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The most powerful woman in all of Italy.
She was in her late 60s, with a thin face and grey hair pulled back in a severe bun.
As befitted her nickname, she wore all black. Her dress was old-fashioned, with a hem down around her ankles, long sleeves, and a black lace collar that covered her neck.
She was thin and frail, about 5’ 4” – but if her body was feeble, her spirit was anything but.
La Vedova had never been a great beauty, not even when she was young. But beauty and traditional femininity had never been the source of her power. Rather, it was her commanding aura and iron will that made her one of the most feared leaders in the Cosa Nostra. I had met hardened hitmen who spoke in fearful whispers about la Vedova.
We were in a room inside a palazzo – or palace – built during the Renaissance. Palazzos were more common than you’d think; Venice had nearly a hundred. Over a dozen had been turned into hotels, and many more housed universities or government offices.
The Fioretti family’s palazzo was one of the most impressive in the city. It was decorated in the old style – as in the 1600s. There were golden curtains on the windows, marble busts set into alcoves in the walls, and furniture that looked like it might have been stolen from Versailles when the Sun King was still around. The molding along the 30-foot-tall ceiling was baroque and full of curlicues, and the ceiling was painted with murals that rivaled the Sistine Chapel.
Everything reeked of power, money, and aristocracy.
The Widow sat on what could only be described as a throne, which was on a raised platform at the far end of the room. She was surrounded by men in black suits, including her consigliere – a rail-thin, middle-aged man who hovered at her side and occasionally whispered in her ear.
It was all very intimidating.
That was the desired effect.
I tried not to show my nervousness as she sized me up.
“So. You are the brother of Dario Rosolini, the new don of Tuscany,” she said haughtily.
“Yes, Signora.”
“What order of birth are you?”
The phrasing was odd, so I didn’t quite understand the question.
“…ma’am?”
“Order of birth – birth order. Are you the second oldest? The third?” she snapped impatiently.
“The fifth of six brothers.”
She gave me a withering look. “So I don’t even rate a visit from the next in line to the throne.”
I tried to remember that I was here to be a diplomat – and as such, I needed to keep my temper.
Thank God they hadn’t sent Adriano.
“I was judged the most suitable out of those available, Signora,” I explained. “Adriano, my second-oldest brother, is still recovering from injuries he sustained when – ”
“Ah, yes, the recent unpleasantness in Florence,” she interrupted. “Has your family finally put a lid on that pot? Made sure it won’t boil over into other people’s territories?”
She put a great deal of stress on other people’s territories.
“Yes, Signora.”
Her lip curled slightly in disdain. “Somehow I doubt that. What brings you to Venice, Signor Rosolini?”
“We wish to reestablish communications after the upheaval in Florence.”
“I wasn’t aware – were communications severed?” She managed to sound both slightly concerned and entirely dismissive at the same time.
I glanced at the rail-thin man standing next to her throne. “Your consigliere never returned my brother Niccolo’s calls.”
