The Rich Shall Inherit (33 page)

“Thank you, Fiametta,” Mike said, standing up to leave. “Your memories have been very helpful.”

Her bright old eyes inspected him for a few seconds and then she said, “Have you met Aria yet?” He shook his head. “She’s worth all the Rinardis put together,” she told him. “I brought her up, and I know. She has a good heart, Mr. Preston, and it’s not fair that she has to marry the Signore Carraldo.” Her expression was sad as she added, “And that’s why she needs the Mallory money so badly, so she’ll never have to marry that man. Never!”

The Villa Velata seemed to have settled even deeper into the brooding valley at the foot of the Dolomites. An early December frost had already left a coating of white over the shrubs and lawns, and painted a film of ice across the neglected gravel drive. Pierluigi knew from experience that it would never lift because the house was built in the shadow of the mountain, and at this time of year the sun never rose above its great bulk. The frost got thicker, the ice firmer, and then the heavy snows would cover the lot and the villa would become a prison again for four months. Just the way it had always been in his childhood.

The chauffeur negotiated the icy drive cautiously in the hired Fiat. Its tires refused to hold on the slippery surface and he wished he could curse, but he was afraid of his silent passenger. He hadn’t spoken a word the entire journey from the airport at Trento, where he’d been told to meet him; he’d just stared out of the window instead, looking like a man going to a funeral. And for all the chauffeur knew, maybe he was.

He stopped the car with a sigh of relief in front of the somber ocher-colored villa, hurrying to open the passenger door, but Pierluigi was already out. The chauffeur unloaded his bag from the trunk and carried it up the steps. “Shall I ring the bell, Signore?” he asked Pierluigi, who was standing in the drive, just staring at the house.

“Thank you, no. You’d better get back quickly, it looks like snow,” he said, handing him a tip.

“Thanks very much, Signore.” The chauffeur examined the money quickly. It was fair but not generous, and he sighed; he’d expected more from this obviously rich man. As he drove off,
Pierluigi was still standing where he had left him, staring at the villa as though afraid to go inside.

Pierluigi knew that the image of his childhood home would never leave him; the flat stucco walls and the unsymmetrical facade, the ocher color that had turned an ugly brown from damp; the windowpanes so distorted with age, they seemed to let in every blast of cold from outdoors; and the empty silent gardens. His father seemed to have chosen to live in the bleakest house he could find, to match the bleakness of his soul.

Only for a few brief summer weeks had the Villa Velata ever come to life, and then there’d been the smell of hay from the valley and the scent of the flowering shrubs his father had planted experimentally—those that had survived the cruel winter in his greenhouses—until he brought them out into the garden for their few hours of glory. The horses had galloped in the fields, kicking up their heels and biting each other playfully in an ecstasy of delight as the warm sun rippled along their backs, enjoying the freedom from their stables. And young Claudia had run wild too, shrieking in delight and kicking up her heels like the horses, casting off her clothes and rolling over and over in the grass, trailing garlands of daisies like a midsummer fairy.

He pushed open the heavy front door and went inside at last. The big hall was in darkness, but he knew it so well, he could have negotiated it blindfolded. Dropping his bag, he walked straight through to the big kitchen at the back of the house. The woman tending a pot on the ancient stove jumped with surprise as she turned and saw him. “Signore Pierluigi!” she exclaimed. “We weren’t expecting you!”

“How are you, Giulietta?” he asked with a smile. “I’m sorry if I startled you.”

“That’s all right, Signore. I expect you’ve come to see the Signora Claudia. She’ll be surprised, too, no doubt.”

“No doubt,” he said sarcastically. “Do you know where she is?”

“In your father’s study, Signore. She’s been busy in there for a couple of days now; she says she’s looking for something.”

“Yes,” he said, “she would be.”

He walked along the hall, through the library to his father’s study. Claudia was sitting at the big old-fashioned rolltop desk and she stared up at him in surprise. Then a little smile curved the corners of her mouth. “Well, well, the prodigal son comes home!” she said mockingly. “And what are you doing here,
Pierluigi? I thought I heard you say you were never coming back to the Villa Velata again.”

“And didn’t you say the same?”

She shook her head. “My memories were obviously less painful—or more attractive than yours, Brother.”

“I can guess why you are here,” he said coldly. “I thought you might have contacted me about Poppy Mallory. I telephoned you in Paris before I left, but got no reply. I flew there first, thinking I’d see you. Of course, when you weren’t there I realized where you’d be and I flew down here—via Geneva.”

“Does Poppy Mallory’s money mean that much to you?” she asked contemptuously. “To Pierluigi Galli, the millionaire genius of Wall Street? Why can’t you just let me have it
all
, Pierluigi? What will a million or so from the past matter to you? When you
know
that to me it means
everything.”

Unbuttoning his coat, Pierluigi folded it neatly. He placed it across a chair and took a seat opposite her. “You obviously don’t know what you are talking about,” he said calmly. “Poppy’s money is not a mere million or two—it’s hundreds of thousands of millions. There will be enough even for you, Claudia, though God knows you’ll go through it faster than a hot knife through butter. You don’t seem to acquire any sense as you get older.”

“We are the same age,” she cried, stung. “I’m only as old as you are!”

“It’s different for men, though, isn’t it? I’m sure you are well aware of that, Claudia.”

“So, now you know why I need the money.” She shrugged. “For my old age. Not just because I’m greedy, like you.”

“Look, Claudia,” he said with a sigh, “let’s stop this stupid bickering. We’ve always been led to believe that our father was Poppy Mallory’s son, and that we were her grandchildren, and we’re both here now for the same reason—to find the evidence to prove it. Lieber showed me a copy of the so-called will. It quite definitely states that she leaves her money to her daughter. I explained that the story was that Poppy never actually saw her baby; Angel whisked it away at birth before she’d even held it. And Angel led her to believe it had been a girl because she was afraid one day she might come back and try to claim the child as hers. I also explained how Felipe Rinardi hated the boy because he was not his own, and made the child’s life a misery—and that’s why, when Felipe died, Aleksandr abandoned the family home and refused to take the title. He wanted nothing that had been
the Rinardis’. He came here, bought the Villa Velata, and much later married Lucia Galli, whose name he took instead of his own. Lieber agreed that the story sounded valid but said he must have some documentary evidence to back it up. That’s why I’m here.”

“Oh? I thought maybe you’d come to visit your beloved sister.” Claudia leaned back in her chair, stretching. “Don’t you miss me, then, Pierluigi? All alone in your ivory tower of an office on Wall Street? Or that museum you call home on Park Avenue?”

“I
never
miss you, Claudia,” he said icily.

She grinned; she knew better. “How’s your sex life these days?” she taunted. “Or don’t you stoop to such basic acts anymore?”

“You’re being ridiculous,” he said coldly as he opened the door. “I’ll see you at supper.”

“I can’t wait!” she called mockingly as he walked away.

The vast unheated dining room was icy, and instead they ate supper at a round table in front of the fire in the small sitting room. Giulietta, who lived in the gatehouse at the end of the drive, served them minestrone, and Claudia chatted incessantly throughout the meal, grumbling about her Amex card being canceled and his lack of care for her. “You’ve got all that money and you never give me a cent,” she cried angrily. “Here I am practically starving in Paris while you live in the lap of luxury!”

Giulietta offered Pierluigi the veal but he shook his head, waving the dish away. “
You
are quite wrong, Claudia,” he said calmly. “I’ve bailed you out of every financial scrape you’ve ever gotten yourself into. Now it’s time you took care of yourself. It’s the only way you’ll learn the value of money.”

“The value of money!” She poured herself another glass of wine, spilling some on the white cloth. “And what value does money have to you, Brother? You just switch it from one bank account to another, playing games with it—buying this and selling that … you never do anything
real
with your money, Pierluigi! It doesn’t bring you pleasure or comfort, any of the
physical
pleasures. To
you
money is the end result; for me, it’s what I can buy with it that matters.”

Giulietta removed their plates and carried in the chocolate mousse she’d made that afternoon. Claudia attacked it greedily, pouring herself more wine.

“You
never think of the consequences of anything, do you?” he said contemptuously. “Not even the effect of two helpings of chocolate mousse on your hips.”

“God damn you,” she cried, throwing the plate violently across the table.
“You
are a bastard, Pierluigi,
I
hate you!”

Giulietta picked up pieces of the plate and retreated hurriedly to the kitchen. There had never been any love lost between these two and now they were at it again, hammer and tongs. Carrying in the coffee, she placed it on the table, glancing at them worriedly. “I’ll go now, Signora, Signore,” she muttered.

“Good night, Giulietta. Thank you,” he said, but Claudia was sunk sullenly over the table, her head buried in her hands. Giulietta sighed; she was glad she was going home to her husband and a bit of peace and quiet.

“You’re just jealous, that’s all,” Claudia said flatly.

Pierluigi poured a cup of coffee and carried it to the door. “I’m going back to father’s study to see what
I
can find,” he said, ignoring her remark.

He had been there for over an hour, sorting through the tightly packed drawers and compartments of the rolltop desk, when he heard her footsteps in the hall. The door was flung open and Claudia leaned against it unsteadily. Her hair fell untidily over her face and her cream satin blouse was stained with wine. “I want to talk to you—
Brother!”
she snarled.

He glanced up at her coldly. “You’re drunk, Claudia,” he said. “Why don’t you go to bed and sleep it off. We can talk in the morning.”

“We can talk in the morning
…” she said, mimicking his precise tones, “and
what
shall we talk about in the morning, Pierluigi? Shall we talk about you and me?” A little smile played around her full lips and she licked them enticingly. “About ‘old times,’ Brother?”

Pierluigi’s hand tightened on the sheaf of papers he was holding. “Go away, Claudia, will you?” he said, turning back to the desk.

She sauntered toward him. “Don’t you want to remember then, little brother?
Don’t tell me you don’t dream about it
, alone in your narrow bachelor bed, high above Manhattan. Come on, now, Pierluigi, you and I both know you do.” Standing behind him, she snaked her arms around his neck, kissing the top of his head. “You do love your sister after all, don’t you, Pierluigi? And I never knew how much—until that day in the stables. You never
told me how long you’d been watching us, Brother. Was it twice, three times … a dozen perhaps?” She laughed as he untwined her arms and pushed her away.

“Stop it, Claudia,” he commanded, “stop it right now!”

“That’s not what you said then,” she mocked, “you just wanted it to go on and on …. Remember that afternoon, Pierluigi? He’d just left me, still lying there on the straw. I knew you were up there, in the loft, watching … and I called to you. You came down that ladder so slowly, you couldn’t take your eyes off me, could you? Lying there half naked, my skirts tumbled to my waist…”

“Claudia, for God’s sake!” he screamed, pushing back the chair and facing her.

“And then it was your turn, wasn’t it, Pierluigi? Your turn to touch little sister’s breasts, your turn to slide between her legs, your turn—”

Raising his hand, Pierluigi struck her across the face, jolting her head back with the force of his blow.
“You
cheap little whore!” he snarled. “All you’ve ever done is sell your body!”

“And you were
never
the highest bidder,” she said bitterly, her hand on the livid red mark on her cheek. “You got it for free,
Brother!”

“I’m leaving,” he said, striding from the room. “I refuse to stay here with you.”

“Afraid I’ll seduce you?” she taunted. “Is that it?”

Ignoring her, Pierluigi strode up the stairs to his room. His bag was still packed and putting on his coat he picked it up and walked back down the stairs. Claudia was waiting for him by the telephone in the hall. “How do you propose to leave here?” she asked. “Have you forgotten, Pierluigi?
You
don’t drive.”

“I’ll telephone the village for a taxi,” he said, reaching for the phone.

She grabbed it first, laughing hilariously. “Oh, no, you won’t,” she said. “We’ve been cut off.”

He stared in amazement at the scissors in her hand and then at the dangling ends of the telephone wires. Then, picking up his case, he brushed past her. “I’ll walk to the village,” he said icily.

“Walk?” she cried, running after him. “It’s five kilometres, it’s snowing out there …”

“Go away, Claudia,” he told her savagely. “I want nothing more to do with you. I never want to see you again.”

“Damn you, you bastard!” she cried, lunging at him drunkenly
with the scissors. “I’ll kill you.” She stopped, staring horrified at the blood on his hand where he’d put it up to protect himself. Their eyes met and then without another word he walked out the door, slamming it behind him.