The Mephisto Club

back, grinning at the view of her cleavage.

She tried to ignore him and reached for another chunk of bread, then drained her glass of wine and poured herself another.

He stood up and came around behind her. He finished unbuttoning her blouse and slipped it off her shoulders, then unfastened her bra.

She stuffed a piece of cheese into her mouth, chewed, and swallowed. Almost coughed it up again as his hands closed over her breasts. She sat rigid, fists clenched, suppressing the instinct to twist around and slug him. Instead she let him reach around in front of her and unzip her jeans. Then he gave her a tug, and obediently she rose to her feet, so he could peel off the rest of her clothes. When she finally stood naked in his kitchen, he stepped back to enjoy the view, his arousal obvious. He did not even bother to remove his own clothes, but just backed her up against the kitchen counter, opened his trousers, and took her standing up. Took her so vigorously that the cabinets rattled and silverware clattered in the drawers.

Hurry. Finish, goddamn it.

But he was just getting started. He twisted her around, pushed her to her knees, and took her on the tiled floor. Then it was into the living room, in full view of the balcony window, as though he wanted the world to see that he, Filippo, could fuck a woman in every position, in every room. She closed her eyes and concentrated on the sounds from the TV next door. Thumping game show music, an excitable Italian host. She focused on the TV because she did not want to listen to Filippo’s panting and grunting as he pounded against her. As he climaxed.

He collapsed on top of her, a flabby dead weight that threatened to suffocate her. She squeezed out from beneath him and lay on her back, her body slick with their mingled sweat.

A moment later, he was snoring.

She left him there, on the living room floor, and went into his bathroom to take a shower. Spent a good twenty minutes under the water, washing away every trace of him. Hair dripping, she returned to the living room to make sure he was still asleep. He was. Quietly, she slipped into his bedroom and went through his dresser drawers. Beneath a mound of socks, she found a bundle of cash-at least six hundred Euros. He won’t miss a hundred, she thought, counting out the bills. Anyway, she’d earned it.

She got dressed and was just picking up her backpack when she heard his footsteps behind her.

“You are leaving so soon?” he asked. “How can you be satisfied with just once?”

Slowly she turned to look at him and forced a smile. “Just once with you, Filippo, is like ten times with any other man.”

He grinned. “That’s what women tell me.”

Then they’re all lying.

“Stay. I’ll cook you dinner.” He came toward her and played with a strand of her hair. “Stay, and maybe-”

She gave it about two seconds’ thought. While this would be a place to spend the night, it required too high a price. “I have to go,” she said, turning away.

“Please stay.” He paused, then added, with a note of desperation, “I’ll pay you.”

She stopped and looked back at him.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” he said softly. His smile faded, his face slowly drooping into a weary mask. Not the strutting lover anymore, but a sad, middle-aged man with a big gut and no woman in his life. Once, she had thought his eyes looked mean; now those eyes looked merely tired, defeated. “I know it’s true.” He sighed. “You did not come because of me. It’s money you want.”

For the first time, it did not disgust her to look at him. Also for the first time, she decided to be honest with him.

“Yes,” she admitted. “I need money. I’m broke, and I can’t find a job in Rome.”

“But you’re American. You can just go home.”

“I can’t go home.”

“Why not?”

She looked away. “I just can’t. There’s nothing there for me anyway.”

He considered her words for a moment and came to a reasonable conclusion. “The police are looking for you?”

“No. Not the police-”

“Then who are you running from?”

I’m running from the Devil himself was what she thought. But she could not say that, or he’d think her crazy. She answered, simply, “A man. Someone who scares me.”

An abusive boyfriend was probably what he thought. He gave a nod of sympathy. “So you need money. Come, then. I can give you some.” He turned and started toward his bedroom.

“Wait. Filippo.” Feeling guilty now, she reached into her pocket and took out the hundred Euros she’d taken from his sock drawer. How could she steal from a man who was so desperately hungry for companionship? “I’m sorry,” she said. “This is yours. I really needed it, but I shouldn’t have taken it.” She reached for his hand and pressed the cash into his palm, barely able to look him in the eye. “I’ll manage on my own.” She turned to leave.

“Carol. Is that your real name?”

She paused, her hand on the knob. “It’s as good a name as any.”

“You say you need a job. What can you do?”

She looked at him. “I’ll do anything. I can clean homes, wait on tables. But I have to be paid in cash.”

“Your Italian is very good.” He looked her over, thinking. “I have a cousin, here in the city,” he finally said. “She organizes tours.”

“What kind of tours?”

“To the Forum, the basilica.” He shrugged. “You know, all the usual places tourists go in Rome. Sometimes she needs guides who speak English. But they must have an education.”

“I do! I have a college degree in classical studies.” Fresh hope made her heart suddenly thud faster. “I know a great deal about history, actually. About the ancient world.”

“But do you know about Rome?”

Lily gave a sudden laugh and set down her backpack. “As a matter of fact,” she said, “I do.”

TWENTY-ONE

Maura stood on the ice-glazed sidewalk, gazing up at the Beacon Hill residence where the windows were invitingly aglow. Firelight flickered in the front parlor, just as it had on the night she’d first stepped through the door, lured by the dancing flames, by the promise of a cup of coffee. Tonight what drew her up the steps was curiosity, about a man who both intrigued her and, she had to admit, frightened her a little. She rang the bell and heard it chime inside, echoing through rooms she had yet to see. She expected the manservant to answer the bell and was startled when Anthony Sansone himself opened the door.

“I wasn’t sure you’d actually come,” he said as she stepped inside.

“Neither was I,” she admitted.

“The others will be arriving later. I thought it’d be nice for the two of us to talk first, alone.” He helped her off with her coat and pushed open the secret panel to reveal the closet. In this man’s house, the walls themselves hid surprises. “So why did you decide to come after all?”

“You said we had common interests. I want to know what you mean by that.”

He hung up her coat and turned, a looming figure dressed in black, his face burnished in gold from the firelight. “Evil,” he said. “That’s what we have in common. We’ve both seen it up close. We’ve looked into its face, smelled its breath. And felt it staring back at us.”

“A lot of people have seen it.”

“But you’ve known it on a deeply personal level.”

“You’re talking about my mother again.”

“Joyce tells me that no one’s yet been able to tally all of Amalthea’s victims.”