Almost before she realized it, he was planning their wedding at his huge castlelike stone estate overlooking the Mediterranean. She knew hardly any of the people attending. No one from her family could come: her father was too helpless; her mother too frightened; her brothers too busy. She sent photos home and to Papa Ventura, who sent her a check large enough to impress even royalty. Octavio promised to set her up in her own house of design-in a while. Of course, she had no need to continue her studies, he said; she knew enough. He wanted them to have the freedom to be able to fly off to his home in the Bahamas; to attend the Cannes Film Festival; to accept interesting invitations from his many friends, all of whom made a great fuss over Laura. She felt that they were watching her as though they expected her to perform some outrageous act for their amus.e.m.e.nt.

When they visited the large manor house of an aging dowager, high in the Austrian Alps, Laura sensed a certain excitement, a tension, not only from her husband but from the guests as well.

Their hostess, surrounded by her young lovers, male and female, had planned an event in which Laura was to serve as the centerpiece of everyone's desires. A s.e.xual performance.

Seized with disbelief as much as fear, Laura removed herself emotionally from the event. She retreated deep into the pure, untouched center of her being. The body that they touched, penetrated, abused, raped, sodomized, and devoured was someone else's. She, Laura, was immune to all of their violations. No one realized that Laura had disappeared, that all they had to amuse themselves with was the empty body of an anonymous young girl.

When they returned to their home in Rome, Octavio seemed unaware of any change in his young wife. He never really looked into his wife's eyes; never realized the deep hatred and resolve that watched him through her ice gray unforgiving eyes. He saw only the slender, elegant, compliant girl. Who, in fact, was beginning to bore him as any overused toy tends to do.

There was a particular trip he was planning to the Greek Isles, where they would celebrate her birthday in May. She asked where they would be. Exactly. On what island. Near what town. She studied the map intently as he pointed out-if it amused her, why not?-precisely where they would be. How they would get there from the yacht. Along what roads to the villa for the festivities.

It was a quaint harbor. The peasants were dressed as though taking part in a musical comedy. Laura guessed that her husband and his friends had arranged the spectacle in her honor. The driver of the Mercedes that was to take Octavio and Laura to the villa was a tall, dark, pockmarked man who kept his face down as he loaded their luggage into the trunk of the car. He wore a driver's black outfit and thin leather gloves and shiny black boots. The ride was along a narrow road, and Octavio glanced at his watch again and again. He was the host; he had to be the first to arrive. He pulled open the small bar set into the back of the front seat; opened a bottle of champagne, poured two gla.s.ses. The car lurched to a sudden stop: the champagne spilled all over them.

Octavio began to curse the driver, who had stopped because there was a small van blocking the way. The driver got out of the car-to speak to the driver of the van, it would seem. Instead, he opened the rear door on Laura's side, motioned her to get out alongside him, to stand back. She heard, rather than saw, the three shots fired quickly into Octavio's head: one behind each ear, one into his forehead.

The driver stepped back, took Laura gently by the arm, and led her away from the car. He reached in, removed the car phone, and handed it to her.

"Wait until we are gone, then phone for the police." He told her the number. He put his hand out and she gave him the diamond ring, bracelet, and watch she was wearing. He reached back into the car, removed her husband's wallet, then opened the trunk and went to the jewel case she pointed out.

He tipped his hat to Laura, gently touched her shoulder, and whispered to her, "Do not look at him. There's no need for you to see."

She nodded; watched him get into the van, which took off up the mountain. She called the police, and by the time they arrived she had vomited and turned a sickly pale green. They didn't question her too closely. She trembled and so could only whisper, "The driver, the driver." She had no idea what had become of him. No, she had seen no other car-not that she remembered. Someone had pulled her bracelet and ring from her-she knew nothing about anything else they might have taken. Please, she felt ill.

The investigation went nowhere. These terrible things happened all too frequently everywhere in the world.

Two weeks later, Laura made a second phone call to Nicholas Ventura. She had returned to Milan. She was preparing to open her own studio.

She was a very wealthy widow, at twenty-one years of age.

Papa Ventura watched her now, appreciatively. At thirty-seven she wore her black hair cropped very short and it framed her face to perfection. Contrasted with the boyish haircut, her face, with its high cheekbones, appeared exotic. She had large gray eyes with thick black lashes; a straight, aristocratic, modified Roman nose; full lips that glistened with what seemed to be natural color-a deep wine-flesh tone. No other makeup. Her black dress skimmed her body, subtly suggesting her hip bones, narrow waist; the only ornamentation was a gold cat-pin he had given her years ago. She wore it to please him.

Her eyes went to his most recent acquisitions: two Chinese temple tiles, mounted and displayed in a specially lighted case. She reached up, lightly touched one warrior, commented on the fact that his mount was a dragon.

"And, I would guess-it is highly illegal? One of China's treasures smuggled out of its proper home?"

Papa Ventura smiled and shrugged. "A work of art has a proper home wherever it is treasured and loved. These warriors are between two and three hundred years old-they will surely outlive me."

Laura turned, surveyed him carefully. "You will outlive us all, Papa. I cannot imagine a world without you."

"Not for a long time." Then, like a child, he stood up eagerly, eyes glittering. "So, you've kept me waiting long enough. What is my gift to be?"

"You mean besides myself? All right." She dug into the small black leather bag that hung from her shoulder. "Hold out your hand. No, don't look at it yet."

She closed his hand over what was obviously a coin, then let his fingers open.

"I don't have the provenance but I trust my source. It was struck in Rome. Pure gold. Museum quality. Caesar Augustus."

"Yes," he said quietly. "Yes." He studied it for a moment, then slipped it into his trouser pocket. "Thank you, my Laura. Now, go. Treat the party to your presence."

"Oh? Are there other people out there? I hadn't noticed!"

"Laura, you are still a bad girl. Maybe I should have put you over my knees and spanked you, long ago."

She kissed his cheek lightly, then whispered, "Maybe I would have liked it!"

CHAPTER 6.

NICK AND RICHIE WATCHED as Laura worked her way through the crowd. She had stayed so long with Papa. Other people wanted to wish him well on his special day. Laura-inconsiderate as usual.

"She's some girl, huh?"

Nick replied, "I think the word is 'woman.'"

"Yeah, whatever. Uh-oh. Here comes trouble, if I know what trouble is." He sounded pleasantly hopeful as they watched Peter and Sonny coming toward them, followed by Kathy.

"Hey, Nick, we got us a problem here," Sonny sounded smug, sarcastic. Just like his father.

Peter shook his head. No problem; no big deal.

Kathy looked tense.

"So, whatsa problem?"

Sonny told his father, "See, I asked Petey to come on home with us after the party and stay over and I'd take him down to the San Gennaro with me tomorrow. I can't believe he's never been." He turned, the condescending male. "But Kathy says, she says no, but I think ..."

Richie, glancing at Nick, then at Kathy, pulled his son by the arm, happy to watch. "I think you better b.u.t.t out of something between a man and his wife, ya know?"

Kathy said sensibly, "Nick, tomorrow is a school day."

Richie grinned. "What kinda Italian we got here, never been to San Gennaro? Nicky, c'mon, how many times you take the kid to St. Patrick's Parade? Peter, ya gonna love it-great food, entertainment ..."

"How would he get home?"

"Kathy, no problem. I'd have Artie Music-you know Artie, guy who drives for me-I'd have him take the kid home tomorrow night. Early, okay? h.e.l.l, this is a smart kid. So what if he misses a day of school? Bet you got a perfect record, right, Peter?"

Nick said, "He'd have a good time, Kathy."

Her face tightened. "Nick, I don't feel it's safe for him in New York City."

Richie let out a roar. "Jeez, not safe! Kathy, there's no crime in Little Italy, don't you know that? Safest place in the city-maybe in the country. Jesus, little girls, old ladies, anybody can be on the streets down there, day or night-it's protected. I swear to you. Hey, Sonny will be with him. And we got people there."

"I didn't realize you never went to the fair, Peter. h.e.l.l, Kathy, he'd love it-it's fun, the whole festival."

Peter, looking more worried than usual, a.s.sured him. "Dad, it isn't important, honest."

In her toughest voice Kathy said, "Nick, could I speak to you for a moment?"

Jesus Christ, Kathy, he thought, don't do this to me. Not here in front of these two cretins. Haven't you got any common sense? This had nothing to do with the San Gennaro. This had to do with a lot of other things.

"It is important, Kathy. This is part of his heritage. He's ent.i.tled."

She bit her lip. "Fine. Great. Look, I've done my family duty. I've paid my respects. Now I'm out of here. Sonny, please get the station wagon out front for me." She turned away, then back to Nick and signaled him closer to her. "You can get home any d.a.m.n way you can. Or not."

Sonny and Peter went off together to get the wagon. Nick watched as Kathy said her smiling good-byes through the crowd, without once looking back at him.

Richie shook his head sympathetically. "Nicky, Nicky. I tole ya and tole ya. You shoulda married one of your own kind."

He plucked Richie's pinkie-ringed hand off his arm. "I did, Richie. I did."

CHAPTER 7.

THEY HADN'T NOTICED LAURA until she spoke. "Richie," she said softly, "I think Papa wants to see you. Now."

Richie moved quickly; now meant now. Laura took Nick's arm and pulled him. "C'mon, Nick. Let's get outta here. Papa didn't ask for Richie, but I a.s.sumed that sooner or later"

She winked; Laura the brat, playing a trick. They moved through the crowd, who watched but pretended not to. It had gotten dark out, and the autumn air had a touch of winter cold just beneath the surface. Laura led him to a limo; a uniformed guy tipped his hat and held the door open.

They settled into the lush back seat; she leaned forward and asked the driver if he knew where Romano's was, in Long Island City. He nodded and slid the gla.s.s window closed, giving them privacy.

Nick leaned back. Very nice. "This yours?"

Laura shrugged and laughed. "Too big for me. But I get a good price for the rental-car and driver-when I don't feel like driving.

"So, Nick. How've you been? Haven't seen you in what, five years? Papa's last big birthday party." She reached out and poked him. "Hey, pal, we gotta stop meeting like this."

Years seemed to fall away; the tall, slender, sophisticated lady disappeared. His most vivid memory of her was as a child: stubborn, determined, unyielding. Laura would do things her way. Against all odds.

Laura chewed her index finger for a moment. "That thing with your wife, Kathy? Is it serious?"

Nick stiffened. Christ, a brief disagreement and everyone in the world makes it into big trouble. His grandfather with his radar; his rotten cousin, hoping for the worst. And now Laura.

"What are you talking about?"

She shrugged. Frowned. "So it is serious. Married people don't glare at each other that way over something minor."

Nick felt defensive, protective of Kathy and himself, his family. He felt a need to explain it away, even if he wasn't convinced himself.

"Look. I have a family-wife, son, house in the suburbs. The works. I think it's called commitment-"

"You make it sound like a sentence. No plea bargaining, Nick?"

"What the h.e.l.l are you up to, Laura?"

She ran her index finger over her bottom lip. "You play around, Nick?"

"Jesus Christ."

"You Mr. Faithful or what?"

"Well, if I do and when I do, I make the moves."

Her laugh wasn't mean or smug. It was the sound of pure joy that he remembered from when she was a small girl observing the absurdities of the boys and men around her. Something in them she found funny, and n.o.body else could figure out why. She touched his cheek, leaned over, and kissed him lightly the way you'd kiss a child who was exasperated by teasing.

"Relax, Nick. I'm sorry. I'm just kidding. Hey, we're here. What do you say to an egg cream? Last place around for the real thing."

It was the real thing: a luncheonette out of a history book. The floor was made of small darkened white tiles; the ceiling of pressed tin. The counter was long, made of gray marble. The leatherette stools were locked in the same place as fifty years ago. The Coca-Cola clock was genuine; probably fetch more than a couple hundred in some antique store. The gla.s.s display cases, filled with heavy Danish pastry and cellophane-wrapped cupcakes, were sparkling.

The small man behind the counter, busy digging scoops of ice cream into a long banana-split gla.s.s, greeted Laura with a smile. Toast popped up, sandwiches were made then, finally, the old man held his finger up toward Laura.

"The real thing, right, Laura?"

He jerked his chin toward Nick, who nodded, and he presented them with two genuine, old-fashioned, only-in-New York egg creams. They picked up the drinks and Laura headed for the last table in the row, smaller than the rest, in a dark corner.

"When I was in high school," she told Nick, "I worked part-time across the street. In the old Wendy Pocketbook Company. I helped with the bookkeeping. This was my supper. The old man used to put an egg in. Said I was too thin."

Nick, his back to the wall, facing the length of the luncheonette, scanned the place quickly. It's something a cop does. Most people don't even notice. Laura was not most people.

"Any bad guys in the vicinity?"

"I'm not sure yet. You're the only bad guy I can see right now."

"Bad guy? Not moi, Nick. Independent guy, yes."

She always seemed to be on the verge of putting him down. Something about her was smug and irritating. Just like when she was a child: who the h.e.l.l does Laura think she is?

"Hey, how independent can you be? You married money. You've been left pretty well provided for, right?"

She smiled, but her eyes were cold. "Whatever it takes, Nick. I learned that very early." She shrugged in imitation of a neighborhood wise guy. "Hey, ya gotta do what ya gotta do, right?" Then she stopped clowning. "Don't think I didn't earn every penny I ever got."

The playfulness between them was gone. He'd been spiteful, really, for no reason. She picked up her egg cream and gulped it down. No straws or sips for Laura. She wiped the back of her hand across her mouth, then took the napkin he offered.

"That's a nice-looking boy, your Peter. Looks like his mother. What eyes. How come you only have one kid, Nick?"