The Italian's Passionate Revenge

grandchildren and I’m getting older very fast.’

To Elise’s own surprise she was suddenly embarrassed.

‘I don’t think we can talk about grandchildren,’ she said hurriedly. ‘Vincente and I are only-’

‘Of course, of course. I didn’t mean to…let’s talk about something else.’

‘Yes, let’s,’ Elise said with relief.

The Signora’s words had presented her with something that had been hovering on the edge of her consciousness for some time, without her having the nerve to face it.

She had told herself that she hated him for his treatment of her, but in the last couple of weeks she had missed him abominably, passing from hatred to need to sadness. If he appeared now she knew she would forgive him anything.

And now his mother had held out the prospect of marriage to Vincente, and children. She could no longer deny to herself how much she wanted this.

But it must stay her secret. The battle between them still raged. He might have the upper hand now, but she would still contend with him for pre-eminence. And so it would probably be all their lives.

Was this love? she wondered. It was violent and dangerous-so different from the sweetness she had known with Angelo. Yet it might be love.

Suddenly she became aware that her hostess was addressing her. Lost in her dream, she’d floated away from reality.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said hastily. ‘What did you say?’

‘It’s getting a little breezy out here. Let’s go in.’

Once inside, she hurried to the kitchen to order more coffee while Elise strolled around the room, studying the books and the delightful antique furniture.

Then she saw something that made her heart stand still.

Slowly she moved closer to the wall to get a better view, barely able to believe her eyes.

Hanging there was a small picture, a water colour depicting the Trevi Fountain with a young man sitting beside it, dipping one hand into the water and smiling at the artist.

It was Angelo.

CHAPTER EIGHT

THERE was no doubt that it was Angelo. This was the picture she’d painted eight years and so many lives ago. She’d given it to him, had always wondered what he’d done with it. Now she knew.

‘That was my nephew,’ Signora Farnese said from behind her. ‘The one I was telling you about.’

Elise whirled to where the Signora had reappeared and was watching her sadly.

‘Your…nephew?’ She could hardly get the words out. A chill had taken possession of her, filling her with dread as she sensed the approach of something terrifying.

It was like being caught in the path of a runaway tank. She could see it about to mow her down, but she couldn’t move.

‘His name was Angelo,’ the Signora said softly. ‘I raised him and loved him as my own.’

Elise stood quite still, feeling herself turn to ice. It was the only way to cope with what she had learned. Angelo, the young man she had loved so desperately and mourned for so long, had come from this house, had been part of this family? Somewhere, far back in Elise’s consciousness, a voice was warning that this was not- could not-be coincidence. But she wasn’t quite ready to face the implications.

‘What…happened to him?’ she managed to ask.

‘He was the victim of a cruel woman,’ Signora Farnese said with a sudden fierce bitterness that seemed to shake her slight frame. ‘She killed him.’ Hearing Elise’s gasp of shock, she hurried on. ‘She as good as killed him. He took his own life because he couldn’t endure what she’d done to him.’

‘He…committed suicide?’ she whispered.

She had known that Angelo was dead, but not this.

‘What did this woman do to him?’ Elise asked in a voice that was almost inaudible.

‘She took his love, she made him believe that she loved him in return, but then she abandoned him for another man, a man with more money-or so she thought.’

‘I don’t…understand.’

‘Angelo wanted to be independent, so he rented a small apartment in Trastevere and lived like a poor student. I wonder if she would have jilted him so easily if she’d known that he had a wealthy family behind him.’

‘But perhaps she wasn’t influenced by money at all,’ Elise protested. ‘Maybe there was another reason.’

‘I never saw the other man, but people who did see him said that he was a bloated, middle-aged pig,’ the Signora snapped. ‘To choose such a one over Angelo-only money could explain it.’

Elise felt as though she were drowning. Fighting to keep her voice steady, she said, ‘What did he tell you about her?’

‘Very little. Not even her real name. He called her Peri, and he spent almost every moment with her. He would come home for half an hour, rave about his beloved Peri, then vanish again. Vincente and I used to laugh because it was so charming to see a young man so head over heels in love.’

‘Vincente…’

‘We said it would be the making of him, but it was his destruction.’

‘But how? You said he took his life…’

‘One day he came to this house, distraught. She’d told him their love was over, but he couldn’t really believe it. That night he returned to the apartment they shared, hoping to hear her say that it had all been a mistake, that she still loved him. But the other man was there; he saw them in the window, embracing-the other man taunted him…’

She broke off and closed her eyes.

Elise couldn’t speak. She could only stare at the other woman with mounting horror as she replayed the scene that had haunted her nightmares for years.

‘I heard this afterwards,’ the Signora resumed, ‘from other people who lived nearby and saw everything. Angelo stood in the garden below the window where she was. The neighbours heard him pleading with her, begging her not to betray him, and they saw her in the arms of the other man, letting him cover her with kisses, revelling in her disgusting behaviour.

‘When Angelo couldn’t bear it any longer he ran away and drove off in his car. That was the last time anyone saw him alive. He crashed the car. They had to pull him from it, but he was already dead.

‘And shall I tell you something else about that evil woman? According to the neighbours, she left Rome that night, without waiting to know what had happened to Angelo. So many times she said she loved him-he told me that-and yet she didn’t look back once.’

‘Not once?’ Elise faltered. ‘Surely she called him-?’

‘Perhaps she did. Some woman called the flat while I was there clearing out his things a week or so later. I told her he was dead, but I didn’t know who she was. I hope it was her. I hope she knows what she did. I hope it torments her for ever and breaks her heart, but I know she had no heart to break. She murdered him, but she doesn’t care.’

Elise felt as though a terrible clamouring filled the air. This moment had been lying in wait for her for eight years, and now that it was here she was without defences.

She didn’t know how long she stood there, but at last some quality in the silence warned her that everything had changed. Slowly she turned and found Vincente standing in the doorway, watching her with an expression of stone.

In that moment she knew everything. Her head was full of voices, screaming with denial, but it was useless. She knew.

‘Vincente, my dear boy!’ his mother cried in delight. ‘You didn’t tell me you were coming home.’

‘It was a last-minute decision, Mamma,’ he said. ‘I wanted to surprise you.’