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A rasping voice shattered his thoughts as the old man turned round at last, his handmade suit hanging loose on his shrunken frame, and Odysseus was unprepared for the jolt of shock which rocked through him. Despite having planned this trip since his father’s death, the impact of seeing his grandfather in the flesh took him by surprise. This was a man he’d only heard about and read about and he hadn’t expected to feel anything other than contempt. But suddenly it was way more complicated than that. He acknowledged something close to recognition as their gazes clashed. Was it because the eyes set in those wizened features were an extraordinary shade of blue? Blue like my eyes, Odysseus thought, with a bitter sense of recognition. Blue like my mother’s eyes. An unfamiliar sorrow welled up inside him, but he kept his expression impassive, as he had taught himself to do since he had first become aware of the notion of self-will.
‘Surely you must have expected a visit from your only grandson at some point?’ Odysseus enquired, his tone deliberately measured.
‘I had no such expectations,’ negated the old man.
‘That is…surprising.’
‘Why should it be? I have nothing to prove.’ Vincenzo stuck out his jaw. ‘Not to you. Not to anyone.’
‘Is that so?’ Odysseus asked the question with soft deliberation, but suddenly he could see the other man grow tense.
‘Just tell me what it is you want!’ The old man glared, his Adam’s apple working furiously above the too-loose collar of his shirt. ‘Is it my money you’re after?’
Behind his implacable expression, Odysseus felt the warm flicker of rage. ‘I have money of my own.’
‘Yes, so I believe. You’ve made quite a name for yourself, I understand. The billionaire fixer, they call you.’
They called him many things, thought Odysseus sardonically, but he said nothing, just continued to study the old man objectively, finding solace in the power of silence, as always.
‘So why are you here?’ The old man’s voice quavered. ‘And why now?’
‘I want to ask you a few questions.’ Odysseus raised his eyebrows. ‘Let’s start with the main one, shall we?’
‘Go on, then,’ goaded Vincenzo, the light of challenge entering his faded blue eyes. ‘Ask away.’
‘Why did you kick my mother out onto the street?’
‘Because she brought the family name into disrepute! Getting herself pregnant by somewastrel!’ The old man spat the words out. ‘She had everything. Everything! The best education in the world. A generous allowance. A trust fund. And there were men, too. Wealthy men, waiting in the wings until the time was right, eager to make her their wife. Her golden future was right there—at her fingertips—until she had her head turned by a…nobody!’
‘And that was her choice,’ Odysseus said flatly. ‘But even if you despised my father and everything he stood for, she was still your daughter. Your only child. Yet you didn’t even come to her funeral.’ There was a pause and, unexpectedly, it took a moment before he could bring himself to speak. ‘You didn’t even come to pay your last respects.’
‘Why would I? She threw her life away and I wanted nothing to do with the man who was responsible! She made her bed, so I let her lie in it!’ The old man was clutching at his throat, as if he couldn’t get enough air, and suddenly he reached towards a brass bell, ringing it surprisingly loudly with gnarled and trembling fingers. ‘Grace!’ he rasped. ‘What the hell is she doing this morning? Grace!Venite!Venite!’
For one extraordinary moment, Odysseus felt as if the old man had trespassed into his thoughts, because hadn’t that been the name which had been paramount in his mind all morning? He shook his head. He must be going mad. Or was he? Because ‘grace’ was also a type of prayer, wasn’t it? Was it possible the old man was asking forgiveness for what he had done to his only child? And if a form of contrition was expressed then surely he could go away with some sense of closure. Wasn’t that all he had ever really wanted?
The door opened and a woman dressed entirely in grey stepped inside, her eyes downcast and her red-brown hair pulled back into a tight bun.
‘Yes, Signor Contarini?’ she said quietly.
And then Odysseus really did think he was going mad because her soft voice sounded like…
Sounded like…
He shook his head, his gaze raking over her slender form as if seeking reassurance. He must be mistaken. Last night’s Grace had been passionate and bright. This morning’s Grace was drab and lacklustre.
And yet…
Wasn’t there something about the set of her shoulders and the way her heart-shaped face seemed balanced on a neck which looked like a delicate stem, which reminded him all too vividly of the tiny temptress who had so eagerly given him her innocence?
Look at me, he willed silently.
Look at me.
As if obeying his voiceless command, she raised her head and for once Odysseus’s ability to remain neutral deserted him. His whole body stiffened, his hands clenching into tight fists by the shafts of his thighs as his heart began to pound like a piston. It could not be her and yet itwasher.
No mask today. No scarlet lips, nor clinging crimson gown. Just a pale face without a scrap of make-up and a dowdy dress which did her no favours. And eyes which darted to him in silent appeal.
Odysseus met her frantic stare. What did she think he was about to do—inform his hated grandfather how they’d spent the night together? A pulse began to beat at his temple. Whowasshe?