Annamarie faced her future mother-in-law and smiled with the most demure and humble look she could muster. “This is a beautiful gown, Signora Grimani, but I simply couldn’t wear it tonight. Perhaps you have something a little more—”
Someone rapped on the door “Everyone decent?” Marco called and stepped in.
Annamarie turned on her heel, the stiletto point sinking a little into the wooden parquet.
“She’s just about ready. She’ll need a little makeup, won’t you, dear?” Chiara’s Italian sounded more natural on her. She went to Marco, brushed a hand on the front of his tuxedo jacket, then patted his cheeks. “You look very handsome, young man.”
He pecked his mother’s cheek and muttered, “Father’s just sent word he’s on his way.”
He stepped behind Annamarie. “You look dandy. All you need are some jewels and makeup, and you look ready for the screen. Annamarie wants to be an actress, remember? Mother will lend you something of hers.” In her ear, he whispered, “Are you ready?”
Annamarie shivered, her jaw hurting. She had not realised she had been clenching it.
Chiara said, “You two better hurry. The guests will be arriving in just half an hour.”
Marco was smiling at Annamarie through the mirror, still scrutinising. “Absolutely, Mother.” He winked. “Go on. We’re right behind you.”
Chiara pointed to her makeup table. In German she said, “I think you know where to find everything you need, don’t you, Annamarie? For your mask?”
Chapter 17
Bolzano, November 1937
C arlo Buti was singing “Due Chitarre” on the old phonograph when Angelo came home from the ministry. Marco. He had to find Marco. Before he got dressed and before the guests arrived.
In the salon, he found Chiara instead, wearing a sequinned black gown and swaying to the music. She held a champagne cocktail in her hand. At that moment, he wished she were Gina. He would put his arms around her, pull her to him, and take her away from this room, this house, this city. He was doing wrong by Chiara all over again.
“Happy anniversary,” he said from the doorway and strode to her.
Chiara stopped dancing. “You’re late.”
“The guests aren’t arriving for another half hour.”
“Twenty minutes. And we said we would have a moment to ourselves beforehand. You, me, Marco.”
He kissed her, hoping to smooth the frown she wore. Sounding casual, he asked, “Where is he?”
“He’s brought a friend, who had trouble finding something appropriate to wear.” She moved away from him, to Buti’s music once more, glass raised. “So I helped.”
“What friend?”
“It’s a surprise.”
Angelo pictured Filipa, and his pulse surged. “Someone I know?”
“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise.”
If it was Filipa—
“Fix that, Angelo, will you?”
The stylus was catching on something.
Angelo went to the phonograph, lifted the record, and held it at eye level. He blew on the surface and placed the needle back. Buti continued in the middle of “Scrivimi.” He turned round to ask more about this girl, but Chiara interjected.
“Don’t you want to get dressed? Everyone will be here soon.”
“First, a toast with my wife.” At the sideboard, Angelo poured himself a glass of champagne and was about to take a sip when Marco and a girl in a green dress appeared at the far door of the salon. The girl, whose hand Marco was holding, was not Filipa. She was looking down, as if she’d dropped something. A curtain of dark chin-length hair hid her face, but when she raised her head, Angelo stared at a pair of anxious doe-brown eyes.
He set his glass on the sidebar.
Airily, Marco said, “Happy anniversary, Father.”
“Happy anniversary, Minister Grimani,” the girl said.
The Germanic accent. Angelo’s stomach turned over. She looked so different now. “What’s the meaning of this?”
“Annamarie, you know my father. Father, this is Annamarie Casa de Pietra. My fiancée.”
“Fiancée?”
Angelo’s astonishment was echoed by Chiara.
“This is the surprise?” Chiara exclaimed.
“What do you know about this?” Angelo shot at her.
Chiara blinked rapidly. “I know that she’s been living with the Colonel for some months. Marco said you were against the two of them from the start. What else was he to do?”
Sweat broke across Angelo’s brow, and his look shifted to Marco, then back to Annamarie. “This is a joke,” he said. A horrifying one. I fear the worst.
Red splotches appeared on Annamarie’s neck and face, and she moved behind Marco.
“Is there a problem, Father?” his son challenged.
The girl clutched his arm with both hands, but Marco didn’t seem to notice.
The music stopped. Beneath the stylus, the record turned. Tick. Tick. Scratch. Tick. Tick. Scratch.
“You can’t marry her,” Angelo said. “She’s… Her name is Steinhauser, not Casa de Pietra.”
“You know nothing about her,” Marco snapped, “except that she’s Tyrolean.”
“I thought she was from the Lombardy,” Chiara said.
Marco left Annamarie by the door, untethered, like a boat on open water. Angelo could not look away from her.
The record was stuck.
Angelo strode to the phonograph, removed the stylus, and faced his son. “You have some explaining to do, young man.”
“Do I? Isn’t it you who has explaining to do?” His face dissolved into disgust. “You beat me for kissing some farm girl. You disapprove of my seeing Filipa Conti, and now you’ve ruined it for me. Ruined it all, Father. I know why. So nobody would find out that you’re having it off with Signora Conti!”
Angelo rushed at him, but Chiara—arms held out—stepped between them. Angelo collided into her. She staggered into Marco. Angelo reached for her arm, but Marco jerked Chiara away from him, then pinned Chiara’s arms to her sides and steadied her.
“Don’t you dare,” Marco snarled at Angelo. “Don’t you dare touch her.”
“Marco,” Chiara pleaded. “What is happening? What are you fighting about?”
Marco stepped in front of Angelo, green
