To Love Again (6 page)

We'll let you get some sleep. For the first time in her life, she wanted to shout out loud at him Fuck you but she didn't. She only clenched her teeth and her hands, and in a moment they were gone and she was alone with Bernardo in the room.

You see, damn you! You see! I told you they'd do that. Now what the hell are we going to do?

Wait. Let them do their job. Pray.

Don't you understand? They have Amadeo. If we don't come up with ten million dollars, they'll kill him! Haven't you gotten that into your head? For a fraction of an instant she thought she was going to slap him, but the look on his face said that she already had.

She raged, she stormed, she cried. And he slept in the guest room that night. But there was nothing either of them could do. Not on a weekend, and not with the accounts frozen, and probably not without.

She never went to bed that night. She sat, she waited, she cried, she dreamed. She wanted to break everything in the villa, wanted to wrap it all up and offer it as gifts ' anything ' anything ' just send him home ' please' .

They had to wait another twenty-four hours for the next call. And it was more of the same. Ten million dollars. By Tuesday, and it was now Saturday night. She tried to reason with them, that it was the weekend, that it was impossible to get money together when the banks and offices and even their business was closed. They didn't give a damn. Tuesday. They figured that gave her plenty of time. They would tell her the location later. And this time they didn't let Amadeo come to the phone.

How do I know he's still alive?

You don't. But he is. And he will be until you screw up. As long as you don't call the cops and you come up with the money, he'll be fine. We'll call you. Ciao, signora. Oh, Jesus ' what now?

She looked like a ghost by Sunday morning, her eyes darkly ringed, her face deathly pale. Bernardo came and went, attempting to keep up a semblance of normalcy, and making references to hearing from Amadeo on his trip. It was easy to believe the story that she was sick. She looked it. But none of the servants gave anything away. No one seemed to know the truth. And the police had found out nothing. By Sunday night Isabella felt sure she would go mad.

I can't, Bernardo, I can't anymore. They're not doing anything. There has to be another way.

How? Apparently even my personal account will be frozen. I'm going to have to borrow a hundred dollars from my mother tomorrow. The police tell me I can't even cash a check at my bank.

They're going to freeze you too? He nodded silently. Damn.

But there was one thing they wouldn't have frozen by Monday. One thing they couldn't touch. She lay awake in her bedroom all Sunday night, counting, figuring, guessing, and in the morning she went to the safe. Not ten million but maybe one. Or even two. She took the long green velvet boxes in which she kept her jewelry to her room, locked the door, and spread everything out on her bed. The emeralds, the new ten-carat ring from Amadeo, a ruby necklace she detested for its garishness, her pearls, the sapphire engagement ring Amadeo had given her ten and a half years before, her mother's diamond bracelet, her grandmother's pearls. She made a careful inventory and quietly folded the list. Then she emptied the contents of all the boxes into one large Gucci scarf and stuffed the heavy bundle into a big old brown leather bag. It would almost pull her shoulder off when she wore it, but she didn't give a damn. To hell with the police and their eternal watching and checking and waiting to see. The one man she knew she could trust was Alfredo Paccioli. Her family and Amadeo's had done business with him for years. He bought and sold jewelry for princes and kings, statesmen and widows, and all the great and near-great of Rome. He had always been her friend.

Isabella dressed silently, pulling on brown slacks and an old cashmere sweater; she reached for her mink jacket but then cast it aside. She put on an old suede one, and on her head she wore a scarf. She barely looked like Isabella di San Gregorio. She sat quietly for a moment, thinking, wondering how to get there in spite of the guards. And then she realized that it didn't matter. She didn't have to hide from them. All she had to get was the money. And it was important that no one recognize her once she was inside. She buzzed Enzo in his apartment over the garage and told him that she wanted him at the back door in ten minutes. She wanted to take a little ride.

He was waiting with the car in ten minutes as she had requested, and stealthily she crept from the house. She didn't want Alessandro to see her, didn't want to answer the questions in his eyes. She had told him for the past four days that she was sick and didn't want to give him her germs so he had to keep busy and play with Mamma Teresa, his nurse, in his room or outside. Papa was on a trip; the school had called, and everyone was having a vacation. Thank God, he was only five. But she succeeded in avoiding him once again on her way out and was suddenly grateful for Maria Teresa's busy routine for the child. She couldn't have dealt with him just then, couldn't have faced him without holding him too tight and bursting out in a fierce, frightened cry.

Va meglio, signora? Enzo gazed at her thoughtfully in the rearview mirror as they pulled away, and she only nodded tersely as her unmarked police escort discreetly pulled away from the curb.

Si. She gave him the address of the shop next to Paccioli's, not very far from her own house of couture, and decided that she didn't give a damn if Enzo knew why she was going there. If he was one of the conspirators, then let him know that she was doing her best. The bastards. There was no one left she could trust. Not now. And not ever again. And Bernardo, damn him, how could he have been so right? She fought back tears again as they drove to the address. The ride took less than fifteen minutes, and she made a quick business of stopping briefly in two boutiques and then disappearing quickly inside Paccioli's. Like the House of San Gregorio, it was a discreet facade, in this case marked only by the address. She stepped into the silent beige womb and spoke to a young woman at a large Louis XV desk.

I want to see Signore Paccioli. Even in a scarf and no makeup, it was difficult to divest herself of her tone of command. But the young woman was unimpressed.

I'm terribly sorry, but Mister Paccioli is in a meeting. Clients are here from New York. She looked up as though expecting Isabella to understand. But she had missed her mark. And the anonymous brown leather bag on Isabella's shoulder was cutting into her skin.

I don't care. Tell him it's ' Isabella.

The woman hesitated, but this time only for a moment Very well. There was something desperate about the woman, something frighteningly crazy about her eyes as she kept shifting her handbag higher up on her shoulder. For an insane moment the young woman prayed that this oddly disheveled stranger was not carrying a gun. But in that case there was all the more reason to summon Mr. Paccioli from inside. She walked down a long narrow hall, leaving Isabella alone with two blue-uniformed guards. And she returned in less than a minute, with Alfredo Paccioli walking hurriedly at her side. He was somewhere in his early sixties, almost bald, with a delicate white fringe that matched his mustache and somehow accented his laughing blue eyes.

Isabella, cara, come stai? Shopping for something to show with the collections?

But she only shook her head. May I speak to you for a moment?

Of course. He looked at her more closely then and didn't like what he saw. Something was terribly wrong with her. As though she were very ill, or perhaps a little bit mad. What she did a moment later almost confirmed it as she silently yanked open the brown bag and pulled the silk-wrapped bundle out, spilling its contents on his desk.

I want to sell it. All of it. Then had she gone mad? Or was it a fight with Amadeo? Had he been unfaithful? What in God's name was wrong?

Isabella ' dearest ' you can't mean it. But that that piece has been in your family for years. He gazed in horror at the emeralds, the diamonds, the rubies, the ring he had sold to Amadeo only months before.

I have to. Don't ask me why. Please. Alfredo, I need you. Just do it.

Are you serious? Had their business gone suddenly bad?

Absolutely. And he could see now that she was neither ill nor insane, but something was very seriously, desperately wrong.

It may take a little time. He lovingly fingered the exquisite pieces, thinking of finding each one a home. But it was not a task that he relished. It was like selling family or auctioning off a child. Is there truly no other way?

None. And I don't have any time. Give me whatever you can for them now. Yourself. And don't discuss this with anyone. No one. It's a matter of ' it's ' oh, God, Alfredo, please. You must help me. Her eyes filled suddenly with tears, and he reached out a hand as his eyes questioned hers.

I'm almost afraid to ask. Twice before something like this had happened. Once, a year before. And the second time only a week before. It had been horrible' terrible ' and it hadn't worked.

Don't ask. I can't answer you. Just help me. Please.

All right. All right. How much do you need? Ten million dollars. Oh, God.

You can't give me what I need. Just give me what you can. In cash.

He looked startled and then nodded. I can give you he made a rapid calculation of the cash he had available at the time perhaps two hundred thousand today. And perhaps the same again in a week.

Can't you give it all to me today? She looked desperate again, and for a moment he wondered if she might faint on his desk.

I can't, Isabella. We just made an enormous purchase in the Far East. All of our main assets are in stones right now. And quite obviously that's not what you want. He glanced down at the small mountain of diamonds and then back into her eyes with a thought. Suddenly he felt as frightened as she. Her desperation was contagious. Can you wait a minute while I make some calls?

To whom? Her eyes were instantly filled with terror, and he saw her hands shake again.

Trust me. To some colleagues, some friends. Perhaps among us we can come up with some more money. And ' Isabella' . He hesitated, but he thought he had understood. It must be ' cash?

Yes.

Then he was right. Now his own hands shook. I'll do what I can. He sat down next to her, picked up the phone, and called five or six friends. Jewelers, furriers, one somewhat shady banker, a professional gambler who had been a customer and become a friend. Among all of them he could come up with another three hundred thousand dollars in cash. He told her and she nodded. That gave her five hundred thousand. Half a million dollars. It was one twentieth of what they wanted. Five percent. His eyes sought hers with a look of sorrow. Won't that help? He found himself praying that it would.

It will have to. How do I get it?

I'll send a courier out immediately. I'll take what I think we need in jewels for the other jewelers. She watched dispassionately as he took a few pieces. When he took the diamond, she bit her lip to hold back the tears. Nothing mattered only Amadeo.

This should do it. I should have the money here in an hour. Can you wait?

She nodded tersely. Send your messenger out the back door.

I'm being watched?

No. I am. But my car is out front, and they may be watching who leaves here. He asked no further questions. There was no need.

Do you want some coffee while you wait? She only shook her head, and he left her after gently patting her arm. He felt so helpless and he was. She sat in solitary silence for a little over an hour, waiting, thinking, trying not to let her mind drift back to the agonizingly tender moments they had shared. Thinking back to first times and last times, and funny times, to seeing him with tiny Alessandro in his arms for the first time; to their first collection, which they presented with outrageous courage and delight; to their honeymoon; their first vacation; their first house; and the first time they had made love, and the last time only four days before' . They tore at her heart in a way she couldn't bear. The moments and voices and faces crowded into her head as she attempted to push them away, as she felt panic rising in her soul. It was an endless hour until at last Alfredo Paccioli returned. The exact amount was in a long brown envelope. Five hundred thousand dollars in cash.

Thank you, Alfredo. I will be grateful to you all my life. And Amadeo's. It wasn't ten million. But it was a start. If the police were right, and the kidnappers were indeed amateurs, perhaps even half a million would look good to them. It would have to. It was all she had now that all the accounts were frozen.

Isabella ' is there is there anything I can do?

Silently she shook her head, opened the door, and strode out, hurrying past the young woman at the desk, who was pleasantly bidding her good day, and then as she heard her, Isabella stopped.

What did you say?

I said, good morning, Mrs. di San Gregorio. I heard Mister Paccioli mention collections and I realized that you were ' I'm sorry ' I didn't recognize you at first ' I

You didn't. Isabella turned on her fiercely. You didn't recognize me, because I was never here. Is that clear?

Yes ' yes ' I'm sorry' . Good God, the woman was truly mad. But there was something else about her too. Something ' the bag ' it didn't look so heavy now. She swung it over her shoulder as though it were suddenly light. What had she had in there that had been so important and so heavy?