Page 69 of Mercy in Betrayal

Vivi gives a defeated kind of sigh. “Maybe. My brother says I tend to only see the good in people, so I don’t see the same thing you do.” She glances away. “We’ll talk more when there are fewer ears around.”

The driver catches my eye in the rearview mirror before turning his attention back to the road, and I remember Vivi saying he gossips like an Italian housewife. To whom, I wonder? His employer? Others in Angel Valachi’s employ?

“Who will be at your house?” I ask Vivi.

“Just Angel. You know that my father and sister are gone. My brother sent my mother to rehab two months ago. I think you will like Angel. He is a little strict, but he really does care about me. And he will care about you because I do.”

Guilt swamps me. All this time, and I’ve never even thought to ask Vivi anything about her situation at home. She always appears so happy and content. I assumed everything was unremarkable. But her father and sister are dead; her mother is in rehab…what other problems has she been dealing with that I’m unaware of?

“I should have been there for you, Vivi. I’ve been a terrible friend, and you’ve been nothing but wonderful to me. Thank you.”

“Stop it. Don’t you dare thank me. Friends never have to do that. When I decided to be your friend, I signed up for everything that comes with you.”

Tears sting my eyes, and I have to bury my face in Clementine’s fur again to keep Vivi from seeing them.

Shortly afterward, the driver pulls into a nondescript driveway, pausing to enter a code that opens an iron gate before continuing along the narrow roadway flanked with tall boxwood hedges. It widens out into a circle in front of a large mansion of discreetly illuminated gray stone, the boxwoods dropping away into low, manicured gardens and pathways lit by tiny in-ground lights.

“It’s beautiful,” I say, meaning it.

Vivi beams. “It’s always been home. I hope you enjoy it, however long your stay is. Come on…I’ll show you around and get you settled.”

Inside, I hesitate before setting Clementine down. Vivi notices and passes a hand over his head. “He’ll be fine. Let him follow us around so he gets used to the place.”

She leads the way down a hall, opening doors as we come to them and gesturing inside each room. “This was my father’s study. Then it was my sister’s, Lulu—Luciana, but we called her Lulu. Now Angel does his work in here, so we’ll stay out of his way, of course.”

“Of course,” I murmur, giving the study’s heavy furniture and collection of books a curious glance before continuing down the hall.

There’s a powder room. Sitting room. Music room. Guest rooms. A family room, the only remotely comfortable-looking area I’ve seen yet. A huge kitchen, where Vivi tells me her sister used to bake bread and make homemade pasta all the time.

A woman hovers around a large, marble-topped island, and she greets her with a kiss on the cheek. “Could we have some dinner, pronto, please? I’m so hungry I’m going to die. In my room, please.”

“Oh, yes…I can see that. Withering on the vine, you are.” The woman squeezes her cheeks and bustles past her agreeably, giving me a smile. “Hello, Irish girl.”

“Hello.” She reminds me of Meredith.

Down a different hallway, Vivi shows me the way to the indoor swimming pool, and once I’ve stopped gawking, leads me up a flight of stairs that she says will lead to her bedroom. Clementine is still trotting along behind me gamely, but my head is spinning.

“I’ll never find my way around this place.”

“It’s easier than you think. And if you get lost, just stand still and yell. Someone will come.”

I snort a laugh. It’s cut off abruptly as my phone buzzes with a call. It stops ringing as I pull it from my pocket, the screen showing a missed call from Enzo. I stare at it for a moment, debating whether I should call him back, and as I consider it, the screen lights with a message.

Enzo: Where are you?

I slide the phone back into my pocket. I’m not ready to speak to him. To Vivi, I say, “I don’t think I can eat anything.”

She gives me a sharp look. “You will eat because you need to.”

Half an hour later, we’re sitting on Vivi’s bed with plates of pasta on our laps and glasses of wine within reach.

“My mother would have a fit if she saw this,” Vivi says, shoveling a forkful of pasta into her mouth and waving at our seats on the bed.

“Your comforter is white.”

“I think a spaghetti stain would give it character.”

“You are messed up.” I giggle, then cover my mouth as the sound hitches into a half-sob. “Everything is messed up. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.” The spaghetti tips precariously as I shift position on the bed.

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