Angelo dipped into her cigarette case, and Gina stirred from sleep as soon as he flicked on the lighter. He watched her fingers snaking their way to his cigarette. He inhaled once and handed it to her as she sat up, propping her pillows against the headboard. Cold winter sunlight sliced diagonally across their saffron-coloured sheets. He was numb.
“It’s my birthday today,” he said.
She exhaled and handed him the cigarette back. “Today is—”
“December the first.”
“How old are you?”
“Young enough for you and old enough to know better.”
“I’m good for you.” She opened the black lace robe, exposing her body. Her hair fell over her breasts, and he let his eyes rove over her curves.
“Just yesterday,” she purred, “you bowed to the king, and today, I will make you feel like one. Happy birthday.”
He sat up and swung his feet to the floor. His wallet was on the bedside table, certainly much lighter after all the bribe money he’d paid to the Laurin’s porters. Bribe money and champagne. He stood up.
“What’s wrong, darling? Where are you going? I offer you what your wife won’t, Minister, and you turn away?”
Angelo halted but did not face her. “There were two things you agreed to in this hotel room,” he said measuredly. “One, you do not talk about my wife.”
Bed linens rustled, and when Angelo looked, Gina had jerked the sheets over her nakedness, looking defiant and amused all at once. “Yes, and two, no titles and no lovey-dovey nicknames. And I agreed to much more, Angelo, much more.” She snapped the covers off and exposed the inside of her left thigh, tracing a finger over his bite mark.
He had cracked her open, and it was easy to understand how Gina Conti ticked. She did anything, drove him to do things he didn’t think he would. He remembered how Luigi Barbarasso had ogled her at the Gleno opening.
“And your other liaisons?” he said, striding into the bathroom, but his tone was one of a jealous boy. “Do they like to be called by their titles?”
“Most of them like to be called Prime Minister, but, darling, if you want to keep eating at this table, let us agree that you are not allowed to ask me such questions.”
He rubbed the beard around his mouth, then punched a hand into the basin of water and washed. He was being ridiculous, behaving like a love-struck schoolboy. He should stride back in and make love to her again. He was supposed to be gone the entire weekend. Nobody knew they had returned to Bolzano.
“Besides,” Gina said, “Il Duce’s year as prime minister may be finished, but nobody is going to ask him to step down. You will all have to give up on the dream of being his successor.”
“Madonna.” Angelo whistled, beard dripping. “Who the hell wants that job now?”
Gina chuckled. “For now, that is. But Angelo Grimani as senator? That might be interesting.”
His heart jumped as if it were playing hopscotch. Senator? That would rile the old man. Imagine making laws, he thought, that would hinder the Colonel…
From the mirror, behind his dripping face, he could see Gina reclining, her body only visible to him up to the midriff. Behind the door, he heard her light another cigarette, and she exhaled loudly. A plume of smoke wafted from where her head would be.
He watched her slowly raise one knee. Damn it if he didn’t forgive himself and just get back in there.
“It’s Saturday,” she said, followed by an obvious yawn. “And your…they don’t expect you back until tonight?”
Chiara believed he was still up in Bergamo. And the general had left Gina alone to attend an important meeting the next day. It had all been too easy, and he felt uneasy about that.
Angelo dried his face, his armpits, and the rest of him, then stuffed the towel into the brass ring. “This weekend is a one-off, doll,” he said with as convincing an air as he could. “Then it’s over.” It had to be.
When he was at the edge of the bed again, she smirked up at him and stubbed out her cigarette. She kept her eyes on his as she opened her robe, unfolding her legs one at a time. The woman who made men.
“Then,” she purred, “you’d better take all you can get.”
***
L ater, there was a light knock on the door. Angelo dressed himself and threw the covers over Gina, sleeping again. “Who is it?”
A voice behind the door said, “Sir, it’s the porter.”
“We didn’t call for anything.”
“There’s been an accident. I…I thought you should know.”
Marco. Chiara. Angelo whipped the door open. “What’s happened?” It was the same man from late in the night, or early that morning.
The porter lowered his eyes. “There’s been a dam break. In Bergamo.”
“The Gleno?”
“Yes, sir. They’re saying the whole Povo Valley is flooded.”
Angelo was moving, left the door open. He didn’t care what the porter saw now. “Gina. Get up. You have to go home. There’s been an accident.”
“Who? What?” She was up and dressing like a soldier called to a raid.
“It’s the Gleno Dam.” To the porter, he said, “When did it happen?”
“Early this morning.”
“Jesus,” Gina said.
Angelo fumbled in his wallet, his mind racing. The watchman. The water levels.
The porter waved his hands when Angelo handed over the money. “That won’t be necessary, Minister. We can handle the bill later. And Signora Conti, sir, she may take her time.”
Without another word, Angelo followed him out into the hall and had him hail a taxi. Behind him, Gina called but then the door swung shut.
At the ministry, the corridor on his department’s floor was filled with people hurrying, waving papers. They greeted him in hushed tones and sideways glances. Angelo pushed past them to his office, where he
