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“I don’t need itthatbad,” I replied.
She put the glass down. I could see her turning things over in her mind. I knew she was reading my mood, trying to figure out a way to get me back into the game.
“I have an idea,” she said.
Naturally, I was suspicious. “Whatkindof idea?”
“What if we went out for dinner?”
I rubbed my temples and looked up. Was this some kind of trick? I sat forward.
“Outout?” I asked. It sounded too good to be true. “You mean to an actual restaurant—with normal food?”
“Why not?” said Kira. “My treat.”
“Tonight?” I asked, still not believing it. “We can go outtonight?”
“If you’re up for it,” she said.
Maybe she was feeling sorry for me. Maybe she was manipulating me. I didn’t care. Suddenly, my head was clearing. I could breathe again. The queasiness was gone. In fact, I was already thinking about a fat, juicy cheeseburger. I could almost taste it.
“You’re on,” I replied. “It’s a date!”
Kira gave me a slight smile and patted my arm.
“Let’s not use that word,” she said.
CHAPTER 67
Lake Trasimeno, Italy
AS PREDICTED, CLOUDS covered the moon by 10 p.m. The water in the cove was still and inky black, with no reflections. The two people in the small boat looked like a high-school couple out for a romantic rendezvous.
The boy cut the engine and turned off the running lights as the girl readied herself in the prow. Silent and nearly invisible, the skiff drifted toward the dock below a small hillside villa. The home was modestly impressive and slightly run down, the kind of lake estate that stayed in families for generations. The boy and the girl exchanged strange smiles. They were on time and on target.
Inside the dimly lit villa, chemist Angelo Chinelli was toking away his disappointment at missing out on the prestigious Antonio Feltrinelli Prize. Short-listed, but no win. Second year in a row. “Goddamn politics!” he muttered bitterly. But the bitterness was quickly fading. The weed he was smoking was top-notch, cultivated by one of his lab assistants. After just three hits, he was already feeling relaxed and drowsy. The two goblets of Barolo he had downed earlier contributed to the stupor.
As he eased back into the large worn sofa, his wife, Lucia, came down the hall from the nursery. She was wearing a cotton robe and her dark brown hair fell loose around her shoulders.
“She good?” Angelo asked, his lips barely moving.
“Sleeping like a baby,” Lucia reported with a soft smile.
Angelo smiled back. His daughter, Carmella, was the true prize of the year, he told himself. Just eleven months old and as beautiful as her mother. Brilliant, too. He could tell already.
“I’m heading in the same direction,” said Angelo, eyelids fluttering. Lucia flopped down next to him on the huge soft cushions and plucked the joint from his lips. She took a deep drag, held it, then exhaled a purple plume into the candlelight. She nuzzled up against him and gave him a warm smile.
“Next year, the Nobel,” she said, stroking his cheek.
“Next year,” Angelo replied with a soft laugh and a touch of pride. He knew that it might actually happen.
Lucia dropped the roach into a ceramic ashtray. She swung her leg over Angelo’s lap, then pressed forward to deliver a warm, lingering kiss. She tasted of smoke and red wine. Angelo gently tugged the top of her robe open.
The next twenty minutes went by in a haze, but a very pleasant one. When it was over, Lucia rolled to the side and curled up. Angelo slid a pillow under her neck and gave her a soft kiss on the forehead. She was asleep already. Angelo looked at his watch, then slid off the sofa and walked back toward the nursery for one last check.
In the semi-darkness, it looked like little Carmella had burrowed under her blanket again. But when Angelo stepped closer, his dulled senses suddenly blasted back to life.
The blanket was there. The baby was not.
