet, but one of Rome's many feral cats. "This animal is more worldly than you are," Father Bertolli continued. "It knows what to expect from people. They will beat you down as often as they can." "That's a pretty harsh attitude for a priest." "I may be a priest, Jacob. But I am no fool. God's greatest gift to man was also his greatest curse. Free will. Knowledge. I know the people I serve. I know their strengths and weaknesses and I love them anyway. Take Cristina Ghiradelli for example. The little maid at the palazzo. She is a slut. You needn't look so shocked. You know it's true. Does that make her less worthy of God's love? No. Does it make her beyond redemption? No. Do I like her any less? Of course not. But I don't have to be blind to her failings. It's better that I am not. That way I can help her steer clear of the pitfalls that she is most inclined to fall into." Letting that sink in, Jacob nodded. "Okay. I can see that. But do you really think I am that ignorant?" "Yes," Bertolli said bluntly. "I think you put aside the modern world a long time ago in favor of your paintings from four hundred years ago. I think you see the world through a very outdated lens. You need to be much more aware of yourself, and of how you feel about things. What are your greatest weaknesses, Father Ellory?" "You're right, to a certain degree Father." Jacob sighed, and toyed with a loose thread on his pantsleg. "I have been deluding myself into thinking that I could control my urges without really looking too hard at what they are. Maybe I need to meditate a bit on my besetting sins." "Si." Bertolli sounded satisfied. "That would be a good start." “Then I’ll start on that as soon as I collect my things from the palazzo.” Any answer Bertolli might have made to that was cut off by his assistant running into the churchyard. “Father. You have visitors.”

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“I’m in conference, Paolo. Who is it?” “Damien and Gianni Rossi, Father.” Blushing, then paling, Jacob got to his feet. “If you don’t mind, Father, I’ll just go and leave you to it.” “Oh, but I do mind,” Bertolli answered. “I’m certain they are here for you.” “I don’t want to see them.” “Stay here.” The Father pushed Jacob back down onto the bench. “I’ll see what they want.” The wait seemed to be endless, but it couldn’t have been more than five minutes before Father Bertolli returned. He smiled at Jacob. “I told you they wanted you. They want to talk to you.” “No.” “I won’t let you hide from them. If you don’t want to talk to them you must tell them yourself.” Feeling ridiculously like Maria in the Sound of Music, Jacob nodded, and went into the church. He didn’t want to do this, had no intention of seeing them when he slunk in and out of the palazzo with his bags, but it would be cowardly or worse to avoid them. They had been very kind to him. So he went. They were there, waiting for him with matching anxious expressions, and Damien almost took a step forward, but Gianni held him back. They shared a look, and Damien subsided, letting Gianni take the lead as usual. “Jacob.” Gianni hesitated, obviously searching for words. “They told us you were going back to the University. Please, we’re sorry. We didn’t mean to upset you. Don’t let us drive you away from your work.”

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Feeling his face heat again, Jacob shook his head. “It’s not just you. I mean, not you, but what happened earlier. It’s not.” He was babbling. Jacob stopped and took a deep breath. “I think it would be wiser for me to stay at the University and come to the palazzo every day to work. Maybe that way I will treat it like a job, which is what it is.” “You are angry at us.” That was Damien and the plaintive tone of his voice made Jacob wince. Shaking his head, Jacob tried to make them understand. “I’m not mad at you. But I do think that what goes on in your house is a bad influence on me. I need to be among people who are more like me.” A snort came from Gianni, who crossed his arms over his chest and stared at Jacob angrily. He looked like a very small boy having a temper tantrum. Damien, though. Damn it, Damien looked hurt. “You’re saying we’re sick.” There was a sincere quaver in Damien’s voice, and he looked like a beaten dog. “No,” Jacob said as gently as he could. “I’m saying you’re confused. And you confuse me. So does the rest of your family. So I should stay away.” “They will not let you into the collection if you leave,” Gianni taunted, and Damien hit him on the arm. “Stop it.” “Well, they won’t.” “He’s right.” Where Gianni was snide, Damien was earnest. “They will take away your grant, too. Please, I promise, we’ll leave you alone. We won’t bother you anymore. Just come back with us.” Feeling helpless, Jacob looked around for Father Bertolli. He was there, but he was just out of earshot, studiously ignoring them. Unlike his assistant, Paolo, who was listening with open-mouthed amazement. Jacob shook his head again. “I can’t.”

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“Won’t is more like it,” Gianni snapped. “Come on, Damien. Let’s go. He doesn’t want our apologies. Avanti!” “No.” Damien struggled free of Gianni’s grip and turned back to Jacob. “Please? Your work, it’s important. We’ll be good.” This was stupid. There was no reason to cause this sort of trouble over what had happened. Yes, Jacob was deeply disturbed by the relationship between the twins. And he had issues with the lady of the house. And her brother-in-law. Okay, with all of them, but they could only touch him if he let them. His soul was his to save, not theirs to corrupt. He wasn’t a coward, was he? “Okay,” he said. “I’ll come back.” It took a weight off him to say it, and it put a blinding smile on Damien’s face. Gianni had to act like he was still angry, of course, but there relief was in his eyes. Father Bertolli sighed heavily behind him, and Jacob knew at least one person was unhappy with his choice. “We have a car outside. You’ll come now?” Damien looked so pleased, so hopeful that Jacob couldn’t say no. He nodded and Damien bounced on his toes. “Molto bene!” “I’ll be out in a minute. You two go on.” When Damien would have argued, Gianni put a hand on his arm and whispered to him. They left, and Jacob turned to Father Bertolli. “You don’t approve.” “It’s not my place to approve or disapprove.” Bertolli raised his voice. “Paolo, get me a piece of paper and a pen will you?” Paolo scampered off and Father Bertolli grinned. “He’s had enough of a show already today. Besides, I want to give you my phone number. And I want you to use it. If you need to talk, need a ride, just need to get out. Anything, you hear me?” “I’ll be fine,” Jacob said decisively. “But thank you.”

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Paolo was back then with paper and pen and Bertolli scribbled his number down and handed it to Jacob. “Be careful, my son,” he said formally, and made a cruciform over Jacob’s torso. With equal seriousness, Jacob thanked him, and went out of the church to catch his ride back to the strangest place he’d ever been.

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Chapter Five They got back to the house just in time for his meeting with Cecilia. The twins were on their best behavior on the ride there, sitting as far apart as they could, not touching each other or Jacob. It was agonizing. Still, he knew they were doing it for him, and was warmed by it. His contradictory feelings had to be put aside for a while, though, while he straightened things out with Cecilia. She was pleasant, but Jacob could see the pure steel in her backbone when she laid down the law. He was told in no uncertain terms that either he stayed and worked, or he shut up. Which he could understand; he’d vacillated quite enough. Even he was a little disgusted with himself. He apologized sincerely, but not effusively, and let it go at that. The feelings she normally aroused in him were muted by the situation, and he was grateful for that. He wasn’t about to fall all over himself. That was his mistake to begin with. Jacob left Cecilia’s parlor feeling much better. In control, as it were. Skipping dinner with the family, he ate in his workroom and caught up on note making. He included the details of his dream, which he had forgotten to write down the night before. He put down everything he could remember. Then he looked through the folder Terri had given him on the Venetti collection. He perused the photos of the paintings and jotted down which ones he’d like to look at first. All of the paintings had approximate dates. He would start with the oldest first, which only made sense, considering that he was supposed to be contrasting the man’s early works with his later paintings. Which were absolutely brilliant. He settled on a painting of Saint Sebastian, and another of the Archangel Michael. He would request access to those in the morning. It felt good to do his work, to get back into the swing of things. His passion for art had always been there for him, and it was nice to find that it had not been eclipsed by other passions. Working well into the late evening made him feel productive, and sane, and he went off to bed with a lighter heart. He took a few minutes to say his prayers, and was amazed to realize he had not done so in days. It was no wonder he was losing touch with the real world. His reality was grounded in his faith, and that had been sorely neglected lately.

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Several days passed without Jacob seeing anyone in the family. He worked with Teresa, who was coolly efficient, but not in any way rude. Any requests he passed along were met promptly, and he felt like maybe his mini-breakdown had at least had a few positive effects. The Venettis were fascinating. The first two he had picked were indeed early works, painted some two years after his Rossi lady. They were competent. Not nearly as flat and lifeless as his first attempts, but not anywhere near the sheer genius of his later works. The themes were more typical of the era than Venetti’s later works, as well. Saint Sebastian suffered, upside down and full of arrows. His face was a mask of agony, and his body was emaciated, all sagging skin and showing ribs. The perspective was good, and the colors were well mixed, but it lacked something that he couldn’t put his finger on. The portrait of the Archangel Michael was worse. The technique on it was better, yes, even than Saint Sebastian. Which told Jacob that it was painted maybe a year or two later. It featured the angel in the foreground, sword in hand, fighting off an evil horde. The evildoers were scrambling around under Michael’s feet. The background, however, was a bucolic pastoral scene. Something that could easily have come from Venetti’s childhood. Fat sheep and slow moving bovines grazed in the pastures, and the skies were blue and clear. As a whole, it was somehow wrong. Disturbing really, as if someone had taken the scene of this epic battle and swept it up in one great fist, then dropped it on some unsuspecting farmer out in the middle of nowhere. There was no rhyme or reason to it, really and that was what bothered Jacob about it the most. Looking at it gave him the feeling that two different paintings were at work here. Like Venetti had been painting a big, sweeping landscape for a classical style Bacchanal, and had been inspired midstream to paint Michael instead. No wonder they tucked this one away in the vault. Time passed with amazing speed once he actually started work, and before he knew it, more than three weeks had flown by. It was the end of May. Jacob had no summer classes to assist with, which meant he still had about three months of time to work on the Venetti project without interruptions. He only wished he was closer to some kind of conclusion. He had studied and authenticated about five out of the twenty paintings in the Miggliozzi collection. They were all relatively early works except for the huge vision of Hell hanging in the library. Yes, there was a marked difference in the

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paintings of each stage. No, it had nothing to do with the medium. Wood, canvas, oil, egg tempera, all of these were used in both periods with equal skill. So what was the catalyst? The twins had asked him to go out with them sight seeing a few times in the last few weeks. He had declined. The few meals he took with the family were ones he shared with them, though, and it made him glad that they could still get along. He made a point to get out of the house every few days, and he saw Father Bertolli often. He’d even stopped dreaming those odd dreams. He felt like he had his life back, and he was pleased. He'd gone to church with Cristina's family, though Cristina herself was ignoring him. Life was steady, and that was a good thing. The first week of June saw him working on a much more interesting Venetti. He liked to think of paintings of this style as the middle years, where Venetti had really started experimenting. It was a misnomer of sorts, because Matteo Venetti had never reached middle age. His painting career had lasted some eight short years after his apprenticeship ended when he was sixteen. So, the “middle years” were really the years between 1650 and 1653. Venetti would have been somewhere between eighteen and twenty at the time. The painting was a cityscape of Venice. It had the same grand, sweeping scale that Canaletto would later become famous for. Unlike Canaletto, Venetti’s vision of Venice was not a softly blurred place of busy beauty. It was a city rotting back into the sea. Looking at it, you could smell the salt and sour mildew in the gray, crumbling buildings. The Piazza San Marco was filled with people for carnival, in masks and costumes. Not an unusual subject, but none of the usual masks were in evidence. Demons and devils, grotesque and twisted, danced about Saint Mark’s cathedral with torches in their hands while the bishop of the city cowered in a doorway, brandishing a huge crucifix, an agonized effigy of the dead Christ. It was a disturbing image, made even worse by the little flashes Jacob saw behind his eyes as he stared at the painting. Venice as it had really looked then, huge and looming and frightening to a small town boy apprenticed to a painting master. A vast panorama of sin and decadence. The two images blended, the painting becoming a moving, living thing, until Jacob wasn’t sure what was canvas and what was memory. Memory? He was lost in it, seeing the dark, winding little stairs that led to his master’s garret, and the dingy little room he was given to sleep in. The constant fight to

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keep the floors from collapsing under their feet with rot, and how stupid Matteo thought it was for them to build them out of wood in a city built on water. Saying things like that just got him knocked in the head, so he learned to keep his thoughts to himself, to act like he really didn’t have any in his head. How that ham fingered man had ever reached the rank master painter was beyond him, and his master’s appalling lack of skill was reflected in their poor surroundings. Scene after scene flashed through him, his master scratching his big belly and calling him stupid boy. The other apprentice, Pietro, curled up with him at night for warmth, and those first innocent fumblings with him in the dark. Learning to mix paints, and the smell of the pigment seller’s shop. Jacob was utterly consumed by the images, and might have stayed that way indefinitely if the pounding on his workshop door hadn’t brought him back to himself with a thump. His own shriek rang in his ears, and his heart was pounding worse than the fist on his door. He stood on unsteady legs, and moved to open up with a shouted, “Coming!” It was Terri. She peeked over his shoulder into the workroom, then looked at him oddly. “Are you alright?” “Yes, of course.” Jacob stepped back to let her in. “I just dozed off. You woke me up.” She looked dubious, but was kind enough not to mention it. “I just wanted to talk to you for a minute.” “Okay. Talk away.” Blowing out a sigh, Terri perched on an empty stool. “Cecilia is going to ask you to eat with the family tonight.” Seeing that he was about to protest, she held up a hand. Jacob subsided. “I think it would be wise to accept. You’ve been avoiding everyone but the twins, and then you’ve only seen them at the occasional meal. And while I might be able to understand that decision, and certainly respect it, I think you should schmooze a bit. These people are fronting your grant money after all. And Cecilia wants to ask you to attend her midsummer costume ball. I suggest you say yes.” His mouth opened and closed a few times before Jacob made any answer. He was trying to word

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his reply carefully. “I think that would be rather unwise of me, actually. Dinner, yes, I can do that. But I would much rather the family treated me like an employee.” A mocking grin appeared on Terri’s face. “No, I don’t think you would. The Rossis and Miggliozzi’s demand absolute loyalty from their employees. You would have been fired long before now if you were one. Be grateful you are considered a guest.” “I see.” Jacob hated that smile. Then he wondered at himself. It wasn’t like him at all to feel that quick flash of anger. “Then I’ll go to dinner and tell the signora that I will attend her ball. Does that make you happy?” “Not really.” Terri sauntered toward the door. “But it will make her happy. And that’s always a good thing. Ciao, Jacob.” The urge to throw something at her as she left was strong. Jacob took a deep breath and tried to calm down. His jaw hurt from gritting his teeth. His dream must have affected him more strongly than he thought. That and the stress of the impending meeting with Cecilia and family. Obviously he needed to get some rest. He cleared his clutter and tucked his notes away, then went upstairs to shower and nap. The dinner invitation came as expected, and Jacob was downstairs promptly at eight for pre-dinner drinks. The family was “dressed” tonight, presenting a united front of fine feathers and making him feel drab by comparison. It was an obvious tactic, and somewhat beneath them, but he could see it from their point of view as well. Which told him that his nap had restored his usually equanimity. He was glad, because if his temper had still been frayed the evening would be impossible. The twins gifted him with tiny smiles, and Cecilia poured him a Campari and soda. She handed it to him, and when he took it she grasped his wrist. “Jacob,” she said. “It has been far too long since you joined us. I thought you were over your upset?” Her hand was warm and soft on his arm, and for a moment all he could do was stare at it. She took it as distaste, apparently, because she let go of him quickly and moved a few feet away. His head

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snapped up and he hastened to reassure her. “I am. I mean, I have been. I just need to work, not socialize.” There was a chuckle, he thought from Marco, but he didn’t look to see. Jacob kept his attention centered on Cecilia. “I’m grateful to you and your family for everything. And I apologize again for my erratic behavior. But I really feel I’m better off keeping to myself. This project is stressful. I don’t need the distraction of playing tourist or feeling like a pampered guest. I think that’s where I went wrong in the first place.” “I see.” She pouted at him a little, which was rather devastating. This time the chuckle was definitely from Marco, as the man stepped up and put his arm around his wife. “Don’t let her sway you with that little girl look. I, for one, understand business. And a work ethic.” Marco grunted when Cecilia poked him. “But I hope you will visit with us once in a while to keep us appraised of your progress. We only trust Terri so much.” Jacob chuckled himself, because Terri stuck her tongue out at Marco’s broad back in a supremely juvenile gesture. “Si, signore. I think I can do that.” “Good. Now, my wife wants to ask you something.” Turning back to Cecilia, Jacob raised his eyebrows. She smiled at him and pushed away from Marco. “Si. I wanted to ask you to attend my masked ball, for midsummer. It is something I do every year, for charity. We open the house and sell tickets to friends at an exorbitant rate.” “I’d be happy to,“ he started, but Cecilia cut him off. “You might not wish to agree so soon. I wanted to ask your help with the arrangements.” “I’m not sure what kind of help I could be.” Taking his arm, Cecilia led him out toward the dining room. The rest of the family trailed along

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behind them. “I want the theme this year to be Venice during Carnival,” she answered. “Renaissance Venice. Venetti era. I know you will be my best resource for authenticity.” Feeling trapped, Jacob looked at the twins. They grinned unrepentantly, and Jacob had a feeling they had something to do with choosing the theme. Terri wouldn’t meet his eyes. He gave in graciously. “Of course.” “Perfecto. Alessandro will be back then, too. Maybe you will get a chance to have that meeting with him about family history.” “I hope so.” Jacob did feel horribly guilty about that missed meeting with Alessio the day of his little blow up. The man was very busy, and had made time for Jacob to meet with him, and Jacob had blown him off. He supposed the masquerade ball was his penance. That thought made him feel a bit better, and he spent the rest of the meal in pleasant conversation with his hosts. Penance was too light a word. The masquerade ball sucked up his time like he couldn’t believe. The problem was that Cecilia didn’t just want a fun little party. She wanted authenticity. Renaissance Venice during Carnival. Not only that, but her guest list was full of people who were wealthy, educated and bored. It had to be just right. The first week, Jacob managed to spilt his time between his real work and the “historical consultant” duties Cecilia thrust upon him. He occasionally had to lock himself in his workroom and refuse to come out to do it, but he did. He managed to make an outline for the introduction to his paper on Venetti. He examined two more paintings. He got sucked into discussions about masks and food and whether or not a miniature gondola could be set up in the reflecting pool. They had to settle for the indoor swimming pool. The servants were cleaning. All of them. In droves. You couldn’t go anywhere in the house without being run down by a bevy of maids scrubbing floors and polishing chandelier crystals. If you stood still long enough, they dusted you. No one was safe. Jacob went to his room one afternoon and found footmen moving his things. Flabbergasted, he demanded to know what they were doing. They told him to talk to the signora. He did. Loudly. And he was informed that many of the

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masquerade guests were from out of town and would be spending the night. They were moving him to the family wing, so the guest room he was in could be cleaned and used the night of the ball. The new room was simply breathtaking. He had thought the guest chambers sumptuous. The bed was big enough for three or four people, the bath was big enough to swim in and a whirlpool besides. Instead of blues, this suite was done in green and gold, with a woodland theme. Jacob wondered if the twins had picked it out for him, because one particular painting of a satyr and nymph was naughty enough to make him blush. It would be like them to put him there. After the first week, Cecilia gave up the pretense of allowing him his own work, and pressed him into overseeing the artistic arrangements. He was amazed to discover that those arrangements including directing a crew of young art students to create Canaletto style Venetian cityscapes on giant wall hangings for the ballroom and grand salon. Once he gave in to the inevitable and decided he would not get more studious work done until this whole mess was over, Jacob really enjoyed himself. One of his more enthusiastic rambles to Father Bertolli was met with an admonition to watch what he was doing, and that sobered him up for a day, maybe more. It was impossible to resist the spirit of the affair, though, and the idea of having a whole artist’s studio to command was heady. Pride, he thought ruefully, was a sneaky and attractive sin. Jacob himself inadvertently gave Cecilia the idea for the theme of the family costumes. Or rather masks. As was common in the time they were emulating, the family would wear formal clothing (of the period of course) and hold the mask responsible for creating the character they wanted to portray. A chance comment about what was popular back then from Jacob, and Cecilia decided to go with the Cardinal Virtues and the Deadly Sins for her family and close friends. Of which Jacob was considered a member of course. A casual inquiry about the guest list almost made Jacob hyperventilate. Some two hundred people would attend, some of them Jacob’s superiors in the Church and at the University. He wasn’t allowed to hide. In fact, Cecilia and crew seemed to have a positive intuition for when he was going to try to withdraw, because that’s when they gave him yet another project to keep him busy and

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involved. The life-sized chessboard he set up in the garden was a particularly fun assignment. Family arrived first. Alessandro came in a few days before the party with his wife, a lovely Frenchwoman, and another of the brothers. Darius, who was barley a year younger than Alessio, and who looked so much like him they too could have been twins. Darius brought his wife Gemma and their son. By the day before the party Jacob’s head spun with names and faces. Here was cousin Santino, the flaming queen, and over here was cousin Estella, the horse faced woman. Jacob found out that the twins should never be allowed to perform introductions. They had a derogatory nickname for everyone, and they told them all to Jacob when that person was out of earshot. He was terrified that he would refer to Aunt Livia as the Shar-pei in drag, rather than the Contessa of whatever. His last, and ultimately unsuccessful, attempt to resist the chaos came when he saw his costume. Jacob had flatly refused a “secular” costume, so the bulk of his costume was a long cassock of severe black. He rather liked it. His mask, though, sent him stomping to the study, which had been converted into a sort of command room. Cecilia was there, as was half of the Rossi family. He shoved the mask at her and she automatically reached for it. “What is the meaning of that?” he demanded. Looking genuinely surprised, Cecilia studied the mask. It was a beautifully made Venetian mask, and it must cost the earth, but just looking at it made Jacob angry. His deadly sin was Lust. The mask was a copy of a plaque done by one of the Renaissance masters, Cellini maybe. It was the face of a man, but twisted with an exaggerated expression of lewdness. The lips curled up in a grotesque smile, and a tongue curled up out of the breathing hole, long and pointed and suggestive. The eye-holes were shaped on an extreme slant, and the eyebrows were peaked into a distinct lustful waggle. He hated it. “What is wrong with it?” Cecilia asked. “I resent the implication.”

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Her laughter rang out brightly. “Oh, come now, Jacob. Surely you don’t think I would insult you that way? I was simply having a joke.” “You mean this isn’t mine.” “No. I mean, yes it is. No, that’s not what I meant.” Crossing his arms over his chest, Jacob demanded, “So what do you mean?” “Here.” Cecilia put his mask down on the desk and crossed to a cabinet along one wall. She pulled out another finely made mask and held it up for him to see. He moved closer, and he could see a cunningly crafted vision of saintly Patience. He looked at Cecilia questioningly. “My mask. I decided to be patience, which they say is a virtue. I think you’ll agree, however, that it’s one I don’t possess. You see the joke?” “I suppose so.” Inspiration struck. “Who’s chastity?” Grinning, she answered, “Vanni.” That made him feel much better. And like an idiot. He picked his mask up off the desk and held it to his face. There was a bit of snickering, and he laughed. “Okay, I overreacted. I’m sorry.” “Eh.” Cecilia waved him off. She smiled and touched his arm, making his blood zing in his veins. “Forget it. Now go. I need to work. And you need to try on your cassock. See if it needs altering.” That was his last protest. The night before the ball, the whole clan gathered for an informal dinner and tour of the house, and Jacob found that he was actually looking forward to seeing the reactions to his decorations. Everyone was duly impressed, and the twins even bestowed great, squeezing hugs on him before pulling away self-consciously. Which caused him a pang. He slept poorly that night, tormented by odd images of throngs of revelers peeling away their masks

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to reveal rotting faces. He woke several times cold and sweating and shook his head at his own over-active imagination. As a consequence, he slept late and made it to breakfast long after everyone else. The entire day went that way. Jacob was a half step behind everyone else all day long. He just missed Cecilia here, or Terri there. The whole house was thrumming with tension and anticipation. The atmosphere was one of controlled chaos. The only members of the family he did manage to see before evening were the children. Between the Rossi brothers and sisters (of which there seemed an interminable number) there were several offspring. Jacob’s favorite was Massimo, who belonged to the youngest cousin, Guiseppe. Precocious but adorable, Massimo distracted him until it was time to go and change. He didn’t catch up with the family until late afternoon, when they assembled in the grand salon, in costume, for one last conference. The salon was simply amazing. Panels hung from the walls, depicting the Grand Canal and the Rialto market. The footmen were dressed in Renaissance era livery, with the Miggliozzi crest in full view on their chests. Much of the delicate Baroque furniture had been removed, and the seating groups were now heavy chairs and padded benches of dark, carved wood. Long trestle tables were set up and would soon be loaded with appetizers and drinks. The buffet would be in the formal dining room, which Jacob knew had been arranged for an ebb and flow of guests seating themselves and eating while listening to the musicians in the music gallery. The twins were there, resplendent in brocade and velvet. Their masks weren’t on yet, and Jacob didn’t see them anywhere, so he had no idea what they were going to be. They exclaimed over him, though, which made him smile. Giovanni wore black, with black embroidery. He had on the short tunic and hose, which few men could pull off, and an exaggerated codpiece decorated with jet beads. The mask hanging from his arm was a perfect picture of modesty, carved eyes demurely loaded and childlike lips firmly closed along the breathing slit. Several other members of the family were there, as well as Teresa, who wore a deep purple gown with elaborate sleeves and a stiff paneled waist. Her mask represented Pride, or vanity. The arch of the eyebrow and the selfconscious curve of lips was suggestive without being overdone. The silver mirror hanging from her wrist completed the costume.

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Cecilia and Marco chose that moment to make their entrance, and Jacob felt the sight of Cecilia like a slap in the face. His heart speeded up, and he couldn’t move. She was gorgeous. Her gown was a deep green, covered in a brocaded robe of rich blue-green. Her hair was pulled back from her face and confined in a delicate gold net. Curls were artfully arranged along the net at her ears and cheeks. She wore a profusion of jewelry, chains and pearls and rings. One heavy ornament took the place of honor on the swell of her breasts, though. The pendant was a heavy thing, made of roughly polished emeralds forming the tail and baroque pearls and gold forming the body and head. The eyes were rubies and the teeth were tiny pieces of carved ivory. The wings a mixture of mother-of-pearl and enamel. The Rossi sea lion. Except for the mask of “Patience” held on a stick by her side, she was the lady of his Venetti portrait come to life. Her husband was next to her, clad in a green so dark it was almost black, but Jacob hardly noticed him. His ears buzzed and he felt dizzy. Heat flooded him, staining his face and ears, pooling in his rapidly hardening cock. His knees went to jelly, and he must have swayed, because one of the twins was there, murmuring with concern. He couldn’t tell which one. The next thing he knew he was on a settee, and someone was pushing his head down between his knees. Someone was patting his wrists, then the back of his neck with a wet cloth, and when he looked up it was Cecilia on her knees in front of him, skirts spread around her in a puddle, looking at him with worried eyes. He almost fell over. He wanted to throw up. Someone pressed a glass of ginger ale into his hand and he drank it, and tried to gather his scattered wits before he made even more of a fool of himself. “Are you unwell Jacob?” Cecilia asked. “Do you need to rest?” “No. No, I’m fine. I was just a bit dizzy there for a minute. Just... over stimulated I think.” He knew he was hardly convincing. As a matter of fact he was trying hard not to laugh hysterically. Over stimulated indeed. He could barely walk. And not just because of the weak knees. The disorientation was actually worse though. For a minute he had seen another place, a palazzo that smelled of damp and a room that smelled of sex, and a woman half-dressed in that very same gown laughing at him as she struggled back into her clothes. It was gone as quickly as it came, but it made his head spin and his stomach roll. “I’m fine. Really.”

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"Are you certain?" Warm and soft, her hands rested against his skin, the dripping cold cloth falling to the floor. There was another blinding flash of disorientation, because Cecelia's lips parted, and a bright flush came to her cheeks, and the only thing that kept him from leaning to kiss her was the sound of Marco clearing his throat. Loudly. Jacob jumped. "Yes. I am certain. I will be fine." They all looked at him dubiously, but left him alone to recover when he asked them to. He sat there for the next half-hour, searching for calm and finding at last a small measure of it. He wanted to enjoy the evening and he certainly wouldn’t do that with his mind running in circles all night. Feeling better, Jacob got up and prepared to rejoin the others. By that time the rest of the family was there. Alessio and Darius, looking like Lords of the Nightwatch in their midnight blue doublets and sapphire jewelry, their wives decked out in fine style. Jacob felt dowdy in comparison, and in a strange way that relieved him. Once the guests started to arrive, none of them had time to catch their breath for hours. Food and drink flowed copiously, and people flooded the main rooms of the house. The dining room, salon and ballroom were packed, and the music and laughter created a full time buzz of sound that rang in his ears. The decorations were perfect. The music was period. The food was flawless. It was the most decadent party Jacob had ever attended. With some surprise, Jacob realized he was having a fantastic time. The only fly in his ointment was his relentless reaction to Cecilia. Every time she took his arm to introduce him to someone, every time he smelled her scent, jasmine and lemons and musk, his body tightened. He spent at least half the night half hard. Unused to being so out of control, Jacob was both amazed and annoyed. His mask of lust fit him all too well tonight, and the knowledge made him squirm. During the third or fourth hour of the ball, when almost everyone else was in the dining room, Jacob made a break for it. He needed to get out, somewhere where there were no people, just for a minute. He went out into the courtyard, bypassing the life sized chess game and heading for the temporary maze Cecilia had set up. He still shook his head at how she hadn’t even blinked an eye

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at the cost of the potted shrubs they had imported to create it. In the center of the maze, Jacob knew, there was a long bench, padded with Turkish style cushions. A trysting bench. He had suggested it himself, in keeping with the historical theme. Since he had helped set up the maze it shouldn’t be hard to find. Maybe he could stretch out for a few minutes. Putting his right hand to the wall and making only left hand turns, Jacob made his way through the maze with relative ease, reaching the center in a few short minutes. Only to find that someone was there before him. Two someones actually, and Jacob was about to stage a tactical retreat when the two broke off their clinch and jumped apart, staring at him guiltily. Damien and Gianni, the twins. They were mussed, their lips kiss swollen, and they looked so worried like they were afraid of what he would do. They just sat there in a miserable silence and waited for him to say something. Only he couldn’t. He knew he should leave. He knew about this. It was no real surprise this time. What did surprise him was his own reaction. There was none of the confusion he had felt last time. None of the agonizing. Just the desperate, needy lust. Jacob’s whole body was one giant, throbbing ache. His cock, which had risen and fallen all night filled and hardened completely. His nipples went tight, and his breathing shortened. Jacob took off his mask and looked at the twins, and they must have read it in his face. This time when one of them held out a hand, he stepped forward and took it, and let himself be drawn in. It was Damien who touched him first, a hand on his hand. Warm and hard and callused, so unlike the soft touch of the twins' sister, that hand pulled him forward until he stood before and between them as they sat on the bench, close enough to smell them, mint and sandalwood and sweat. Gianni took his dangling mask from his other hand and dropped it onto the Persian carpet at his feet. It hit with a thud, rolling to the flat side, so that lust stared up at them with a licentious grin. Jacob ignored it, because Gianni’s fingers were twining with those of his free hand, and both twins tugged at him, pulling him down to rest between their warm bodies so that he felt the bulk of them on either side, surrounding him. It should have made him claustrophobic because was so unused to this kind of touch. Instead it made him feel oddly safe. Half on the bench, half reclining across Gianni’s lap, and Damien stroking a hand down his chest, leaning in so close that Jacob felt warm, wine laden breath on his face. Damien kissed him, softly, and it was like saying a Rosary. Comforting. Damien’s lips moved on his, little nibbling motions that he copied until they were

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moving together in a little dance. Moving more firmly into the cradle of Gianni’s thighs, Jacob sighed. Damien pushed his tongue along the crease of Jacob’s lips, and he opened them, letting Damien’s soft touch into his mouth. The strokes of Damien’s tongue were light, tentative, accompanied by Gianni stroking his hands up and down Jacob’s arms as if gentling him. Jacob understood. They were afraid he would come to his senses and run. But he didn’t want to. And he didn’t really want gentle. Surprising them both, Jacob braced his hands on Gianni’s legs and pushed up into Damien’s mouth. Damien grunted, then plunged his hands into Jacob’s floppy hair and kissed him hard. Demanding. Jacob met it with his own fury, tilting his head to get full contact, untutored but oh so eager. Gianni slid his arms under Jacob’s armpits and across his chest, wrapping around him. Gianni pressed against his back, pushing him until he was flush against Damien in the front, and it was delicious. Gianni’s mouth was at his ear, nipping at the skin just below. They were all breathing hard now, rubbing against each other in subtle little jerks. The twins tangled their fingers together when they reached for the hooks on his cassock, and they broke off kissing him to laugh at each other. It was a joyful sound, and he grinned with them. Then he reached for Damien’s doublet. The complexity of the fastenings defeated him, and he yanked at it with a frustrated sound. Two sets of hands abandoned Jacob’s clothes to accommodate him, and soon Damien’s chest was bare. Jacob reached out to touch his skin, feeling the rasp of Damien’s chest hair and the thumping of his heart. Gianni covered Jacob’s hand with one of his own, and pushed it down to cover Damien’s nipple. It peaked, pushing into his palm, and Damien’s eyes slid closed, a deep noise coming from his throat. Jacob wanted to hear that sound again, so he ran his other hand down to the other nipple, pinching it lightly between his fingers. Damien arched like a cat and moaned, and Jacob’s cock surged. Suddenly Jacob had to know if Gianni was the same, if he looked the same, had the same reactions. He twisted away from Gianni’s confining embrace, trying to turn to face him. They all got tangled, falling off the bench in a flurry of limbs and cushions and curses. Jacob wouldn’t be denied though, and he ended up on top of Gianni somehow, pushing and pulling on that damned doublet that had the same unreasonable amount of hooks as Damien’s. Jacob was straddling Gianni’s hips, and the

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other man was breathless from the fall and Damien was laughing behind him. He glared over his shoulder and said, “Well, help me, damn it.” For a long moment, Damien just stared at him, as if Jacob speaking was a shock. Maybe it was. It was more real, somehow, what he was doing if he acknowledged it out loud. At the moment he found it hard to care. Then Damien moved forward and helped him, and Gianni was identical darn it. Except that he was ticklish where Damien wasn’t and brushing Gianni’s nipples resulted in serious giggle fits. It wasn’t long before they turned on him. Damien pulled and Gianni pushed and Jacob was on his knees with Damien behind him this time, and Gianni kissing him hard. Gianni was more aggressive, his lips more firm. They worked him together until Jacob's cassock melted away, and his chest was bare. He didn’t have time to feel self-conscious, because Damien was tracing his sternum down to his belly, pulling lightly at the trail of hair there. Gianni was mouthing his neck and sucking at his nipples and he quite simply expected to explode any minute. He’d never felt anything like it. The few sticky high school experiences he’d had before seminary hadn’t prepared him for this kind of pleasure. His furtive jerking in the dark of his room never made him feel like this, like his cock was made of hot steel and his belly had lead weights in it. Heat in front of him, heat behind him, searing him. Damien pressed against him, rubbing and panting. Gianni was leaving marks, tiny love bites that left lurid little bruises. Jacob’s muscles jumped under his skin, and he heard a strange keening come from his chest. Damien grabbed his arms, as if restraining him, but he wasn’t afraid. It was more like the twins were afraid, like they had to hold him down to do what they wanted to do next, like they were afraid he would run. He wasn’t about to. Gianni moved back to his mouth and sucked him into a drugging kiss, and Gianni’s clever fingers opened his trousers to free his cock. The air felt cool on his heated skin, then Gianni closed a hand around him, and Jacob almost came right then and there. His body bucked, and Damien chuckled, tickling his neck. Jacob let his head loll back onto Damien’s shoulder as Gianni broke the kiss. Damien took his lips then, and the twins tasted like one person. Jacob wanted, oh he wanted everything and he whispered “please” over and over. The twins shared a look, and Gianni nodded, and the world spun as they moved him. Jacob

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was on his back, laid out on the Turkish cushions, and they skimmed his pants down his legs. His shoes and pants were flung away, and Jacob was naked, the twins were sitting at his feet, staring at him with hot, hot eyes. They turned to each other briefly and shared a deep-throated kiss, and Jacob whimpered at the sight. They struggled out of their hose. Then Damien was crawling forward to straddle him, pressing down into him, his thighs on either side of Jacob’s. He leaned down to kiss Jacob, and it was devouring, all consuming. Jacob arched up, and his cock rubbed against Damien’s, and Damien whispered, “Dio!” It was perfect and Jacob echoed him with a, “Jesus,” of his own. Damien looked at him, so close that Jacob could count each spiky black eyelash, each beard whisker. Damien smiled, and his eyes crinkled and Jacob smiled back. It was perfect. Another weight settled across Jacob’s legs as Gianni moved in behind Damien, and Damien closed his eyes, hissing with pleasure. Jacob raised a hand to Damien’s hips, curling it around one buttock, and he could feel Gianni’s cock there, rubbing into the crease between Damien’s cheeks. He groaned and pushed his cock up into Damien’s and they both gasped. Gianni was cursing, fumbling in their pile of mixed up clothing, and when Jacob realized what he must be looking for he actually blushed, which was ridiculous if he thought about it. Damien obviously found it endearing, because he rubbed his cheek against Jacob’s and laughed. Then Damien was pushing against him with a cry and Jacob realized that Gianni must have found something. Jacob’s fumbling fingers found Gianni’s cock, still completely separate from Damien, so it must be a finger he’d shoved into his brother’s body. The thought excited Jacob unbearably, and he humped against Damien, their movements becoming frantic. Gianni pushed Damien down hard, stilling them for a little while and murmuring soothing words in Italian. He got two growling complaints for his trouble, but it did back them up from the edge. When Damien threw back his head and shouted, Jacob knew that Gianni was inside finally. He searched for the joining with his fingers and found it, caressing the place where the twins came together and they all moaned. Then Gianni was moving, pounding into Damien, setting a hard rhythm that pushed Damien down on to Jacob. His cock was on fire, the friction more than he could bear. Damien’s chest hair scraped his nipples and their hips ground together as Gianni

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pummeled his brother's uptilted ass. Jacob wanted to scream his pleasure to the night, but he couldn’t make any sound come out of his throat except harsh, groaning breath. Damien kissed him until spots swam in front of his eyes. Jacob saw Gianni’s face over Damien’s shoulder, twisted as if in pain, sweat dripping from his hair. It was too much. Too much and Jacob felt his orgasm squeeze his spine until he thought his head would pop off. He arched into a taut arc, actually lifting Damien’s hips, which pushed the other man back into his twin. Jacob’s cock spasmed, and he came in hard spurts, biting his lip and tasting blood. Damien followed within seconds, adding his hot seed to the sticky mess between their bodies. Gianni was the last by several moments, shoving his cock into Damien’s convulsing body hard and fast until he came with a muffled wail. The three of them collapsed in a pile of flesh and sweat and come, and Jacob spared only a passing thought for how much noise they might have made. The only sounds on the maze now were their labored breathing and the chirping of crickets. Which made the voice that cut into their silence all the more shocking. They all jumped when they heard Cecilia’s words, the tone harsh.. “Well, that was interesting.”

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chapter six The silence stretched until Jacob was afraid they would all simply sit there and stare forever. He broke first and made a convulsive move toward his clothes, but Gianni caught him and rolled protectively on top of him, shielding him from Cecilia. Damien glared at his sister and told her to leave them alone so they could dress. She nodded, and turned to go. She looked back over her shoulder and said, “I will see you all in an hour. In the green room.” Then she was gone. He struggled, and Gianni moved off him, helping him to his feet. They dressed without speaking, but Jacob could feel their eyes on him, asking questions. Too bad he had no answers. He wasn’t sure what to do or how to feel. He knew what he had done was wrong. Catastrophically so. He knew that as it stood, his soul was in mortal danger, as were his vows as a priest. But he didn’t feel the panic he thought he would. He was numb to that. All he could feel was Damien’s come sliding down his belly and the twinge of pain in his back from being pressed to the ground. He moved slowly, like an old man. Finally dressed, Jacob cast about for his mask, and found that it had rolled under the garden bench. The nose and tongue had broken off where they protruded form the face. Jacob stared at it for several moments, and started when Gianni put a hand on his shoulder. He looked at them, these two that had made him give up the promises of a lifetime of service to God, and he couldn’t bring himself to be angry. Not at them, and not at him. He was just numb. The trip back to the house was just as quiet. Damien and Gianni kept touching each other, and Jacob had become used to their private language, for he knew it was reassurance. They were waiting for the explosion. That really wouldn’t be fair. Jacob could’ve left. He could have resisted the lure of the flesh. Their flesh. He was the weak one, the one to blame, not them. A sound, like a sob, burst from his throat and they were there, holding him, surrounding him with their warmth and the smell of their sex. He wanted to just rest there, to stay, so he didn’t have to worry about facing up to his actions. But he couldn’t, and he stepped away. Jacob patted them both on the arms and shook his head. “Don’t worry about it,” was the message he tried to convey, but couldn’t actually get the words out.

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The green room was deserted. Jacob poured himself a stiff drink, scotch he thought, from a side table and sat heavily in on of the club chairs strewn about the room. The twins took a sofa, presenting a picture of togetherness, no matter what the outcome. For at least a half hour they waited there without talking, the only sound in the room the ticking of the ormolu clock on the mantel. Laughter bubbled up in Jacob at his original thought about how much he wanted to enjoy the party. He certainly had done that. When Cecilia slipped into the room some time later, Jacob was surprised to see she was alone. The twins were too, he thought, and knew he was right when Damien asked, “Where is Marco?” Her expression was grave as she looked at them, on to another. “I did not tell him,” she replied. “He is not one of us.” Relief spread across their faces, but Jacob was more confused than before. He cleared his throat. “I don’t understand.” “I did not wish for anyone else to know, at least until we had talked. And Marco may be my husband, but he is not a Rossi. He will not know if I am not forced to tell him.” “Bene,” Gianni said decisively. “Then what else is there to say?” Damien nodded too, and the twins crossed their arms over their chests and tried to stare their sister down. “A great deal, I would think.” Cecilia crossed the room to pour herself a drink, and took a long swig before continuing. “First, I want to make sure Jacob isn’t going to try to run away again. It’s very important to me that he finish and publish his research on Venetti.” Shaking his head, Jacob practically croaked his words. “I can’t. I can’t stay here now. Don’t you see? I need to go back to the Church. To do penance and reaffirm my vows. I have to confess. The Church has a right to punish me. To excommunicate me. I can’t just... stay.” “But who has to know?” That was Damien, and the casual dismissal sat hard in Jacob’s chest.

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“I would. God does. How can I stay here and not do penance?” He was demanding, without even knowing it he was standing, and he was pointing at Damien accusingly. Damien looked crushed, and Jacob knew he had mistaken Damien’s meaning. “I’m sorry, Jacob. I was not dismissing your belief. What I meant is you can stay here, confess to our priest, work through the penance with him.” “I can’t.” Setting her glass down with a thump, Cecilia came to stand in front of him. She took one of his hands in hers and went down on her knees to better meet his eye level. “Jacob, you must stay. Please. We need you. For the Venetti project. For many other reasons. Please. Give us a chance to make it right.” Another one of those blurring, blinding moments of disorientation passed through him, and Jacob was in a paint-smudged studio, with half finished paintings all around him. There was a woman, on her knees in front of him, holding one of his hands in both of hers and pressing it against her bosom. “Matteo, you mustn’t go back to the country. It would be like banishment. Stay here. Give us a chance to make it right.” The two scenes blurred, the scent of night flowers and musk mixing with Damien and Gianni's stronger odor, the heat of Cecilia's hand on his like touching a live wire, the look in her eyes so perfectly matched to the one of his mystery lady staring at someone who was not him. With a desperate noise, Jacob tore away from Cecilia and ran out of the room. Later, much later when he had calmed somewhat, he would find it very telling that he had run upstairs to his suite instead of out of the house this time. He prayed. Jacob prayed for guidance as he never had before. He knelt for hours, until his knees and back ached, and recited any prayer he could think of. Saints’ prayers and Rosaries and stations of the cross. He fell asleep kneeling next to his bed and woke with back and neck that felt permanently bent. When he looked in the mirror that morning to shave, he was amazed at his own reflection, mainly

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because aside from looking tired, he was unchanged. There should be some sort of mark on him, shouldn’t there? Or maybe a great, big arrow over his head that pointed down at him and rang bells and whistles. He went to breakfast; he really didn’t know what else to do. And when Jacob didn’t know what to do he fell back on the familiar. Do the next thing. The next thing was breakfast. Absently filling his plate with English style eggs and sausages, Joseph noted that none of the family was up yet. He imagined they were hung over. Or, to be more fair, exhausted. It had been a long night. He ate mechanically, and focused on his visions rather than his predicament. He knew he was seeing images of Matteo Venetti. Had known it for some time. What he wanted to know was if they were real, or if they were figments of an overactive imagination. What if the visions were simply an excuse, a way to make his own actions seem less by equating them with a four hundred year old mystery. The only problem with that idea is that the Venetti portrait had begun to have an extraordinary effect on him even before he met the Rossi and Miggliozzi family. He had some connection to it that he didn’t understand, and it was bleeding over into everything else and eroding his common sense. Running things through his mind over and over was really no help, but it passed the time. And distracted him so much that he didn’t hear anyone come in. The hand on his shoulder was his first clue that he wasn’t alone, and he screeched loud enough to wake the rest of the house. “Sorry,” Damien said. “I did not mean to startle.” Damien’s greenish eyes were clear and direct and honest, and Jacob relaxed. “No problem.” “I wanted to talk to you before the others got up. I hope you don’t mind.” “Of course not.” And he didn’t. Not really. He wanted to duck his head and blush, but he managed to keep his head high. “What did you want to talk about?” Jacob only faltered a little bit at the end. He had a feeling he knew what Damien wanted to talk about. What else could it be? And yet it was still too raw. He still didn’t know what he thought, let alone what to tell Damien.

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“Where’s Gianni?” He blurted it out, and Damien grinned at him. “Still sleeping. He snores. It’s cute.” Jacob wondered if he was going crazy. “Why isn’t he here? To talk?” “I thought it would be better to do this without him. He gets angry very quickly. It’s the way he hides being scared, or hurt. I did not want him to be mad at either of us. Are you going to stay?” “Yes.” It popped out with no thought whatsoever, and Jacob was amazed at himself. Damien’s expression was more along the lines of happy, and he leaned forward to plant a light kiss on Jacob’s lips. “Good.” “No.” Jacob shook his head. “No.” “What?” Damien tilted his head inquiringly. “No what?” “If I stay, there can’t be any more of that. I know I was as much to blame for last night as anyone, but I can’t do it again. Promise me you won’t try.” “I can’t.” Damien’s smile melted into distress. “I wish I could, but I can’t promise. I want you. So does Gianni. It never works that way for us. He and I, both with the same. Never. You’re different. We don’t want to hurt you Jacob, but if you stay we will have to try.” His voice shook alarmingly when he replied, and he felt like a very lost little boy. “Then I can’t stay.” Like he was indeed a child, Damien pulled Jacob out of the chair and onto his lap, holding him firmly. “Yes, you can. You don’t have to do anything you don’t wish to Jacob. I said we will but try.

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If you say no, you say no.” Resting his head on Damien’s shoulder was easy, the easiest thing he’d done in a long while, and he sighed. He relaxed into Damien’s warm body and just floated. He didn’t come back down until Damien put him back in his own chair. He looked up, lost again, and Damien cupped his cheek with one hand. “Giovanni is coming.” Damien got up and moved to the sideboard and sure enough, Vanni walked in. He looked awful, all stubble and glazed eyes, and if Jacob hadn’t been so miserable himself he would have laughed his ass off. Instead he retreated behind his coffee cup and listened to Damien and Vanni insult each other. Vanni looked at him a few times with speculation in his eyes, but otherwise left Jacob alone, which he was grateful for. He didn’t think he could handle any of Vanni’s snide insinuations today. Jacob escaped the breakfast room just as the rest of the family trooped in, raising a few eyebrows, but not caring a bit. The workroom did not draw him today. Neither did the library. The thought of Venetti’s Hell was just too intimidating. Really he just wanted to sleep, and before he knew it, he had wandered into the study and collapsed on the deep leather couch. He had to laugh at himself. This was the same couch the twins had been on that first night. And if he wasn’t careful, he’d end up acting like a lovesick fool. Which was silly, because while the twins inspired great affection, he wasn’t likely to pine for them. There was no need to. If he asked, they’d give it to him. And didn’t that scare the shit out of him? When he woke up he was amazed that he had slept at all. He had, for several hours. His head felt too big and his mouth was disgusting. He got up and headed upstairs to take a shower and brush his teeth. Maybe that would clear his head a little. The hot water did help, and so did the comfort of big fluffy towels. For the first time since he was a very small child, Jacob left off his clothes and slipped back into bed. It was freeing rather than naughty, as if the weight of even pajamas would be too much. And it felt decadent but good to spend the day snoozing off and on. Like he’d earned it with his sleepless night of sin and prayer. Jolting straight up in bed, Jacob listened to the sound of his heart in his ears and thought a little

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wildly that it was getting too familiar to wake up this way. Was there a time when he’d slept peacefully? There must have been. But it was like having a cold. You forgot what an unstuffed nose felt like after a while. Somehow it didn’t surprise him at all to find Cecilia sitting in a chair next to his bed, watching him. “Are you alright?” “Yes. More or less.” He sat up and leaned back on the headboard, pulling the comforter up about his chest. “I think so anyway.” “Good.” She paused, obviously putting her thoughts in order while she studied him. “Do you want me to send them away? I can.” “What? Who?” “The twins. I can send them to Milan, or Venice. Even farther if you like. New York, maybe. They have an office there.” “What? No. They don’t need to leave. If anyone does it will be me. But not yet. I’m not upset with them. Really.” Another of those too knowing looks. “You are sure?” “Yes.” He nodded decisively. “I’m perfectly capable of taking responsibility for my own actions. They didn’t coerce me.” “Very well. You’ll tell me if something else bothers you? Or if you feel like you need to go? You won’t just run off.” “I won’t go without talking to you.” “Bene.” She stood. “And if there is anything else, anything strange that bothers you, you’ll tell me

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that too, yes?” “Yes.” “Good. Dinner will be informal. I hope you will come. Alessandro wishes to hold forth on the family history you missed last time.” “I’ll be there.” She smiled at him, and he remembered suddenly that he was naked under the covers. Somehow he thought Cecilia knew too, the way her eyebrow went up, and the gap between her teeth appeared in that wolfish grin. Her eyes ranged over the skin showing above his blankets before lowering unerringly to the spot below his waist where his cock hardened. The smile widened. “Grazie, Jacob. I’ll see you then.” Staring at the ceiling, Jacob contemplated his circumstances. He’d had sex. With men. Two of them. And while he knew there were those among the clergy who did that all the time, he never had. He wanted to have sex with a woman. Not just sex. He wanted to throw her down, and for lack of a better word, ravish her. There went his mother’s romance novels again, he thought. Add to all of it that he hadn’t confessed yet, hadn’t really asked forgiveness when he prayed, just guidance, and he was in a bad way. So what did he do all day? Sleep. And reassure the people he’d had sex with and that he wanted to have sex with that he was fine. He must be certifiable. Rolling out of bed, Jacob got up and got dressed. The collar he put on felt stifling, but he didn’t dare leave it off. It was his only armor. A glance at the clock told him he had enough time to note down his “visions” before he went down to dinner. He was a little late. Which meant everyone else already there, drinks in hand, chatting amiably about the masquerade. According to the calculations Marco was going over when he walked in, it was a success, at least in terms of money. Jacob had been horrified during the planning stages to

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find out that they charged an exorbitant amount for tickets. At least until Terri had reminded him that the money went to local charities. That was one of the main reasons he had finally given in and helped. It was, after all, a good cause. Jacob stifled a laugh at the thought of what he’d sacrificed for a good cause. Expecting awkwardness, Jacob was pleasantly surprised when Alessio latched onto him and dominated his attention for most of the meal. He learned a great deal about the Rossi family that night. None of it was anything he couldn’t find out if he did some research, probably, but Alessio liked the subject, and he told it well. The Rossis were one of those families who could practically trace their line back to Caesar. Surprisingly enough, though, they had not always been wealthy. It was only in the Renaissance era that they began to truly prosper, through trade routes and shipping. “Piracy,” Alessio said with a smile. “Why sugar coat it?” Why indeed. Jacob was sure it was not something they advertised, but if it came out in a tabloid someplace they’d probably embrace it. The idea that the Rossis had once been pirates pleased him inordinately, actually. It explained their take no prisoners attitude, their whole ability to snatch up what they wanted regardless of anyone else’s feelings. Jacob knew that wasn’t entirely fair, but it was still how he felt about them. The Rossi family had finally made good, and become respectable, when one of their daughters married a nobleman. Alicia di Rossi had married a young count named Miggliozzi. Jacob boggled, and the whole family laughed. Yes, the two families had been intermarrying for some four hundred years. Nothing new there, and nothing that should shock him. Except that it did, because somewhere deep in his gut Jacob knew very well that he had found the subject of his Venetti portrait. From the speculative looks he was getting from Cecilia and Marco, he wasn’t the only one who knew. Jacob never said a word, but something in his expression must have changed drastically, because Alessio broke off to ask if he was okay. One little corner of his mind spared a thought for how sick he was of that question, but the rest was wholly occupied with something that felt like rage. Good, old-fashioned pissed off.

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“You lied to me.” No one had to ask whom he was accusing. His narrowed gaze rested solely on Cecilia. She stared back at him, unruffled. “I never said that I did not know who she was, Jacob.” “You never told me you knew either. A lie by omission is still a lie. How did you think I could do my work if you didn’t give me the information I needed?” Marco cut in. “You didn’t need that information to do your job. Which was, if I recall to compare and contrast Venetti’s early paintings with his later ones.” “Yes, but my original job, for the Church mind you, was to research the portrait.” “Once they sold it to us, that part of your job ended,” Alessio said gently. “Your scholarly paper is what concerns you now.” “Fine.” Even Jacob could hear the flat tone n his own voice. “But my paper does not just compare and contrast, as you put it. It asks what changed. What was the catalyst for the change in Venetti’s style? And the portrait is from the period where his painting was evolving. This could be important. And you kept it from me!” “Jacob, it wasn’t important until you got to a certain point. In your research, I mean. Now you know.” Cecilia finished with one of her eloquent shrugs. Sometimes it made him crazy that Europeans could express more with one gesture than he could with an entire lecture. They were just so much more mobile than he was. Right now was one of those crazy times. Standing, he nodded to Alessio and the others, pointedly ignoring Cecilia. “I think I’ll go upstairs now. Goodnight.” He wanted to sound calm, but he sounded tight and agitated instead. He turned on his heel and left, feeling like he never did anything but run away from these people. “Don’t you ever stay and fight?” Jacob stiffened and turned on the stairs to face Vanni, who obviously thought Jacob ran away too much too. “That’s the only way to get their respect. Stand

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up to them.” “So that’s how you get their respect? And how do you simply get their attention? By fucking everything that moves?” Jacob clamped his mouth shut, horrified by what just came out of it. Vanni brought out the very worst in him. He backed up a step when Vanni moved up so they were face to face. “I haven’t fucked you yet, Father. Do you want me to? That would certainly get their attention.” “Shut up.” Jacob shook his head, but stood his ground, not moving away when Vanni leaned in close. “That’s disgusting.” “Not to sound juvenile, but you started it. I was just offering a little friendly advice.” “You’re never friendly. Even when it will gain you something the best you can do is a polite veneer. You’re an asshole, Vanni.” Jacob knew his ears were red, and he had trouble maintaining eye contact with the last word, but he held fast. “Maybe. But I’m not a liar, Father. Especially not to myself. I don’t sit there with a hard dick in my pants watching someone else fuck the maid and call myself Holy.” The sound of Jacob’s balled up fist hitting Vanni’s face was shockingly loud in the echoing space of the stairway. They were both stunned for a minute, Jacob staring with open-mouthed shock while Vanni licked blood from his lip. Then Jacob was off again, doing what he did best. Running. “It’s okay Father,” Vanni called in a laughing voice as he turned and ran. “I like a little rough stuff now and again.” If anyone deserved to be smacked in the face, it was Vanni Miggliozzi. Jacob refused to feel guilty. Or at least he tried to. But the mocking emphasis on the word Father when Vanni used it hadn’t escaped him. How long had it been since anyone else in this house had called him that besides the servants. Yes, he’d asked them to call him Jacob. But there was a familiarity among them now that

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was as unexpected as it was distressing. As a priest, Jacob had gotten used to being removed from personal relationships. You had a sacred one with God, and that was as close as anyone got. Colleagues, parishioners, fellow scholars; all of them hid behind formalities such as collars and titles. The Rossis were under his skin. And he wasn’t sure what to do about it. Prayer and contemplation. He was ripe for them. So he pulled out his notebook and wrote down all of the information he’d learned tonight instead. Especially the parts about Alicia Rossi. He made notes about research he wanted to do, and questions he wanted answered. He studiously ignored the little voice of his conscience as it knocked at the back of his head. Vanni deserved it. His tantrum in the salon after dinner was justified. He was going crazy. Giving up on the work, Jacob rolled the kinks out of his neck and checked the time. It was still early enough for a walk. Although every time he ventured out for one of those in this house, something dreadful happened. Maybe if he just went straight to his workroom, he’d be okay. His workroom was dark and silent and it taunted him with memories of his visions. He tried to make notes on the last Venetti he had pulled out of the collection to study, but it kept raising the hair on the back of his neck. Walking over to the portrait, he fingered the drop cloth that covered it, but turned away. Flipping through his reference books caused the same restless reaction. Even though he’d slept most of the day away, Jacob gave it up, and decided to go to bed. Without any conscious thought on his part, Jacob wandered the halls to his room. Or so he thought until he looked up when he reached the door. Which was not his. It wasn’t his old room in the guest quarters either. He was in the family wing. But he was at least one hall over from where he needed to be. And he was positive he’d never been in this room before. He wondered if this was another on of his crazy new "intuitions". What was in there that he needed to know about? Or maybe he was just so sleepy that he went to the right door on the wrong hall. He stood there, not wanting to knock, but unable to just leave. What was wrong with him? He was becoming a raving nutter. The door opened just as he was turning to leave, and Damien’s head poked out. Damien looked surprised, the pleased. He should have known. Jacob held up a hand before Damien could speak. "Good night, Damien. I’m going back to my room now."

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Solemn, Damien nodded. "Si. Of course. But now you know where we are. If you should need us." "Yeah. Now I know."

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chapter seven It seemed to Jacob for the next two or three days all he did was go through the motions. He slept a lot, but thankfully his dreams were quiet. He didn’t go out of his way to avoid anyone but Vanni, but he made no real effort to do his work, or do anything at all really. He would go to his workroom and sit, and stare at one Venetti or another, but it just seemed like he was there under false pretenses, and he’d lost his enthusiasm for the project. Jacob could tell that the twins, and Terri of all people, were worried about him, but he didn’t know how to reassure them. He didn’t know how to reassure himself. When Sunday rolled around it came as a complete surprise. Surprise, because when Cristina asked him to good to church with her, once again warm and flirtatious, he realized that he hadn’t thought of church in days. Whatever happened to all of his fine protestations that his soul was his and no one else’s and that he could resist temptation? He was ashamed to admit that he didn’t want to go, especially not to see Father Bertolli. He was about to plead illness when Terri stuck her head in the door and interrupted. “There you are, Jacob. Cristina, your mother is waiting for you to go to Mass. You should hurry or you’ll make her late.” Cristina flounced out of the room with an ugly pout on her face, and Terri rolled her eyes. “The family would like for you to attend Mass at their chapel this morning, Jacob. Will you come?” “Certainly.” And in truth, he was relieved. He could do his duty by the Church and not have to leave the house. Or more accurately, face up to confession to Bertolli or someone else like him. The service was traditional, in Latin. They took communion. It surprised him for some reason. Maybe he had expected some weird Satanic rite. Maybe a Dionysian orgy? It was just a regular Mass, given by a regular little priest who was about fifty years old and had a soft, pudgy look about him. He greeted Jacob warmly as a fellow man of the cloth, and it was positively excruciating. He went to confession (yes they even had their own confessional in the house chapel) and did exactly what he had accused Cecilia of. Lied by omission. He said nothing at all about any of it. Except for his anger towards Vanni. That seemed safe. And if the priest laughed a little and agreed that Vanni

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begged for it, who was to know? On his way out, Jacob stopped to light a candle. It was something he usually only did for remembrance, and he was a little unsure why he did it now. Guilt maybe. Or maybe it was for Matteo Venetti. Jacob was convinced that Venetti went insane due to his association with Alicia Rossi, and that was why he started painting Hell. Scholarly theory it was not, but it sounded good. Petty, but good. He carefully touched the burning match to a fat beeswax candle and grinned, thinking how it was obvious that this was a private chapel in a rich house, to have such expensive candles. It lit easily, and fluttered to smoky, orange life, and he bent his head to offer a small prayer. He had to pray for forgiveness, for his unnatural lust for the lady of the house. She teased him whenever his master wasn’t there, calling him a pretty boy, telling him how innocent he seemed. She wore that dress for her sittings, the one that was modest, but still made him think things. She would sit there, hand on her breast, and finger that enormous lion necklace and he would get excited. It was wrong of him to desire a married woman. And so he went to the chapel and lit a candle and thought about what his strict father would say about his obsession. Or how his master would react if he caught him touching himself in the dark. Blinking, Jacob came back from his vision into the present. There was no shift sideways this time, no disorientation. It had been seamless. It terrified him. Jacob stood there, frozen, until someone walked up behind him and put a hand on the small of his back. “Jacob?” It was Gianni, and Jacob snapped out of his trance and turned to Gianni gratefully. “I’m okay. Just thinking.” Looking abashed, Gianni asked, “I’m sorry. Did I interrupt your prayer?” Without even thinking, Jacob took Gianni’s outstretched hand in his. “No. I was just wool gathering. Did you want something?”

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“Damien told me that you talked,” Gianni replied. He peered at Jacob tentatively. “He says that everything is good, that you are not angry. Is that true?” “Not at the two of you, no. And certainly not about, well, that. Did he also tell you that it can’t happen again? That I won’t stay if you try?” “Si.” Gianni paused, thinking about his words, and Jacob almost smiled. But he didn’t want to seem like he was laughing at Gianni, so he kept a straight face. “But I want to make sure you won’t take it the wrong way if we touch you, or try to make you feel better.” Like he was doing now, Jacob supposed. Gianni was absently petting Jacob’s hand with his thumb, a soothing back and forth glide. “No. I won’t take it the wrong way.” “Good.” Gianni gave him one of those blinding smiles his family was gifted with, and pulled Jacob into a hug. Jacob didn’t try to resist, just folded in and let himself be held, and it was warm. He was cold. Gianni kissed him lightly on the forehead and let him go. “Will you come out with us today? Damien and I want out of the house. We thought dinner, maybe.” Shaking his head, Jacob wrapped his hands around his upper arms and rubbed. “No. Thank you, Gianni, but I really don’t feel well. I think I’ll just go to bed.” Nodding, Gianni left him, but with obvious reluctance. Jacob had no doubt that soon he would have droves of people dropping by his room and asking if he was ill. He wasn’t really. He just felt cold and tired and wrung out. Bed sounded very good at the moment. That’s where he went, too. He stripped and slid between the smooth sheets on his bed, and was out before his head even hit the pillow. Swimming back to the surface of a deep sleep, Jacob realized two things. He was no longer cold. He was hot, so hot he was sweating. And second, he was having the most amazing dream. Not a horror movie slideshow like he’d had recently, but a warm, sensual dream. Greedy hands skated

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over his body, lingering at the sensitive places. His nipples, belly and thighs were stroked and licked and nibbled. He undulated under the attention, and decided that his dream lover would be Cecilia. Or was it Alicia? He decided not to think too hard about it. It distracted him form the wet glide of the mouth on his hipbones, from the hands that moved to bracket his hips. So much safer to dream it, so much less in the way of guilt. Jacob imagined the fall of long hair shielding her face, the glint of greenish-blue eyes looking up at him. A hot, rough swipe of tongue on his cock made him gasp and arch, and soon he was engulfed completely by slick, tight lips. Perfect amount of suction, a practiced hand on his balls, rolling them lightly, and Jacob was lost. He rode the sensations as his body rose and fell, and the thought of pouring himself into that beautiful mouth pushed him over into orgasm. He wasn’t exactly sure which name he cried out, but he thought it was Cecilia. Sticky, sated, and boneless, Jacob basked in his dream reality until a derisive chuckle had his eyes snapping open. He was awake after all, and there was someone in his bed and between his legs, still holding his balls in their hand. His balls tried to crawl back into his body as a result. “I would have thought you’d be crying out for the twins,” Vanni said. “But I suppose it doesn’t surprise me that you’d be sniffing around the dear little sister-in-law. She is quite a tasty dish.” Speechless with a mixture of surprise, fear and fury, Jacob simply sat there like an idiot and looked at Vanni. He was afraid to move while the other man still had a firm hold on him, and the unreality of the situation made it impossible for him to speak coherently. So he just sat there, even when Vanni slithered up to crouch over him, still lightly cupping his balls. “What’s the matter, Father? Cat got your tongue?” He hated that. Hated the way Vanni called him father, like it was some sort of dirty word. He hated Vanni’s naked body, obscenely beautiful with its stocky musculature and thatches of black hair. He couldn’t help but notice Vanni’s cock, stiff and red and accusing. Vanni leaned forward and Jacob could smell himself in Vanni’s mouth, and he made a sound of violent denial.

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Pressing his lips to Jacob’s to silence him, Vanni settled between Jacob’s spread thighs, then pushed them closed around his straining erection. Jacob struggled, but it was weak at best, overwhelmed as he was by a mixture of disgust and confusion. There’s a fine line between attraction and repulsion, Jacob thought. He wasn’t sure which was winning, and when Vanni pinned him to the bed and licked at his closed lips, Jacob lay passively beneath him and opened his mouth. The taste was bitter and salty. It was him, mixed with the smoke and whiskey taste of Vanni. Jacob just didn’t have enough experience at kissing to say whether Vanni was good at it or not, just that it was overwhelming. Jacob couldn’t breathe, and he pushed against Vanni’s shoulders, whooping for breath when they separated. Vanni ground down with his hips and bit into Jacob’s neck. It hurt, and it maddened him. Jacob yanked on Vanni’s hair as hard as he could, and received a feral grin in response. Humping hard now, Vanni kissed him again, mashing their lips together violently, and Jacob bit into Vanni’s lip. Blood trickled into his mouth from Vanni’s split lip, the injury Jacob had given him, and Jacob gasped at the taste. His cock jolted back to awareness, over-sensitive, almost sore. Vanni moaned into his mouth. Their skin was slick and the smell was pure animal. Jacob spread himself again, pushing hard into Vanni, hooking one ankle around Vanni’s calf. They were grunting and yelping now, like a pair of dogs, mindlessly reaching for completion. Their teeth clacked together, their cocks rubbed furiously, and finally Vanni cried out, splashing Jacob with his scalding come. Jacob bucked and jerked, his own release pumping from his abused body. Their breathing was the only sound and movement in the room. Jacob’s stomach rolled, and he shoved Vanni off him. Vanni, sated and uncoordinated, flopped to one side, and Jacob bolted for the bathroom. He slammed the bolt on the door home and made it to the toilet just in time to become violently ill. Kneeling there on the bathroom floor, Jacob ignored the scratching at the door. He ignored the sing-song voice that called to him. “What’s the matter, Father? Am I not good enough for you? Did I make you feel dirty? You made me feel good. Or is your problem that I made you feel good, too?”

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Jacob ignored it until it went away, resting his head against the cool porcelain of the toilet and closing his eyes. Then he crawled to the shower and scrubbed himself pink. Vanni was right. Damnably right. He enjoyed it. Oh he could shrug it off as a purely physical response, a typical reaction of the male body to stimulus. But there was more to it than that. He’d enjoyed the violence of it, the taste of Vanni’s blood in his mouth. As much as it had disgusted him it had excited him. Powerlessness shouldn't be a turn on. Not for him. Not for anyone, really. Jacob wondered if Matteo Venetti had felt as powerless in the grasp of this insane family. If the man had been as naïve as Jacob was, just as Father Bertolli had called him. If he was, it was no wonder the man killed himself. Once he was clean, he made his way back into the bedroom cautiously. Vanni was gone. He relaxed, just a little. He looked at the bed, rumpled and stained sheets twisted in a ball, and his stomach heaved again. He turned away, and grabbing some sweats from his bag, he left the suite. He’d sleep in the library. Or something. There was no way he could stay there and see over and over the images of him arching into Vanni’s body, crying out, licking blood off his lips. The hallway stretched off to either side outside of his door, but instead of turning down toward the main house, he turned and went deeper into the family wing. He wandered, seemingly aimless, until he came to the twins’ room. Oh this was ridiculous. But he couldn’t make himself leave. He stood there for what seemed like ages, fidgeting. Finally, cursing himself as all sorts of idiot, Jacob knocked. Just as he was about to turn and leave, Damien answered the door. Unashamedly nude, blinking sleep out of his eyes, he looked at Jacob with surprise. Something in Jacob’s expression must have warned him not to ask, because Damien simply opened the door wider and stepped back, and Jacob went in. He followed Damien back through the suite to the bedroom and crawled into the giant bed beside Gianni. Gianni made an interrogative noise, and shifted in the warm nest of covers, sliding an arm around Jacob’s waist. It felt good, comforting, and when Damien snuggled in behind him, he let it go for the night and went to sleep. When he woke the next morning he was alone on one side of the bed and the twins were wrapped together on the other. From the looks of it, they had been awake for some time, and were considerately letting him sleep. Going back to sleep was not an option. Not with them rubbing

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against each other like that. They were kissing wetly, tongues moving together as their bodies did. The flex and release of muscles fascinated him, and he reached out to touch a taut thigh. It was Gianni on top, and Gianni turned to Jacob and smiled, and they opened up to him, reaching out and pulling him in. Their generous heat seared him, and they helped him strip out of his sweats and they started touching. It was just like it had been before. There was joy in it, and care, and they touched him and each other with a kind of reverence. Their hands slid over him, erasing the lingering guilt and repulsion his body still carried. They kissed him, loved him, told him how beautiful he was, and there was nothing dirty about it, nothing profane. The release was astonishing, and it cleansed away the filth that Vanni had left on his skin. When they were done, together in a puppy pile on the bed, he felt like laughing. They stroked and petted him like they knew how agitated he had been and were trying to soothe him. And it worked. Much later in the day, when he was in his workroom diligently making notes about Venetti’s version of the Fall, it caught up with him. He sat there, and thought about what he had done the night before, and his hands shook. Jacob very carefully put down his pen, and held himself extremely still, like he might break if he moved. He stared fixedly at the painted representation of Lucifer, and a tiny thought scurried through his mind; it was amazing how much Venetti’s Satan looked like a Rossi. He had to get out. He had promised he wouldn’t run again. And he wouldn’t. Really. He just needed out of the house. He put away his things in neat order, and started out, trying to think where he might go. He almost made it. Cecilia stopped him just inside the front door, walking in as he walked out. “Jacob.” She smiled at him and put a hand on his arm. He tried not to flinch. “Are you okay?” “I was just going out.” “Oh.” Cecilia looked disappointed. “I thought you could catch me up on the progress you're making.” She peered at him uncertainly. “I understand if you’re still angry at me about the

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portrait. But I would like to hear where you are with your research.” The portrait. He hadn’t thought about it, or about the fact that Cecilia had lied to him. His own sins were piled so high that her tiny sin of lying was off the scope. Oh God. He shook her hand off his arm. “I’m sorry. I have an appointment. I’ll be back later in the day. Maybe you’ll be available then?” Brusque, he knew, but he couldn’t stand it anymore. He left the house and made a break for it. He ran away from everything, including himself. He wandered for hours, occasionally taking a break and just sitting on a bench, staring at the city like he’d never seen it before. It was late evening before he went to church. He did, though, falling back on that which was familiar. He avoided Father Bertolli’s church, knowing he could never go there and tell this tale, and instead went to one of the many large churches he’d passed on his walk. They would be busy enough even at this time of day for him to blend in. The confessional was manned, so he stepped in. Jacob went through the motions, said all of the appropriate things. Forgive me, Father, he said it and he thought it, but he lied. Sat right there and came up with all sorts of small things he’d done. Like taking the Lord’s name in vain. He admitted to having lustful thoughts. Just saying that almost had him giggling. Then he left, with the priest’s assigned penance ringing in his ears and knowing no matter what he did it wouldn’t be enough. By nightfall he was back at the Miggliozzi house. He was tired and hungry and covered in a grimy sweat. Damien and Gianni’s room had an even bigger shower than his, shaped to hold two, no doubt. He showered there instead of going back to his own suite, and borrowed a pair of pants and a shirt form the closet. Silk. It was nice. Then he went looking for Cecilia. One of the footmen informed him that the family was at dinner, and Jacob’s stomach growled, reminding him that he needed to eat as well. Conversation stopped altogether when he walked into the informal dining room, and he wanted very much to turn tail, but he took his seat instead. Looking to the head of table, Jacob made his apologies for being late, then waved a servant over to ask for a place setting. No one spoke while he filled his plate and forked up his first bite. Of course, he didn’t look up until then either.

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When he did, Cecilia put her wine glass down and folded her arms on the table. Leaning towards him she asked, “Did you have a good day?” Well, at least she didn’t ask if he was okay. Because he wasn’t, and he might never be again. Nodding, he took another bite of whatever it was in front of him. “You seem to have misplaced your collar, Father.” This was from Vanni, and Jacob simply turned to stare at him. Vanni actually faltered a bit. Jacob didn’t give him the satisfaction of touching his throat like he wanted to. “I didn’t forget it. It didn’t go with the outfit.” No one seemed to be sure how to take that, and several more minutes passed uncomfortably. Then Cecilia recovered. “Can we discuss your project tomorrow?” “Yes.” Chewing, then swallowing. Mechanically. “I want to apologize for earlier today, Signora. I was out of line.” Looking at him oddly, Cecilia replied just as formally. “No apology needed, Father Ellory. I was keeping you from an appointment.” “Thank you.” Plowing through his food, Jacob refrained from joining in any further conversation. The rest of the family finally started talking to each other again, and the meal passed with an excruciating lack of speed. He declined the after dinner drinks, and slipped out of the dining room to wander off to the courtyard. Restless and unable to settle, he paced around the fountains and tried not to think too much. “Walk with me Jacob?”

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Wheeling around, Jacob saw Alessio standing behind him on the mosaic path through the tiny rose garden. “What is it with you people sneaking up on me?” he snapped. Then he took a deep breath. “Sorry. I’m... out of sorts tonight.” “I noticed.” Alessio gestured for Jacob to precede him, and they started off at a leisurely pace. “Jacob, I have to ask you something, and I hope you will be honest with me. While this is Marco’s house, he is usually caught up in business matters, so I consider myself the head of this family. And if anyone has done anything to upset you, or hurt you... Well, I hope you will tell me.” “Define hurt,” Jacob said, and some of the confusion he felt bled into his voice. Some of the pain and loss. “I should never have come here.” A large hand settled on his shoulder, and Alessio turned him so that they faced each other fully. “I’m sorry. What can I do to help?” His skin tingled from the touch, even through the silk of his shirt. These people were mesmerizing. “Nothing. That’s the problem. Ever since I started working on that goddamned painting my life has been a disaster. I can see why the Church treated it like a ticking bomb. And since I’ve been here, Jesus, what a mess. I’ve done things. I’ve done things that I never dreamed I would and I’ve liked them. So unless you have the power to forgive me, or let me take it back, then there’s nothing you can do!” “I’m sorry we’ve caused you such distress.” Alessio guided him to a bench and they sat. “But no, I don’t have the power to forgive you. Your God, and you, are the only ones who can do that. You say you have done things. Then you say they’re things you never dreamed of. Jacob, I have to ask if that’s the problem. Maybe it’s not so much the painting as it is you. Coming here has shown you a different world than your admittedly sheltered one was. Maybe you were supposed to do that.” It was a reasonable argument. It might give him something to think about later. But not now. Joseph leaned forward and looked Alessio right in the eye. “Were they lovers?”

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Rocking back a little, Alessio asked, “What? Who?” “Alicia Rossi. Miggliozzi. Whatever. And Matteo Venetti. Were they lovers?” “How should I know?” “You’re the family historian. What’s your educated opinion?” “If we’re going to have this discussion I suggest we go inside and find a comfortable chair. It may take some time to answer your questions.” Alessio stood up and offered Jacob his hand. After a moment’s hesitation, Jacob took it. They walked together into the house, and Alessio led Jacob upstairs to the family wing. “This is my office,” Alessio said. He pushed open a door and waved Jacob inside. “Would you like a drink?” Shaking his head, Jacob settled into one of the broad leather armchairs flanking the room’s fireplace. Alessio poured himself a scotch, then settled in across from him. “Very well,” he began, “Venetti and Alicia.” “Right.” “What makes you think they were lovers?” Alessio sounded genuinely curious, as if he’d never really thought of it. Maybe he hadn’t. But Jacob had given it a lot of thought. If he turned his sight inward he could see it. Alicia’s golden skin stretched out on a drape of blue silk, all smooth limbs and lush curves. Venetti beside her, all hard angles and rough hair. They touched and kissed and whispered to each other. Jacob shook off the image. “I just think it makes sense,” he said. “It was about the time he did Alicia’s portrait that his technique started to change.” “Historically, that’s probably because that was about the time he started to separate from his master’s style and develop his own.”

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“Maybe, but it wasn’t just his use of color or his shade and light that changed. It was his whole view of the world.” Alessio’s smile was indulgent. “That doesn’t mean they were lovers. That just means that young Matteo was learning more about the world. He was a naive young thing from the middle of nowhere...” “Who had been in Venice for the better part of eight years,” Jacob finished. “Yes, he was from a small town in the middle of rural Venetia. His father was strict, and he was educated in the Church. But apprenticing to the man he did, and living in the city that long, it would be impossible to be so ignorant.” “Do you really think so?” Alessio sat back and crossed an ankle over the opposite knee. “Maybe you’re right. But I would wager that Alicia Miggliozzi was more woman than he’d ever met before. She wasn’t a delicate lady. She was only one step away from being a peasant. It’s not inconceivable that she had a strong effect on him without sleeping with him.” “Possible, but not probable.” They stared at each other for a few minutes, then Alessio grinned. “I like you, Jacob. Have I told you that? Even when you’re completely off balance with us, you manage to rally and stand up for yourself.” A snort came out before Jacob could stop it. “When I’m not running away, you mean.” “That may be your first instinct, but you always regroup.” With a rueful grin, Jacob got up to go to the little bar. He wanted that drink after all. He poured himself a brandy, then gestured to Alessio’s empty glass. “More?” “Si. Grazie.”

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“Prego.” Jacob finished with the drinks and sat across from Alessio again, serious once more. “Do you have any idea why this project is so important to your sister?” If he was startled by the question, Alessio didn’t show it. He just shrugged. “I have no idea why she feels it’s urgent, but I know what she hopes to do.” “Really? What? I mean, I have the feeling she wants to direct my research in a particular direction. But I have no idea why. Or where it’s going.” “She wants to have Matteo Venetti reinstated into the Church. Pardoned.” That was absolutely the last thing Jacob expected to hear. He would have accepted something like “she wants to raise him from the dead” more easily. “You’re joking.” “No. I’m not. She won’t tell me why, and I’ve stopped asking. But that’s what she says.” Bewildered, Jacob tucked that little piece of information away for later and concentrated on his brandy. He turned the conversation toward more general topics, and he found that Alessio was a delightful conversationalist. Well educated and opinionated, Alessio was quick to argue a point, but able to concede gracefully. By the time he was tipsy form the brandy and the urgent need to relieve himself made itself known, several hours had passed. Alessio waved away his yawning apologies with a laugh, and sent him off to bed. Which made Jacob hesitate. Turning back at the doorway, he asked, “May I make a request?” “Of course.” “I hate to make everyone work again, but could I have another room?” With a knowing look, Alessio waved an expressive ‘no trouble’ hand. “Of course. Would you like one of your own? Or shall I have them move your things to the twins’ room?”

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Damn the skin that blushed so easily. “I’d like my own, please. Even if I stay, well, somewhere else.” “I’ll have someone attend to it now.” “Thank you.” Jacob left, before he put his foot in his mouth any more. He couldn’t believe the things he’d been doing, and Alessio just accepted them so easily. It made him uncomfortable in ways that he really didn’t understand. He had a lot to think about thanks to Alessio, not least of which the things the man had said about Jacob and his calling. The theory Alessio came up with for him suited the situation of Matteo Venetti, too, didn't it? Only in reverse. What if, in all of the whirlwind world of art apprenticeships and love affairs, Venetti found that his life no longer suited his real needs at all? Jacob would have to think on it. Without really thinking, he went back to the twin’s suite. It was just down the hall. The door was unlocked tonight (for him?) and he let himself in. One of the twins was in bed already, only an unbelievably messy mop of hair sticking out of the covers. The other was in the shower. Singing opera. Badly. Jacob snickered. Whichever half of the pair it was, he sounded like a bull moose in full rut. This was why he needed them. Their uncomplicated approach to life soothed a head filled with too many questions. Jacob skinned out of his clothes and went to the bathroom, wincing at the horrible sound close up. He attended his needs quickly, and was goofily warmed to see a third toothbrush on the sink waiting for him. Without disturbing the bathroom Pavarotti, Jacob went back into the bedroom and yanked on the mound of covers planted solidly in the middle of the bed. A malevolent eyeball peered out at him, and Gianni said, “Make him stop.” “No way. He’s your twin. Now let me in.” They snuggled together and tried to cover their ears with the sheets. When Damien finally shut off the water and came out of the bathroom, Gianni and Jacob were a helpless pile of laughter. Which meant they couldn’t escape Damien and his wet hair when he pounced on them. After they were through with him, Jacob slept like a baby that night.

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chapter eight His appointment with Cecilia the next day wasn’t until late in the afternoon. So Jacob set out purposefully the next morning for Father Bertolli’s church. He needed the opinion of a man of the cloth. Arriving just after Bertolli had finished breakfast, Jacob asked to speak to him privately. Pietro fetched him, and Bertolli greeted him with something like relief. “Jacob. I was beginning to think you were lost in that house forever.” “No. But it has been rather interesting. I need to ask you a personal question, if that’s okay.” “You are welcome to ask, of course. Come sit down.” The scene was eerily similar to the one last night in Alessio’s study. They sat across from each other in Bertolli’s office. Father Bertolli was relaxed, Jacob tense. Jacob turned his question over and over in his mind, trying to find the right words. “Father,” he started, “I know we all have times when we question ourselves, wondering if we did the right thing joining the clergy.” Bertolli nodded, and Jacob was relieved. “What I wanted to know is if you’ve ever had a real crisis of faith.” Unsurprised by the question, Bertolli looked Jacob over carefully as he replied. “Not really. I have often questioned God’s plan. I have often wondered what my place in it was, and whether I would be able to play my part as I needed to. But I’ve never questioned my belief in God, or the wisdom of pledging my life to his service. Are you?” “I’m questioning everything right now, Father. But yes, I am wondering if I was right about my calling. The last month or two has been educational for me.” “Educational or just confusing?” “Both.” Jacob smiled slightly. “I’m learning a great deal about myself that I never even considered before. And I’m afraid I have a great deal to atone for.”

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Looking solemn but sympathetic, Bertolli nodded again. “Maybe you should leave the Miggliozzi house now.” “You’re the one who said you wouldn’t let me hide from them.” “Well, to be honest I thought you would resist them.” Bertolli got up and poured himself a cup of coffee, then offered one to Jacob. He accepted gratefully, and hid a smile. He loved the little rituals of food and drink in this country, how they turned to them when agitated or upset. Was it only a few short months ago that he'd thought they were irritating? “Apparently you fell right in with them, though.” “You have no idea.” Sighing, Jacob thought of everything that had happened lately and knew he could never tell all of it to Bertolli, even in confession. “Suffice to say I have issues to work through.” “ I hope you will trust me enough to let me help you.” “Thank you.” Jacob stopped and thought for a minute. “I’d like your opinion on something else. But I have to ask that it stays between us, at least for now.” “Very well.” The answer was honest and firm, and Jacob was happy with it. “Why would Cecilia Miggliozzi want to have Matteo Venetti reinstated into the Church?” Bertolli’s bushy eyebrows practically flew off his face. “What?” It was funny, that expression on Bertolli’s usually placid visage. “That’s what I’m told. Apparently that’s why my research is so important to her. Important enough that she made the offer to send some of her family away for me, and made me promise not to leave until I spoke with her.” Muttering under his breath in Italian, Bertolli hopped up out of his chair and went to the shelf of reference books behind his desk. He picked a fat volume of history and started leafing through it,

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still mumbling things like “odd” and “must be here somewhere.” Jacob sat and watched, bemused at the priest’s sudden change in manner. Finally, Bertolli gave a satisfied sounding grunt and came back to sit down. “I knew it was here somewhere. Pure speculation, but a contemporary of Venetti’s, a poet named Vincenzo Garza, made extensive notes about Venetti’s trial. He wrote that he thought Venetti committed suicide because he was excommunicated. The two events were not unrelated.” Amazed, Jacob stared at Bertolli, anger flaring hot in him. “You knew this all along and didn’t tell me? Why didn’t you show me this in the first place?” With an eloquent wave of his hands, Bertolli shrugged. “Well you are the expert, no? I thought you would have all of this.” “I’m the expert on his known paintings and his technique, but not his life. Especially when some people are doing their darndest to hide things from me. May I borrow that book?” “Of course.” Bertolli handed it over. “Just remember that much of it is propaganda. Garza was like an early tabloid writer.” “I’ll keep it in mind. Thank you, Father. I should get going.” “Si. Oh, and Jacob?” He was almost to the door, but Jacob turned back. “Yes?” “Be careful. And if you need help with this crisis of faith, as you called it...” “I’ll come to you.” With a last wave, Jacob hurried out. He took a cab back to the palazzo, wanting very much to get settled and do some research before his meeting Cecilia. He stopped by the kitchen and charmed one of the girls there into giving him some crusty bread and a plate of olives, cheese and pesto. Munching his snack he set up in his workshop and skimmed through the section

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of Garza’s book that related to Venetti. It fascinated Jacob, who had never really seen any contemporary source material on Venetti before. According to Varza, who had only known Venetti by reputation and passing acquaintance, Venetti was indeed something of a country bumpkin. Smart, and talented, but naive and rather religious. Apprenticed to master who was ham handed and brutish, it was no wonder that Venetti became something of an enigma. He retreated into painting more and more, though, after a certain affair of the heart ended badly. The lady’s name was not mentioned, but Garza alluded to the fact that she was a married woman. During the next few years, Garza wrote, Venetti became more and more strange, and his paintings began to scare the church. That was when the attempts to excommunicate him began. Only three short months after the inquisition that was formed for the trial succeeded in banning Matteo from the church, he killed himself. What wonderful material this was! The scholarly journals and books on the subject couldn’t fill in these types of blanks. Yes, much of Varza's work was probably blown out of proportion, but it explained so much. If Alicia and Matteo had an affair, and it ended badly, it would explain why Venetti’s style became darker during that time, all of the man's feelings pouring out on the canvas The subsequent action by the church would have colored his opinion of them as well, so while his subjects were still religious, they did not necessarily glorify that religion. And if he knew he was going to be kicked out of the church, Venetti would surely fear going to Hell, which would help to explain why he imagined it so vividly. There had to be more to it, but it was a start. Jacob glanced at the painting of the Fall he’d been working on before his latest duck and run. It couldn’t be coincidence that Lucifer, strangely seductive as well as repellant, looked so much like a Rossi. The scope of the painting was astounding, and yet the eye was drawn to the central figure as he was cast out of Heaven. Jacob stared at it for long moments, then shook it off and closed the book. He was getting lazy and decadent, he knew, but he wanted a nap before he had his meeting. He wanted to be fresh and organized when he grilled Cecilia for information. Grinning at the thought of intimidating someone like Cecilia, Jacob locked up his workshop and went back to the twins’ rooms. He’d been informed at breakfast, by Cristina no less, that his things

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had been moved to the suite across the hall from Damien and Gianni’s. He hadn’t been in there, yet. He was, in fact, still wearing a pair of Damien’s jeans and one of Gianni’s black shirts. That was indulgent too, but he just couldn’t help it. He liked they way they smelled. He chuckled. He hadn’t had the guts to tell Father Bertolli about the sex part, let alone the fact that he may very well like men better than women. After an extensive search, Jacob decided that the twins didn’t have an alarm clock. Then he almost smacked himself in the head. Of course not. They just called the house switchboard and told them what time they wanted to wake up. Feeling like a lord of the manner, Jacob did just that. Snuggling in under the covers, he gave himself over to the little known pleasure of sleeping during the day. As if to prove his earlier assertion about his sexual preferences wrong, he dreamed of Cecilia. Or Alicia. He dreamed of tracing that little gap between her front teeth with his tongue, of palming her breasts in his hands and feeling those luscious coral colored nipples harden under his touch. He bit into her full upper lip and sank deep into her wet heat, and she gasped his name as she wrapped around him. Matteo’s name, but in his dream they were the same. He fisted his hands in her hair and rode her hard, until they were both crying out harshly. Jacob awoke humping furiously into the mattress on the bed, drenched in sweat and teetering on the edge of orgasm. A single touch of his fingers on his cock and he was coming hard, his voice loud and grating in the quiet room. Panting, Jacob stayed where he was until he was completely relaxed, and marveled at his subconscious mind. Was that reassurance about his sexuality, or reinforcement of his idea that Alicia and Venetti were lovers? He crawled out of bed, wrinkling his nose at the mess, and rang for someone to change the sheets. It was a sign of how comfortable he’d become with the twins that he could do so without blushing. Then he went and cleaned up for his appointment with the lady. He made it to Cecilia’s morning room with five minutes to spare. He stopped by his workshop and gathered his notes, and while he waited he mentally composed his lines. He had no intention of telling her everything he’d found out; with any luck, she would tell him even more than he knew now. When she did show up, Jacob was grateful for his earlier wet dream. It kept him from having a physical reaction to the little blue green wrap dress she wore. He wondered if she did it deliberately, or if she just dressed like that all the time. She smelled good, and Jacob realized that it was not just good, it was familiar. He had known her scent before he met her, deep in his bones.

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Patiently waiting for her to speak, Jacob rearranged the papers on the desk in front of him. Cecilia flashed him a smile and sat across from him. “Thank you for coming, Jacob. I hope I didn't take you away from work.” “No. Not work.” He didn’t think she’d want to know what he had been doing prior to this meeting. “Good. So, what progress have you made?” “Well, I’m about fifty percent done with evaluating the collection. I’ve found a few new primary sources. And thanks to the information I gained from Alessio after you deigned to tell me about Alicia Rossi, I’m forming a theory. But there’s nothing conclusive yet.” “What’s your theory?” Her face was tight, and she leaned forward a bit in her chair, showing him just a hint of cleavage. Despite his earlier release, his body tightened, and his breath came in on a gasp. Dark blue green eyes met his, something deep and dangerous flashing in them. Cecilia shook her head, as if trying to clear it "I am a married woman, you know that, si?" "Yes, of course." "Good. I adore Marco." "It would never occur to me that you did not." Expression still, intent, Cecilia stared at him, finally nodding sharply. "Bene. Your theory?" Jacob drew a deep breath, only then realizing he leaned well forward himself. He forced himself to settle back, folding his hands in his lap. “Well, I think Venetti had a life changing experience, as corny as it sounds. I think something happened to him that changed how he viewed himself and his place in the world. And subsequently, his paintings changed. Which would account for the middle

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period paintings. Then, thanks to those paintings, Venetti’s Church patrons began looking upon him with suspicion, maybe fear, and set about having him excommunicated. Which accounts for the third, and final, stage of his career. If he was afraid of going to Hell, then certainly it would make sense that he would wonder what it was like, and put his imaginings on canvas.” Tapping one elegant foot against the Persian rug, Cecilia regarded him steadily. He hoped that she would react to his lecturing tone of voice and formal word choice by accepting what he said as a scholarly hypothesis, with nothing personal behind it. Jacob couldn’t tell form her expression whether she had or not. “So,” she said suddenly, “what was this life changing event?” Plunge right in, he told himself. “I think Matteo Venetti had an affair with one of his portrait subjects. Alicia Miggliozzi, to be exact. What do you think of that?” “It could be. Her husband was well past the age of such things.” Her voice was flat, unemotional. Jacob had hoped for a heated denial, or an expression of surprise. Something besides the enigmatic stare she was giving him now. Of course, he was probably very silly to think he could outdo her at this game. She was far more experienced at it than he. Jacob tried another tack. “Unlike yours. Why do you want to have Matteo Venetti reinstated into the Church?” That produced more of the response Jacob was looking for. Cecilia sat back in her chair, crossing her arms. “Who told you that?” “Alessandro.” Affronted now, as only a sibling could be, Cecilia muttered a distinctly unladylike curse against her brother. “And he did not tell you why?” “He said he didn’t know.”

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“I see. Is that all you have found in your research?” At Jacob’s nod, Cecilia stood. “Well then, I’ll see you at dinner?” Hurriedly rising to his feet, Jacob shook his head. “I’m going out with Damien and Gianni tonight. They’ve promised me the Italian version of the American greasy spoon.” With a sharp nod, Cecilia said, “Very well. Have fun.” And she left the room. Jacob looked at the empty doorway. Interview over. The twins really were expecting him for dinner. He didn’t even think about putting his collar on before he left the house, and later he thought that should disturb him, but it didn’t. The implications would have to be dealt with sooner or later, but at this point he hoped it would be later. They took him to a terrible dive, where they were greeted by name and seated in the kitchen to eat. The food was magnificent in its simplicity. Handmade pastas and a hearty sauce of olive oil, basil and ripe tomatoes. The bread was hot and fresh, perfectly crusty. The wine took the top of his head off. It was wonderful. When was the last time he’d allowed himself the simple pleasures like this? Jacob sometimes felt that as a priest, anything that felt or tasted really good had to be a sin. But really, how could something so simple as this sort of fare be bad? Afterwards they went to a club, where Damien and Gianni took turns being seen out on the dance floor with a procession of beautiful women. They had a reputation to uphold, they said. The paparazzi loved the Rossis. And if they wanted to be left in peace at home, they would have to go out once in awhile and provide fodder for the tabloids. Jacob just shook his head and enjoyed the driving rhythm of the music. He wished the twins could dance together. He would enjoy that. The visual that popped into his head was a nice one, and when combined with the subtle touches and brushes they bestowed on him it made him ready to go home. Right then. Voicing that opinion to Damien got him a sharp laugh and a quick grope, and soon they were on their way back to the palazzo. Jacob was at a loss to explain the mood that infected him, but he couldn’t keep his hands to himself. Damien and Gianni were delighted with him, and by the time

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they got back to the house, all three of them were flushed and mussed and laughing. They tumbled into the twins’ suite and clothes went flying everywhere. Before, Jacob had been content to be passive and enjoy what they gave him. His attitude towards sex was changing along with everything else it seemed, because his touch was more devouring than tentative, and he was eager to try things that he would never have believed possible until they were done to him. Twisting and turning against the hands that tried to push him down on the bed, Jacob finally got a solid hold on someone and pushed them instead. Damien, he found, was the one under him, and Jacob kissed him hard. Straddling him, Jacob rubbed their bodies together, and Damien’s eyes twinkled at him delightedly. He slid down Damien’s body and put his mouth where his mouth had never been before, licking at Damien’s erection hungrily. Damien arched beneath him, and Gianni gasped behind him, and the taste in his mouth was sweat salty and bitterly male. Jacob felt hands on his ass and then hot breath, and then Gianni’s tongue was on him, and he was going crazy. It all felt so good. Damien’s slick, hot skin beneath his lips, and Gianni’s strong tongue in him, and Jacob wondered why he’d ever denied himself such a pleasure. His inexpert sucking was making Damien crazy too, and the strong body under him bucked and heaved. He rode it out, his own hips circling desperately, and Gianni’s hand slid around to cradle his aching cock. A few short strokes and he was coming, and Damien was too, right there in his mouth. When they were done, Gianni turned Jacob over and kissed him, licking at the essence of his brother that still lingered in Jacob’s mouth. They did everything they could think of to him that night, and the implications Jacob had been thinking about earlier with his collar became writing on the wall when Gianni slipped inside his body with fingers and cock, and took him as close to Heaven as he ever expected to get. Jacob knew where his future lay, and as much as it scared him, it also gave him peace to admit it. He slept curled between them, and felt loved. When he dreamed, it was distant, like he was watching the scenes instead of living them. The despair and darkness were tangible, but while Jacob felt sorry for Matteo Venetti as he saw the man spiral down into suicide, he no longer felt like they were the same person.

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In fact, he felt like he was finally watching things from the outside. Perhaps it was his realization that Cecilia was not Alicia. Perhaps it was the twins, who he felt genuinely cared for him, but Jacob felt he had found a certain amount of equilibrium. Thank God, because in his dreams he saw Matteo appeal to the Church, asking for forgiveness, begging them to let him dedicate the rest of his life them, and being so cruelly denied that he killed himself. The detachment made it easier for him to shrug the dreams off, and go back to sleep, which suited Jacob just fine. The next morning seemed brighter, less confused and jumbled. Poor Venetti, sucked into a life of sin when he should have been the priest. Jacob would not make the same mistake. He would accept that his life was not with the Church before he tore himself apart trying to fit a mold that was not right for him. It wasn’t as if it would be easy, and he would agonize about it and change his mind a hundred times, he was sure. But Jacob still found relief in having made a decision to make a decision, if that made any sense at all. Things clicked into place, like they'd just been waiting for him. It was time to stop running. He rolled out of bed feeling better than he had in weeks. At breakfast, he took Terri aside and asked if she could get him an appointment with Cecilia. She looked at him oddly, but he just grinned and said that Cecilia might be avoiding him and would she just do it already? Terri grinned back, surprised but pleased with his pushiness, as she called it. She told him she’d see what she could do. That was all he could ask for, so he set about getting the information he would need for the meeting should it eventuate. The book that Father Bertolli had given him, the history by Vincenzo Garza, yielded more information to him that day. It told of the trial, as Jacob had originally read, but it also named names in the church, which was incredibly valuable. With that sort of information, Jacob might be able to pinpoint exactly who had been afraid of Venetti, enough so that they trumped up a silly charge and took away something he loved so much. Jacob also made a few calls. One to Father Bertolli to ask him to look a few things up. One to the office of Father Fermozzi, the priest who had sold the Venetti portrait of Alicia to the Rossis. He

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inquired politely as to whether the good Father would be in town in the next week or so, in case Jacob needed to see him. His secretary said, yes, he would. Terri got back to him at midday, and told him that Cecilia could work him in the next morning. Telling her that was fine, he also asked if she could see about Marco making it to that meeting. She grumbled, but said she’d work on it. Then he went to see if he could find Vanni. It wasn’t hard. Vanni was in his office, shuffling papers industriously. Which probably wasn’t a fair description. He did actually appear to be doing work. Jacob knocked, then entered without waiting for a reply, and resisted the urge to look under the desk and see if Cristina was there, sucking Vanni off. The thought made him grin, though, and that was the expression he wore when he plopped down across from the other man. His attitude caught Vanni off guard, he could tell. It was a good look for him. Jacob just sat there for a minute savoring it. Of course, that gave Vanni time to recover. He leered at Jacob and asked, “So, Father, what can I do for you?” The snide words were accompanied by an insulting once over. No blush, no uncomfortable shifting. Jacob just sat there and looked right back. Oh, inside he was cringing. He couldn’t change that much overnight, but Alessio had a point when he said that once Jacob got over the running he’d come back and stand his ground. It was time Vanni learned it, too. “I was hoping you had a minute, Vanni. There was something I wanted to say.” “By all means. Be my guest.” Vanni made an expansive gesture with his hands and sat back in a waiting posture. “Thank you.” Jacob gathered himself for a moment, then launched his opening salvo. “First of all, I have asked you repeatedly to call me Jacob. You refuse to do so. If you were using my title as a sign of respect, it wouldn’t be so bad. But you use it to mock me, which is upsetting to say the least. I have not mentioned how much it bothered me, because I was trying to be polite. Obviously I can no longer do that. If you cannot bring yourself to call me by name, then I’m going to have to ask you not to address me at all.” By the time he finished his face was hot, but Jacob held his ground, and held Vanni’s stare, which

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held a mixture of skepticism and amusement. He knew he’d have to back it up now, which would be hard because he was so used to placating. He could do it though. And he wasn’t finished. Maintaining eye contact, Jacob continued. “I also wanted to let you know that I’ll probably be around for awhile, working on the Venetti collection. Longer than I expected really.” Here Vanni broke in. “And that concerns me how?” “Because I’ll be living in your house. And that means I’ll have to interact with you. Which will be difficult if you continue to dislike me so.” Surprise flashed briefly on Vanni’s face, but was quickly covered by an unpleasant smile. “I don’t dislike you, Jacob. In fact, I like you a great deal.” “No, you like trying to fuck with my head.” Vanni’s mouth fell open, then he burst out laughing. “I didn’t know you had that in you, Jacob. And it’s not just your head I want to fuck with.” Relaxing a little, Jacob smiled along with Vanni. He waited for the other man to stop chuckling before he started speaking again. “No, I don’t suppose that is all you want.” Then, knowing it was unexpected, Jacob stood and planted his hands on Vanni’s desk. He leaned forward across it, closing the space between them. “But I don’t want you that way, even though I enjoyed it the one time. If you ever try to touch me that way again, I’ll have your balls. Or better yet, I’ll just tell your sister-in-law, who seems to like me, and she can have them. Understood?” Slowly, Vanni nodded, something like approval creeping into his expression. “Looks like you stopped running from the fight,” Vanni said, and there was none of the sarcasm in his voice that was usually there. “Looks like it,” Jacob replied.

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“What brought this on?” “It’s really none of your business. Just tell me that we understand each other.” “I think we do.” “Good.” That seemed to be a natural ending point, and Jacob got up and left as abruptly as he’d come, leaving Vanni to stare at his retreating back. The next stop was back at his workroom. He needed to get his ducks in a row for the meeting the next day. He wanted to make sure it went better than the last. Cecilia would be on the defensive. He hoped having Marco there would help, as the man was usually so direct. He wanted to assure Cecilia that he had no harmful motives. He just needed the information she had if he was going to help her get Matteo Venetti pardoned. He worked for a few hours, making notes, writing a few timelines. He felt incredibly anal, but then, he was supposed to be. He was a scholar after all. He wondered how his work would be affected by his new realizations and ideas, but pushed that thought aside to worry about later, after he did what he set out to do. Jacob knew it wouldn’t hurt to have a plan for that too, and that burying his head in the sand wouldn’t do him any good, but he just couldn’t think about it too much yet. As always, the paintings drew him. The portrait of Alicia glowed sullenly in the track lighting, and Jacob admired her, as always. The urgency was lessened, he realized, but he still thought her beautiful. He wondered if the voracious lust he’d always felt when he looked at it had just been another type of vision. Just like the dreams and the waking moments of displacement. And now that he didn’t really fear that he was going crazy, Jacob simply wondered, why him? Not that he wasn’t grateful. He was, but he did have to wonder. Once, early on in this whole game, Jacob had sunk himself into his work, and thought about how right it felt, how good it was. He felt that same sense of comfort now, as the day wore on and he worked steadily through his notes. It was okay to find comfort in routine. It was not right to hide

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behind it, and that was a crucial difference in his thinking now. Just as it wasn’t right to hide behind the Church. And wasn’t that what he’d done since he left high school? Most men waited to take vows. Sometimes they stayed in the orders for years before they decided. The priest that had counseled Jacob as a child had been in his order for some twenty years before actually becoming ordained. Jacob had done it the opposite way. He’d rushed through seminary, taken vows as quickly as they’d let him, taken pride in his achievement at being so young and accomplishing so much. Only then had Jacob pursued his other interests, the art restoration and the study of art history. Now he thought he had indeed been hiding, and he was ashamed of it. There was nothing to be ashamed of in taking comfort in faith. Jacob knew that. The little rituals of prayer and confession and attending Mass had always made his heart easier. He wouldn’t give that up. But more and more he was realizing that he’d mistaken that comfort for a vocation, which wasn’t fair to him or the people he served. Increasingly, Jacob believed that the sense of wrongness he’d felt upon walking into a church for the first time after going to stay at the palazzo had more meaning than just signaling how unnerved he had been then. Someone had been trying to tell him something. The day flew by, and his work ended once again with him jumping out of his chair at the sound of a hard knocking on the door. This time he was grinning when he opened the door, because he had a pretty good idea who was there, and he was right. Damien and Gianni dragged him out of the dungeon, as they called it, and pushed him upstairs to dress for dinner. Alessio would be leaving the next day, they told him, and he needed to be there to see him off tonight. It was fun. Even if Cecilia was far cooler to him than she had been before, and even with Vanni making obscene gestures to him when no one was looking. He simply turned on the charm with Cecilia; the colder she was, the nicer he was. Vanni he just flipped off and laughed when Vanni gave him a look of exaggerated surprise. As before, Alessio directed the conversation, and he kept it light and impersonal. They argued good-naturedly about politics and the Church, and Jacob was ashamed to admit that he was surprised when the twins broke in with astute observations of their own. He had come to see them as individuals, yes, but now he realized that he had put them into a single context and left them there. In other words, he thought, he needed to get his mind out of the

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gutter where they were concerned. They had brains as well as exceptionally nice bodies. Thinking about those bodies made his mind wander, and when he snapped out of it the family was leaving the dining room to go to the parlor. Jacob blushed, then shrugged it off. The twins each gave him a cheeky grin, like they knew what he was thinking, and he couldn’t stay embarrassed in the face of them. He finally allowed himself to enjoy the family time after dinner instead of running off immediately or sitting and brooding about how he shouldn’t be there. Instead of holding himself separate, he joined in, and that made all the difference. He talked history with Alessio until one of the twins challenged the other to a fencing match. Then he laughed his ass off with everyone else as the two danced around the room poking at each other with ballpoint pens. When he had first showed up there, Jacob had worried about getting used to luxury, and being sucked down into sin. Well, the sin seemed to be a foregone conclusion and he’d given into that without much of a protest. But now his worry was getting too used to being a part of things. Despite his new resolution to stop running away, or maybe because of it, Jacob knew there was a great likelihood that when he had to leave this place it would break him. And there he went with the second thoughts, just like he knew he would. The twins seemed to sense his shift in mood, though, and they refused to let him wallow. They made him say his goodnights and goodbyes and hustled him out of the room and into their room without him really knowing what was going on. Damien stripped him, and Gianni started the whirlpool bath and Jacob learned a few new things about luxury. And about buoyancy, as Damien draped him over the side of the tub and slid rough, slick fingers into him and pushed inside him. Gianni touched him, his lips and nipples and cock, driving him higher and higher as Damien gave him everything he could ask and more than he'd ever thought to want. The feel of them moving against him still astounded him, as did their words, loving and needy and hot. The rasp of their beard stubble marked him, the hot seed that Damien spilled inside him became a claim that he could not deny. When it was over they were all gasping and moaning, hands and lips moving clumsily in the wake of their passion. They dripped all over the floor on the way to bed, and when they fell asleep it was hard to tell who started and ended where.

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The next morning Jacob made sure everything was in order for his meeting with Cecilia and Marco, then spent the rest of the time leading up to it girding his mental loins and making notes so he could get all his thoughts in order. He knew what he wanted to say, and ask, but he was still nervous about doing so. He had an idea, or two or three, about the whys and hows of Cecilia’s seemingly incomprehensible need to pardon Matteo Venetti, but he needed confirmation to send his plan forward. They met in the library. Cecilia put her back to the great Venetti on the wall, and made Jacob face it, so he was looking at Hell the entire time. Once it would have made him nervous. Now he just admired her tactics. Marco sat next to her, and they presented a untied front of cool civility. Jacob knew he had to start off on the right foot or he might as well hang it up from the start. “I want to apologize for my actions at our last meeting, Cecilia.” It was a good start. Her eyes widened a bit, even if the rest of her expression didn’t change. “I was out of line. I was there to give you my progress report, not question your motives.” Looking less frosty and more open, Cecilia thanked him. “I appreciate the apology, Jacob.” “Don’t thank me yet.” His tone was rueful. “I still want to know why you want Matteo Venetti pardoned.” Jacob held up a hand to forestall interruptions. “I know you think it’s none of my business, but I can hardly help you do it if I don’t know the details.” “You want to help.” It was Marco this time and he was flatly disbelieving. “Yes. It won’t be easy. I figure he might have to go through at least a Bishop. Hopefully not the Pope. And of course you’ll never get around the fact that he killed himself. But you can get the original excommunication overturned. I’m perfectly willing to help, being the Church’s leading expert on Venetti, but I need to know everything.” The couple exchanged a long look, and Jacob had the feeling that all sorts of communication happened there, but he couldn’t read them at all. He waited, hoping that they would give him some sort of indication. Instead they sat silently and waited for him to continue. He took a deep breath

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and started again. “Let’s start with what I know. Matteo Venetti is commissioned to do a portrait of a lady named Alicia Miggliozzi. While he’s working on that painting, the two of them become intimate. According to everything I’ve been able to find out, Alicia’s husband was well past the age of satisfying her physically, and Matteo Venetti was young, attractive and available. An easy mark. Now, here’s where my source information gets dodgy, and I start going on my gut feeling. Shall I go on?” Their wary expressions were almost identical. Maybe what they said about married couples beginning to look alike was true. Or maybe, he thought irreverently, with all the intermarrying their houses did their family tree didn’t branch very far. Stifling a chuckle, Jacob forged ahead. “Right. Okay. So, they have an affair. I have to figure that it ended badly, because the Varza source material mentions a bad breakup, and because that’s when Venetti’s painting starts to get dark, like everything is filtered through a more experienced and jaundiced eye. Not only that, but that’s when his simplistic style of glorifying religious subjects becomes more a disturbing look at martyrdom or the perils of sin. So… I can only theorize that Venetti began to see the Church differently at this time. He was educated in the Church, you know?” This time there was more of a reaction, as Marco dipped his chin in agreement. Cecilia shifted in her chair, and said, “Go on.” “He was educated in the Church, raised by a strict and religious father. And by all accounts, that was okay by Venetti. He didn’t resent it. He thrived on it. So when he had his affair with Alicia, it was not only a bad thing because she was married and they couldn’t be open about it, it was a bad thing because it was a terrible sin. Also, the Miggliozzis and the Rossis were on shaky ground with the Church, so when Venetti started associating with them it blackened his name, too.” Jacob stopped for breath, and decided he needed some water. Getting up to get it, after offering to get them a drink too, helped him to regroup. Realizing that his last statement might be taken the wrong way, he apologized. “No offence to the

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family.” “None taken,” Marco said, and the slightest smile curved his lips. Encouraged, Jacob sat back down and started up again. “Now we spring forward to why you want to have him reinstated, Cecilia, and why I wanted Marco here, too. I hope you don’t mind when I say it puzzled me. It still does to an extent, but I really was confused to begin with. I couldn’t understand why the Rossis would want to bother with Matteo Venetti at all. Except to buy his paintings.” His emphasis on the Rossi name wasn’t lost on either of them, he could tell. Something flickered in Cecilia’s eyes, something that made him think she was impressed. Marco was more expressive, and his tiny smile widened into a much larger one. “So, tell us what conclusion you came to, Jacob,” Marco said. Tightening his hold on his water glass, Jacob did just that. “I decided that I was looking at it wrong. It wasn’t the Rossis that were involved in this. It was the Miggliozzis. I made the mistake I imagine so many people do, in thinking that Cecilia’s loyalties lay with her maiden name, not her married one. I mean, she even said once that you were not a Rossi. When I figured out that the Rossi involvement was strictly financial it made more sense. You told me yourself, Marco, that they only bought the paintings for you because you were broke once upon a time.” “Si. So I did.” Marco was looking more and more amused by this whole thing, which Jacob took as a good sign. He would find it amusing himself, probably, with the way it sounded like the summation of a bad novel, except that Cecilia wasn’t smiling. Which might flub up his plan. “I decided then that Cecilia had to be doing it for you. For some reason, getting Venetti pardoned was important to the Miggliozzi family, not the Rossi one. When Alessio admitted that he knew what Cecilia was trying to do, but not why, I knew I was right.” “Well reasoned, Jacob.” Cecilia looked at him steadily. “But I still don’t understand why you want to help.”

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“If I tell you that, do I get the rest of the story? Do I get to hear why this is so important to you? Because that’s the one thing I’m not completely sure about.” Another long look passed between Marco and his wife, then Cecilia made one of those oh so Italian hand gestures. “That depends on whether we believe you or not. Convince us.” This was the hard part. Jacob hated the idea of laying himself bare this way. But he had a feeling he would have to in order to be convincing. He had to be honest. “It’s hard to explain why I want to help. And it’s probably going to sound crazy. I think that meeting up with all of you and coming to stay here has been as much of a life changing experience for me as it was back in Venice for Matteo Venetti. In a much more positive way, mind you, but just as important. The problem with Venetti was that he didn’t listen to the message he was getting. I think I am. I could be wrong, but I think I’m supposed to be helping. Does that make any sense?” If it were nighttime there would be crickets chirping. The silence made him twitch. Marco finally took pity on him, and just came out an asked. “You think somehow or another you are supposed to be here to do this?” “Yes.” “I see.” They all sat there for bit longer, then Marco seemed to come to a decision. He put a hand on Cecilia’s leg and said, ”I’m going to tell him.” She agreed, but reluctantly. Jacob was more relieved than he thought he would be, and about half of the starch went out of his spine. He slumped back in his chair and waited for Marco to begin. Cecilia moved abruptly, standing and walking around behind the chair she’d been in to face that Venetti painting on the wall. “First,” Marco began, “I want you to understand that the Venetti collection had always been just a peripheral interest on my wife’s part. She liked his paintings, and found it amusing that we had collected so many over the years. It wasn’t until the new Venetti was discovered in Venice that she

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took a personal interest in the man, or in having him reinstated into the church.” Mulling that over, Jacob looked at Cecilia’s rigid back. He had a sudden image in his head of Alicia Miggliozzi, the lady of the portrait, standing with her back to him, arms clutched over her belly. She was crying, and off to one side was Matteo Venetti, white as a sheet, shouting at her. Jacob looked back at Marco with wide eyes, almost certain he knew what was coming. “When the painting was unearthed on church property, it was, of course, given to a church expert. Their “expert” had no experience with Venetti’s paintings, and considered it to be a minor work of an apprentice of the Venetian academy. That’s why you got it. It came as a great shock to them when you uncovered the signature, and realized it was an important piece. Do you remember what happened directly after that?” “The painting was taken away from me for several days, for evaluation,” Jacob answered. That had struck him as odd at the time, but not tremendously so. He had figured they wanted to code it and catalog it to the Church’s collection. That was before he knew they were going to sell it. “That fits.” Marco’s voice was calm, almost meditative. It was a stark contrast to Cecilia’s stiff posture. “You see, during the time that the painting was out of your hands, Cecilia and I were called to the University to look at it. We were offered the chance to buy it for our collection. As you know, the Church never keeps Venetti’s paintings.” No, they never did, did they? And it had to be more than just the fact that the artist was kicked out of the Church. It had to be that they were scared of him, and also scared of this family, just like father Bertolli said. Jacob wondered if he would ever know exactly why. “We went to have a look at it, to see if we wanted it for the collection.” Marco paused again, throwing a guilty glance over his shoulder. This had to be hard for him, Jacob knew despite his outward calm, because it was upsetting Cecilia so. Jacob hoped that wouldn’t stop him. “You can imagine our surprise, I think, when we saw the resemblance.” Yes, he could imagine, and he said as much. He kept quiet after that, but he could have said more.

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He could have mentioned that if it was that much of a shock to him, when he didn’t know Cecilia at all, it must have been that much worse for them. And he didn’t ask what he really wanted to, didn’t ask if the recognition had gone deeper than the superficial, like his did. If he did that, they might just think he was crazy. Cecilia broke in suddenly, her voice as tight as the line of her spine. “It wasn’t just the resemblance to me. I knew who she was right away. Various Miggliozzi family histories made mention of her, and I knew she had to be the Rossi that had married into the line.” “So you have some sort of family history as a primary source?” Jacob was amazed at how good these people were at hiding things from him. It was like peeling an onion to get down through all of the layers. Marco broke in. “A few. The only real mention of her is that she was a Rossi who married a man named Giorgio Miggliozzi. He was well up in years by the time they married, but she still managed to produce a son, which Giorgio had never had with his first two wives.” “So how did you come to the conclusion that Alicia and Venetti had an affair?” When she came to sit back down, Cecilia looked tired, but she was starting to relax, like the worst was over. Maybe it was. Once they began it was all downhill. “The same way you did. The timing was right, the opportunity was there, and the difference in Venetti’s paintings was a marked one. And of course, we had one piece of information that you didn’t.” “Really? What was that?” “Alicia’s child was born twelve months after she first started sitting for that painting. Her husband was impotent. But he was so thrilled with the idea that he might have an heir that he never said anything.” “So she did have Venetti’s baby.”

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“Yes. At least that’s what the evidence points to,” Marco answered. “It’s not just the evidence,” Cecilia said. “Remember what you said about gut instinct, Jacob?” At Jacob’s nod, she continued. “When I saw the painting, I knew who Alicia was. I think I would have known even if I had never done any research on the family. And I knew that she and Venetti had been intimate. Something about the painting just talked to me that way. Which I suppose sounds no more crazy than you thinking you were brought here to help.” “Not really, no. It’s rather a relief, actually.” Jacob blushed a bit and glanced apprehensively at Marco. “At least you didn’t have the overwhelming urge to sleep with me.” He threw it out there, trying for flippant and failing miserably. All of the times she had touched him and smiled at him came back in a rush, making him wonder. Reaching over to pat Marco’s thigh, Cecilia actually unbent enough to grin at him. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.” Face flaming now, Jacob looked down at his hands. “Oh.” “Yes, oh.” Breaking the silence that had stretched between them, Marco cleared his throat. “Does that answer your questions, Jacob?” “Most of them, yes. I have a few more.” “Like what?” He was glad the ice was broken, once and for all. The next questions came much more easily, and Jacob had a feeling the answers would come that way too. “Have you started going through channels to get the pardon?” With a rueful grin, Marco made an affirmative noise. “Si. We started the same day we viewed the painting. And agreed to buy it. Cecilia was quite adamant about it, and I wasn’t sure why. Later

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she explained her reasoning to me, and the more I thought about it, the more I realized it was the right thing to do. After all, this was obviously my ancestor. And we might not be the best Catholics on earth, certainly we have our problems with the church, but we are still old-fashioned enough to want a member of the family to have some justice.” “Well, I can relate to that. But, well, I have to admit that I don’t see why it’s urgent. Alessio used that word. So did you, Cecilia, in a way. You said my research was very important, and that I needed to get as much done as soon as I could. I don’t get it.” It was Cecilia’s turn to blush. And Marco was beaming. “I’m pregnant,” Cecilia blurted. She took a deep breath. “It just started to feel urgent once I knew that. Important. Like I had to do it now.” Feeling his own grin spread across his face, Jacob turned to Marco and winked. “Congratulations.” “Thanks.” “You’re welcome. You do know how long this could take, though, right? I mean look at Galileo.” With a frustrated sigh, Cecilia pushed her hair back behind her ears. “I know. And that’s why I wanted your research. If we could somehow prove the Church did what it did maliciously, then they would have to pardon him.” “For the original trial, and excommunication yes. But that still leaves the fact that he killed himself. That’s another thing altogether to be forgiven for.” “I know,” Cecilia said, her voice and expression heavy with a sort of pleading. “But we have to try. I feel like we have to make this right somehow.” “Yes. I know what you mean.” Jacob paused to out his thoughts into some sort of order. “That’s what I feel like. Like my situation here is happening to help put the last one right, somehow. So what we have to figure out if I’m going to help expedite this is why the Church went after him so hard, and why they refuse to have anything to do with him now. I mean, it’s not like they don’t

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have thousands of works by heretics and worse in their collections.” “Theirs?” Marco questioned. “Yes, theirs. I don’t really see myself as part of the church right now. At least not the part that would do something like this. Maybe it makes me naive, or even silly, because I know the Catholic church has perpetrated some of the nastiest political crap in history. But it just hits me pretty hard, the idea that they would deliberately set out to destroy a man’s life, and even worse, his legacy. Not to mention condemning him to Hell.” Yawning, Cecilia got up and crossed to stand next to Jacob. She leaned down and placed a soft kiss on his cheek. “I’m glad you’re going to help us Jacob. If you can think of anything you need from us to assist you, let us know. I’m exhausted. I’m going to take a siesta.” With one last lingering glance over her shoulder at Marco, she left the room. He had to fight hard not to react to that kiss. When he looked up, though, Marco was smiling at him in a friendly way. “She has that effect on me too, Jacob. Don’t worry. I’m flattered you find her so attractive. And unlike my ancestress, Cecilia is faithful.” “Right.” Jacob said, relieved. “So what do you need from us right away?” He thought for a minute. “I need to you look through your old family records. See if anything else about Venetti might be in there. Anything at all. Petitions to the church, or bills of sale for the portrait, anything. Any sort of evidence I can provide will help.” “I’ll get Terri on it. And Jacob, I want to apologize for the run around you got when you first got here. But, well, frankly Cecilia was scared of you. The gut feelings; as she called them made her nervous as Hell, and she wasn’t sure how you would react to being here.” With a self-deprecating snort, Jacob stood. Marco rose too, and they left the library. Before they

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turned to go their separate ways, Jacob touched Marco’s arm reassuringly. If Cecilia's gut feelings were anything like his own visions, he could well see why she had been upset. “Believe me, confused and scared I understand. But I’ll accept the apology and thank you for it.”

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chapter nine His head was swimming with all of the things he needed to do. He had phone calls to make, and records to search and he had to sit down and come up with a plan. But the meeting with the Miggliozzis wore him out just as much as it did Cecilia. Well, maybe not quite so much. He wasn’t pregnant. Now he was getting silly. Time to nap. It was amazing how easily he’d gotten used to that habit. Jacob wandered into the twins’ room and stared at the big bed there, but much as a nap appealed it looked lonely. Sleeping with those two was another habit he’d gotten into, and it was going to be hard to get over it when he had to leave. The study sounded good all of a sudden, and Jacob headed out and went back downstairs. That big leather couch just begged for someone to sink down into it and sleep the day away. Of course, Jacob thought, he could have made that decision before he trudged all the way upstairs to the bedroom, but that would have been too easy. He was making his way past the ballroom when the ring of metal on metal stopped him in his tracks. The sound was aggressive, and crashing loud and he hoped no one was hurting anything. When he cautiously opened one of the huge double doors and looked inside, Jacob decided that someone was indeed going to be hurting, but it was probably going to be him. From pent up lust. Damien and Gianni were in the empty ballroom. The rugs had been pushed off to one side, like they were for the masquerade, and the two of them were using the open floor as a fencing studio. The night before, when they were dancing around jabbing at each other with pens, they’d been funny. This was as far removed from funny as you could get. This was an intricate dance of thrust, parry and riposte that made his mouth go dry and his cheeks heat up. They used foils, and even from a distance he could tell they weren't tipped. They had none of the usual heavy padding he was used to seeing, and they didn’t wear facemasks. What might have seemed like arrogance to someone else, Jacob took as an expression of their trust for each other. They would never actually hurt one another. It was gorgeous to watch. They were stripped to the waist, wearing only workout pants, and all thoughts of weariness and a nap flew right out of Jacob’s mind. Another lesson in how far he’d

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moved away from what he’d been when he came here, he thought. There was no shame in him now where these two were concerned. He could admire them as freely as he wanted. And he did. Gianni lunged, and the muscles in his back and arms flexed and moved highlighted by a sheen of sweat. Damien danced back, and to the side and his body rippled as he moved. Jacob couldn’t look away. The rest of him was appreciating this as much as his brain, probably more, and if he let go of the doorframe now he might fall. Somehow this was just as intimate, just as overwhelming as the first time he’d seen them together in the study. Maybe it was because they fenced with the same pleasure, the same intensity that they put into everything else they did. A sudden lunge from Gianni disarmed Damien, and reminded Jacob why Gianni was really the dominant twin, more self-confident, quicker to make a decision. Damien just held up his hands and laughed, and Jacob loved how that fit him, too, more easy going, less inclined to anger. Jacob almost turned to leave, hating to interrupt their time together, but his body chose to remind him rather urgently at that moment why he had stayed to watch. He cleared his throat and they both whirled to face him. “Nice,” he said, and his voice came out rough in spite of the throat clearing. They turned to each other and smiled, then turned back toward the door, and him. They advanced on him, looking predatory, all hot, sweaty male. Jacob backed away, grinning like a madman, then turned to make a break for it. He ran down the slippery marble hall in the opposite direction he’d come from, heading for the study. They were behind him all the way, the slap of their feet and the sound of their laughter ringing in his ears. He knew they could have caught him any time, but it was sweet of them to let him take this where he wanted to go. The study door was open, and Jacob slid right into the room as he tried to stop. His slick bottomed shoes found no purchase on the waxed wood floor there, and he almost went ass over teakettle, but Gianni was there, catching him before he could fall. They were all laughing, panting from the sudden exertion, and Jacob leaned on Gianni’s strength until his legs righted themselves. Damien didn’t really let him get his balance, swinging him around in Gianni’s impromptu embrace to plant a wet, sucking kiss on his lips.

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Suddenly, none of them were laughing. They were urgent and needy instead, and Damien pressed forward against Jacob, rubbing against him. Jacob grabbed Damien’s arms to hold himself upright, and Damien’s skin was slick and hot beneath his fingers. Gianni pressed close from behind, his loose trousers leaving nothing to the imagination as he settled himself into the crease of Jacob’s ass. Distantly, Jacob heard himself moaning. He was trying to crawl up Damien’s body, leaning back into Gianni while his legs wrapped up around Damien’s hips. The kisses Damien gave him were drugging, making thought impossible, so it was Gianni who had to think for all of them. With a muttered “Dio” Gianni wrapped his arms around Jacob’s chest and waist and pulled. Jacob and Damien separated, and Jacob turned to Gianni to seek his mouth. They kissed, lips meshing and tongues stroking. Gianni maneuvered him around to the deep leather couch without releasing his lips and sank down on it, pulling Jacob with him. Watching them, Damien made little appreciative noises, then dropped to his knees beside the couch to help Gianni tug off Jacob’s clothes. It smelled the same. The deep scent of leather, sex and sweat. But that was where the similarity to the last time he’d been in this room with them ended. There was no hiding in the dark this time. Light streamed into the room from the windows high on the wall. There was no running away either. Even when Damien and Gianni left him there to stand and struggle out of their pants, there was no self-consciousness in his nudity. He was no buff stud, but they had shown him over and over how much the appreciated his body, praising him with hands and lips. Gianni was closest, and Jacob couldn’t resist reaching out to trail a hand along one furred thigh. Gianni turned to him and Jacob leaned forward, wrapping a hand around Gianni’s leg and pulling him close. Jacob pushed his face into the jointure of Gianni’s thighs, nuzzling against his hard cock and soft-skinned balls. He inhaled the rich, earthy smell and licked at the hot, hot skin with his tongue. Gianni sucked in a breath and rolled his hips into the touch, then pushed Jacob away, back down onto the couch. Gianni knelt beside him as Damien had done earlier, at the head of the couch and took Jacob’s hand in one of his. Pulling Jacob’s arms up over his head, Gianni leaned down to kiss him, hard, biting little kisses that left his lips throbbing.

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Distracted by Gianni, Jacob didn’t notice Damien arranging the rest of his body. He didn’t notice until Damien settled between his legs that one ankle was hooked up along the back of the couch and the other leg was bent at the knee, foot resting on the floor. The position left him feeling pried open, and vulnerable, but it didn’t scare him. He arched his neck back, opening his mouth wider beneath Gianni’s kiss, and let it go. Damien plucked at Jacob’s nipples, and nuzzled at his belly, and between the two of them the twins seemed determined to put every inch of him in their mouths. When Damien sucked Jacob’s cock into his mouth it hit every nerve like a lightening bolt. Jacob cried out and his hips rocked into the motion and Gianni smiled against his lips. The suction was unbelievably good on his sensitized skin, and the feel of Damien’ hands on his balls made his eyes roll back into his head. He struggled against Gianni’s hold on his hands, but Gianni just nuzzled against his ear and whispered, “Shhh, this is for you.” It went on and on until he thought he might just have a heart attack from the pleasure. He was begging, thrashing against the pressure low in his belly, gasping at the feel of Gianni wrapping his hot mouth around one nipple. Gianni bit into his nipple, hard, and Damien sucked him up against the roof of his mouth, and Jacob was coming. His body lifted up off the couch, muscles wound as tight as they would go and he shook with the force of it. When Jacob came back down from it, he blinked the stars out of his eyes and saw the two of them kissing each other. They were pressed together from knee to lip, hands roaming over each other desperately. He’d seen them before, but then he hadn’t allowed himself to like it, to appreciate the symmetry of them, the sameness. They rubbed against each other in an increasingly needy rhythm, moaning to each other in their own secret language. It should have made Jacob feel excluded, but it didn’t. How could he feel that way? They were two parts of a whole, trying to come back together. They rode it out together, crying out in one voice, and Jacob felt his exhausted cock throb at the sight. When they could move again, Damien pulled Gianni with him to the couch and Jacob helped to pull them both up onto it. They tangled together, pushing Jacob until he was trapped between them and the back of the couch, half on top of Damien with Gianni resting up against his chest.

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They dozed like that for a long while, and Jacob only knew that time passed because the shadows and light kept moving on across the floor. Jacob was drifting, warm and happy when Gianni mumbled something into his chest that sounded like a question. He moved around, careful not to dig and elbow into anyone, and lifted Gianni’s face so he could see and hear him. “What?” Gianni refused to meet his eyes. “I said, when are you leaving?” A glance at Damien showed him the same question written in those blue-green eyes. Jacob shook his head. “What makes you think I’m going?” They started the back and forth speech pattern that meant they were nervous. Jacob had learned that early on. “You said you would talk to Cecilia before you left,” Damien started. “And you’ve met with her twice in the last few days,” Gianni finished. “You must be done with your paper. You’re going back, no?” Damien sounded sad, while Gianni’s voice was angry, defensive. “No. At least, not right now.” Jacob wanted to reassure them, but he wasn’t sure how much he was ready to tell them. “I’m not sure when I’ll go back, if at all.” “What does that mean?” More shifting, like a bumpy ride on a raft, and Jacob was sitting up again with a twin on either side of him. “It means I have a lot of thinking to do. And anyway, I think you could say that this Venetti project I’m working on will be an extended project.” “How extended?” Gianni demanded. “I don’t know.” Jacob looked from one to the other, and held out a hand to both. When they took

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hold, he pulled them back into him and toppled them back to the couch. “Let’s just say I’m not leaving ‘til you make me.” Two voices said something that sounded like a muffled, “Not going to do that.” And then they cuddled in and dozed some more. The rest of the day was spent with the family. Jacob couldn’t bring himself to go off and do work when the twins looked at him with big puppy eyes and couldn’t seem to keep their hands off him. He was amazed at how at ease he had become with all of them, not just the twins, but the whole bunch. It wasn’t like he had no issues to deal with, but he could push them aside without much thought. The shaking, horrified moments of realization were past. Now he just had to deal with the fall-out. As for the visions, they had all but stopped. Every so often he would have one of those moments, like sliding sideways, that would hit him and make him pause. But the hard ones, the ones that made his heart pound as his stomach roll seemed to be gone. Jacob wondered if that was because he was doing what he was supposed to do. The logistical problems were still astounding, but he figured he was doing the right thing. In some strange way, the afternoon and evening he spent reassuring the twins helped to reassure him, too. By morning, he was ready to get moving again, and he gathered up all of his notes and started making phone calls. He called Father Bertolli first, but the man was out. Jacob spent a frustrating fifteen minutes talking to Paolo, the assistant. The man’s prurient curiosity made Jacob grit his teeth, but he remained calm and polite. He left a message that he would like to come by sometime that day, and finally got off the line. Then he called his graduate advisor at the University. Another prelate, this one an Irishman with the unlikely name of Father Columbarnus. Jacob felt rather guilty when the Father answered his call with surprise and enthusiasm, asking him how the project was going. Jacob related that he’d made real progress, but wasn’t sure if there was actually a thesis length paper in it. Then he requested a meeting with his steering committee. Columbarnus cheerfully agreed, and told Jacob he’d call back when he’d contacted the other two members of the committee. Jacob’s thanks were

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sincere, and he felt even more guilty than before. The next call was to a friend who worked as a drone in the massive Vatican libraries. Now that he had the information he needed from Cecilia and Marco, he had a specific thing to look for. His friend thought he was nuts, but with the promise of being introduced to one of those Rossis (his friend didn’t care which) and an invitation to go out to lunch someplace outrageously expensive, he said he’d look into it. That only left one appointment to make, and Jacob really couldn’t do anything about it until he had the rest of his ducks in a row. So he went to find Terri instead. She wasn’t in her office, and she wasn’t down in the vault with the collections. Some gut instinct told Jacob where to look for her next, and sure enough, Jacob found her in Vanni’s office. Ostensibly they were working on a budget, but from the guilty looks they turned on him when he walked in, he figured they were talking about more than the cost of tapestry restoration. Surveying their flushed faces and general disarray, Jacob laughed out loud. “Don’t you ever think of anything else?” he asked Vanni. He got an unrepentant grin in return, and an unladylike snort from Teresa. “What do you want, Jacob?” “I need to talk to you, actually,” he told Terri. “But if you’re busy I can catch up with you later.” “No, we were done.” Terri stood up and smoothed her skirt along her thighs. “Come on, we’ll go to my office.” With a last look at Vanni, Terri led him out and down the hall to her office. They settled in, and she looked at him inquiringly. “So, what is it you need? I haven’t had time to get all of the information Marco asked for yet.” “I know. That wasn’t what I wanted to talk about.” Jacob studied Terri for a minute, so intently that she actually squirmed.

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“What?” “How many collections do you oversee here?” “Several. Why?” Terri reached into a box on her desk and pulled out a cigarette. It occurred to Jacob that he’d never seen her smoke before, but then, he’d never really spent a lot of time with her. Which brought the guilt back full force. Terri was a professional, a peer, and he should have consulted with her more often. It was no wonder she had occasionally withheld information. He waited until she had lit up and exhaled before he continued. “Well, I just wondered. It seemed like you had more to do than just the Venetti collection.” “Yes. That’s actually the least of it. A collection this size takes constant work. Not to mention constant valuation updates for insurance purposes.” Keeping his voice deliberately casual, Jacob asked,” So how willing do you think the family would be to hire you an assistant?” Terri sat back in her chair and looked at him in amazement. Then a slow dawning smile crossed her face and lit up her eyes. “You already have a job, Jacob. Priest extraordinaire.” Her tone was definitely teasing. He couldn’t help but smile back. “Yeah, well I may be out of a job soon. But I’ll still be one of the world’s foremost experts on Venetti. And I’m pretty good with most Renaissance masters. My credentials as far as general restoration are excellent.” Grinning widely now, Terri nodded. “I might even put in a good word for you. Are you serious, Jacob? You think you might want to stay?” “Yeah, I think I might.”

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“Then I’ll talk to the big wigs.” Unexpectedly touched by her quick acceptance, Jacob just sat there and grinned. He was a goof. But he was happy, so why shouldn’t he sit there and grin? “Thanks, Teresa. I really appreciate it.” “No problem. So, shacking up with the twins?” He hadn’t lost the propensity to blush like crazy. “I don’t know. I haven’t thought that far ahead. I told them I would stay, but I have no idea where we're going. I just know I’d like to stick around and work on the collections here. I mean, if I can’t have the Vatican, I’ll have the next best thing.” Still chuckling at his discomfiture about the twins, Terri nodded. “No shit. You realize that if you hire on you’ll be working on the Rossi-Miggliozzi combined collection. Eight houses in seven different cities, all crammed with art and artifact. Plus they're acquiring new stuff all the time.” “Stop, you’ll make me dizzy.” Jacob shook his head. “That’s a lot of stuff.” “Yeah, but it’s good work if you can get it.” “I’d like to try.” “Then I’ll get the wheels turning.” She paused, as if weighing what she was going to say next. Then she shrugged. “I’ll look forward to working with you instead of against you.” Feeling the urge to be goofy again, Jacob stood. “Me too. I’ll let you get back to work.” When he left Terri’s office, Jacob was much more upbeat, a hopeful spirit overcoming the lingering guilt he was feeling. The surge of optimism carried him through a few hours in his workroom, documenting sources and typing up a coherent proposal from his notes. Or rather, proposals. One for his steering committee, one for the Rossis, and one for his eventual meeting with Father Fermozzi. That would be the tough one, and he wanted to be prepared.

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By the time he emerged, blinking, from his workroom it was late afternoon. He’d missed lunch. His stomach hated him for it. So he went looking for something in the kitchen. Breathing a sigh of relief that no one was having sex in there, Jacob built himself a nice sandwich and talked with the housekeeper for a bit. This house was an amazing little world, Jacob decided. He remembered thinking, when he first came, that the servants were treated like so much furniture. Now, having seen them in motion, he knew they were more like a part of the family in their own way. Oh, they worked their tails off, no doubt about that, but the family didn’t seem to have the sort of snobbish separation policy that Jacob had mentally associated with people who had a household staff. There were messages waiting for him when he got back to his room. Father Bertolli had called, saying it would be best if they met the next day. Father Columbarnus had set his steering committee meeting for then as well. And his archivist friend had called back with the information he needed. Jacob was stunned. It really was that simple. For a few minutes he just sat there in silence. Then with a whoop he was off, running towards Marco’s office to tell him what he’d found out. Marco’s first impulse was to call the solicitor working on the reinstatement of Venetti and give him the information. Jacob managed to slow him down. First, he said, he needed copies of the evidence. Then he wanted a shot at getting it all worked out. And he hated to do it, but he asked Marco not to tell Cecilia. That would be difficult, he knew, but right now it was important. Marco argued. Jacob won, much to his own amazement. So it was all arranged. He had everything he needed now, and he still had time to get through to Fermozzi’s office to make an appointment. He scored one for the day after next, and thanked the secretary kindly for the time. That was about when the nervousness set in. What the Hell was he doing? Jacob knew he was doing the right thing, but contemplating how he was going about it set him reeling. He obviously needed to stop thinking about it. If he didn’t he’d never do it. He went looking for the twins, but they were gone. So he went back to his workroom and set out to do something mindless. He worked on the portrait of Alicia. It still had a remarkable effect on him, but he was able to work with it now. It didn’t mesmerize him as it had. He wondered if maybe knowing more about the situation made it harder to lose

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himself in it. Or maybe it was just guilt because Cecilia was pregnant and it felt wrong to lust after her look-alike, he thought with a smile. Either way, it was a relief to be able to work on it without an insistent hard on. The delicate egg tempera took on a glow with his careful cleaning, and he was in a much better frame of mind by the time he went to dinner. And the rest of the night proved just as relaxing.

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chapter ten It felt odd, the next morning, to don the black and white trappings of the priesthood. Which saddened him, but he knew there would be a lot of moments like that. He put the collar on, and shrugged into his jacket, then gathered himself for his meeting with Father Bertolli. The church was just as lovely and serene as it had been before, and that made him happy. There was none of the fleeting wrongness that he had felt before, and he thanked God for it. The first thing he did was ask Father Bertolli to hear his confession. If the Father was surprised it didn’t show, and he graciously waved Jacob toward the confessional. Jacob told him everything, leaving nothing out except the goriest details, like the fact that he was with not just one man, but two, who were also twins. That he would keep to himself. Still, Jacob’s respect for Bertolli as a priest grew even more that day, because the man counseled him without prejudice, without judging. His sins were many, he knew, and they required serious penance. Jacob knew too that some of them would not be forgiven as long as he still practiced them. But it was nice to feel human that way. The need for forgiveness was still there, would always be there, but the need to hide behind it was gone. When they were done. Father Bertolli invited him to walk in the garden, to discuss the other business Jacob had come here with. “You are serious about this?” Bertolli asked. “Yes.” And he was. As serious as he could be. “I’m sorry to hear you say it.” “I’m not.” Jacob watched the neighborhood cats come running up to wind around Bertolli’s feet, looking for tuna. “I think I need to do it. Sounds corny, but it’s like completing the cycle.” Bertolli’s eyes twinkled at him. “Si. That does sound, what did you say? Corny.” “Thanks.”

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“Well, if I can’t talk you out of it then there’s a lot of information I must pass on to you.” Bertolli filled Jacob in on everything he needed to know to do what he wanted to do. Jacob was unbelievably grateful to him for his help, and said as much. Father Bertolli told him not to be ridiculous, that Jacob was his friend. And if all went as planned, Jacob would be one of his parishioners. They embraced as Jacob left, a strong friendly hug, and Jacob went on to his next meeting feeling like he had accomplished a great deal. The meeting with his steering committee was harder, because Jacob had to lie. Or at least, he couldn’t tell them everything yet. What he did tell them was that he wasn’t sure if he had enough information to work with to do a true thesis length paper on Venetti. He also told them he needed a bit of time off. His assistant position could easily be filled before the new term started, and he had no outstanding projects besides the Venetti. He wanted to continue work on that, Jacob said, but that would not require any effort on the part of the Church or the University because the Miggliozzis had offered him a place to stay for as long as he needed, and as much grant money as it took. They were disappointed in him. He could tell that, but Father Columbarnus just gently herded everyone into agreeing, saying it would be all right. That he would have the paperwork drawn up, that they would find another grad student to take his grading. Someone else he had taken for granted, and Jacob wasn’t proud of that at all. Still, this would pave the way for his leaving permanently, if that was what it came down to. The day was a roller coaster emotionally. When he went back to the palazzo after his steering committee conclave all he wanted to do was collapse. Which he didn’t get to do because Damien and Gianni pounced on him at the door. They dragged him off to the pool, ignoring his protests, telling him it would be refreshing. It was, but that owed little to the water. He felt like an overcooked noodle when they were done with him, and Jacob reflected that out of all of the things he had to wrestle with right now, this part was both the easiest and the hardest to reconcile. Twins for God’s sake. Guy twins at that. When Jacob went for sin, he went all the way. They really were impossible to resist, though. Gianni was a water baby, Jacob thought as he watched from his

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reclining position at the side of the pool. He swam like a dolphin. Or maybe a winged sea lion. Damien wasn’t as fond of it, but he made a good show. Jacob might have joined in their play if he had any muscles left at all, but he didn’t. So he watched them. The simple joy they took in everyday activities made him happy. Complicated or no, he was in for as long as he could ride it. He arrived at Father Fermozzi’s office promptly at ten o’clock the next morning. Armed with a satchel full of photocopies, and several other papers, Jacob sat down to wait as he was announced. And wait he did. Ten minutes would have been accidental. Fifteen impolite. Half an hour was just petty, and it firmed Jacob’s resolve to stop being nice. When Fermozzi finally let Jacob into his smoke filled office, Jacob was ready to eat nails. They exchanged the usual pleasantries, and Jacob was about to get down to the point when Fermozzi beat him to it. “So, Father Ellory,” he said, “what can I do for you? I did not expect to see you here again.” “I’m sure you didn’t. But I came to talk to you about the Venetti again. And to make a bargain with you.” “A bargain?” Fermozzi looked only mildly interested. “I have sold the painting for the Church, Father. I can hardly make a better deal now.” “That’s not the kind of bargain I mean. I didn’t know before, Father Fermozzi, but I am given to understand that the sale of Vatican collections is not your usual thing.” Looking a little more intrigued, Fermozzi shrugged. “Generally, no, it is not.” “So why this one?” An eloquent shrug. “I was asked to.” Jacob nodded. “Right. But why?”

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“What are you trying to get at, Father Ellory?” “I just want to know what a Vatican lawyer is doing acting as an art expert.” Now Fermozzi was smiling a tight little smile. “I never told you I was an art expert. I was merely handling a transaction.” “No, you never told me that. But you told the Miggliozzis that, sir.” There was a pause, then Fermozzi asked, “What do you want?” Jacob pulled his sheaf of papers out of his briefcase. “I think you’re probably aware that Marco Miggliozzi has petitioned for Matteo Venetti to be pardoned and reinstated as a member of the Roman Catholic Church.” Blinking a little, Fermozzi agreed. “Yes. But what has that got to do with me?” “Everything, I think, Father. You are the one who denied the request.” “I may not be an art expert. But evaluating evidence is something I do very well, young man. And they had no evidence that the charge against Venetti was false.” Tilting his head to one side, Jacob studied the man. “And besides he was, as you said before, a monster.” “One only has to look at his paintings to know that,” Fermozzi said. He tapped out one cigarette and immediately lit another. “I still fail to see…” “I want to submit the request again,” Jacob cut in. “That’s hardly something I can do anything about.”

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“Actually you can. According to church records you have submitted at least three requests in the last year to Bishop Azaria, and they’ve been processed almost immediately. I thought I would just cut through the red tape and come straight to you.” Red-faced, Fermozzi viciously stubbed out his cigarette. “There is no evidence to suggest that Venetti needs pardoning.” Pulling out one particular sheet in his folder, Jacob handed it over to Fermozzi. It was a color photocopy of a letter of supplication to the church. Written in Latin, the handwriting stiff and beautifully old fashioned. Dated only six months before Venetti’s death. “The Miggliozzis may not have had the proof, but I’m not one of them am I? As of right now, I’m a priest with full access to the archives. This page is a written record that a few months before his trial began, Venetti applied for sanctuary from the church. He wanted to become a monk. The man was willing to give up everything to repent his sins and do good work for God. The Bishop di Salvillo turned him down. Apparently the good Bishop had a real hatred for Rossis. So any man who had slept with one would not be allowed into a monastery.” Fermozzi stared at the papers in his hand, then stared at Jacob. “Yes, well, it still does not absolve him of suicide.” “Well, that’s true. But you can do that.” Jacob steadied his nerves and firmed his voice. “If you choose to you can have it all wiped clean on the basis of this new evidence. And I’m prepared to offer you a deal to do so.” “Ah your bargain, si? Go on.” With a deep breath, Jacob forged ahead. “I’m sure you know I’m writing a thesis on Venetti. The Miggliozzi family has offered me quite a bit of money to go one step further and write the story up for publication in book form. A friend of mine recently told me that Italians love their infamous sons. And Venetti is the subject of much talk in school history.” He thought Fermozzi turning a bit pale was a good sign. The man was silent, so Jacob continued.

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“I told them that I would. I’m willing to be bribed out of it, though. Your word, in writing, that Matteo Venetti receives a full pardon, and I don’t go forward with it. As a matter of fact, I’ll drop the Venetti thesis altogether.” “Unbelievable. You’re threatening me.” Fermozzi stood and looked down over his glasses at Jacob. “Out. I want you to leave.” Staying where he was, Jacob pointed to the papers clutched in Fermozzi’s hand. “You can keep those by the way. The Miggliozzi lawyer, Marco Miggliozzi and Alessio Rossi all have a copy. I understand why this may not seem like much to you. The Church has weathered much worse. But it would just be easier on all of us if you pardon him.” Reaching for another cigarette, Fermozzi sank back into his chair. “If I do this, you quit your work with the Venetti paintings altogether?” His heart speeded up. “No.” Holding up a hand, Jacob went on, “But I will stop writing the thesis on why he wrangled with the church. And I’ll stop working on Venetti under the aegis of the church as well. As a matter of fact, I’m prepared to resign. But only if you do this. And I get it in writing that it’s done. Otherwise, I stick around under Miggliozzi-Rossi grant money and become a great big pain in your butt.” The look on Fermozzi’s face was thunderous. Jacob held his breath. There was a huge chance that Fermozzi would call his bluff. Jacob could almost see the wheels spinning in the man’s mind. Then Fermozzi nodded slowly, and Jacob let go of that pent up breath with a whoosh. “Very well,” Fermozzi said. “But I want your resignation in writing as well. Along with a written promise that any and all Church materials you used during your research will remain private.” “Done.” And it was done, just like that. It took another hour to get the paperwork done, and Fermozzi said he would send a copy of the signed pardon as soon as the Bishop passed it through. Jacob left with

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the whole deal signed and sealed in his hands. He wanted to throw up. He had just resigned from the priesthood, given up the only life he'd known since college. He’d done the right thing, his gut told him that, but he was terrified that he wouldn’t know what to do next. Not only that, but he’d stooped to the worst sort of blackmail to get what he wanted. He had a lot of praying to do. The ride back to the palazzo was a blur. When he got there, he carefully tucked all his papers away, and told one of the maids to wake him before dinner. Then he stripped and huddled under the covers in the twins’ big bed and shook. He dressed for dinner that night, pulling on Gianni’s clothes without thinking. Just as automatically he reached for his collar, and swallowed hard when it wasn’t there. It was tucked away in his suitcase now, and he had no right to it. Shaking that thought off, he picked up his papers and went to the gold salon for drinks. So different from the first time he’d been here, Jacob thought. The family acted like he was one of them, not a guest, and the conversation was relaxed instead of stilted. He understood these people so much better than he’d ever hoped to, and he felt like he had a place with them. The look on Cecilia’s face when he told them about what he’d done was worth every bit of it. Astonished joy was a good name for it, and she threw he arms around him and hugged him. He hugged back happily, and when he drew back Cecilia put a hand to his cheek. “I know how much you gave up, Jacob. But you did the right thing. You know that, yes?” And he did. Much as it scared him, much as he knew it would be hard to do, probably the hardest thing he’d done, Jacob knew it was the right thing. In his mind, where the shadow of Matteo Venetti had lived for all these weeks, it was quiet.

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epilogue The painting was nothing out of the ordinary. Typical of its time, rather flat and static, the portrait of the woman with the blue-green eyes was really nothing special. Except that it was the centerpiece of the showing of Matteo Venetti paintings that Jacob Ellory had arranged. The showing was invitation only, set inside the vast ballroom of the Palazzo Miggliozzi, and all of the glitterati had paid huge ticket prices for charity to be there and see it. The showing was being held to celebrate two events; the reinstatement of Matteo Venetti into the Roman Catholic Church, and the birth of the new Miggliozzi heir, Marcantonio. It was, Jacob reflected, a very good night. He stood between Damien and Gianni, who had simply refused to give him up, and surveyed his success. Terri caught his eye where she stood several feet away, smiling at him. She had worked hard to make sure this showing went off without a hitch, and they were both relieved. He was amused to see Vanni dancing attendance on her, standing with one arm wrapped around her waist. The Miggliozzis joined him, Cecilia handing him a glass of wine, Marco taking Jacob’s hand in both of his to shake. “It turned out wonderfully, Jacob,” Cecilia said. “I would never have thought when you first came to us that any of this would have happened.” Bumping hips with the twins, Jacob grinned happily at her and raised his glass in a mock toast. “Well, you know what they say, Cecilia. The Lord works in mysterious ways.”

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