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I wake up feeling dazed and disorientated. Bright shafts of sunlight shine through the window, without the curtains slowing their journey down, acting as a barrier. The harsh light makes my eyes sting so I recoil, shrinking backwards. How long have I been here? Minutes? Hours? I slowly stretch my arm, reaching out for a surface to steady myself on and then retract it almost immediately.
"Aargh!" I yelp, instinctively moving backwards with a jolt as my hand comes into contact with human flesh. I turn round abruptly and then groan as I realise the last person I want to see is sitting beside me.
"What the hell are you doing here?" I demand, outraged.
"Is that any way to treat an old friend, Alyssa?"
"Get the fuck out of here, Scipio. You're not welcome."
"Just relax," he says calmly, reaching out to stroke my hand. I flinch away before he has a chance to even touch it. "You need rest; you're not thinking straight."
"I know perfectly well what I'm saying," I practically snarl, standing my ground. It sounds so feral, it shocks me. Scipio's eyes drift momentarily, and a hint of sadness appears in his eyes.
"Do you?" he questions, and I blink, taken back. Several times, I try to reply, try to respond, but each time I open my mouth, the words don't come out, and I can't quite meet his eyes. I look at him more closely, take in his clean cut appearance - his midnight black air, his angular face, the arrogant smile… I frown. He looks… different, somehow…older?
"What?" he says, noticing me staring at him pensively. His interrogative tome has dissipated, replaced by mild suspicion and narrowed eyes. I blush, embarrassed.
"It's nothing," I answer quickly. "It's just… You've changed so much."
Immediately, his smile disappears, and his face turns serious. Gone is the usual the relaxed, care free air about him. "I took a ride on the merry go round (this is where the proper would go… if I knew it.), Alyssa."
I scoff. "Don't be stupid, Scipio. The merry go round's just a myth. Everyone knows it isn't real." (Let's suppose the merry go round was part of a well known story that was told to her when she was growing up.)
"Isn't it?" Scipio says, his voice unfaltering.
"Oh, for heaven's sake! What do you take me for? Some kind of mug? I'm not falling for your lies this time round."
"I'm not lying!" he insists, and I want to believe him, honest to God, I do, but I can't, and I never will.
"I thought I made it perfectly clear to you that I never wanted to see you again," I say frostily, ending the conversation."
"Denny…" Scipio pleads, looking pained.
His heartfelt expression makes me feel uneasy, especially when I look at his eyes. They're big and brown, like that of a dog's, enough to make anyone's heart melt. Anyone except me, that is. No way am I going to let him guilt trip me. Not after what he'd done. Thankfully, the door suddenly opens, and I am spared the discomfort of looking at him any longer. It seems as though he has the ability to stare right into my mind and see all my private thoughts, the way his chocolate eyes bore into me.
"James!" I cry out. striding towards my partner. He pats me on the arm hesitantly, and it suddenly dawns on me what has just happened. "Oh, no…" I muttered, horrified, realising that all those days spent planning the ceremony, picking out flowers and food, all those painful hours spent trying on the most hideous wedding dresses whist dozens of seamstresses fiddled and fussed over me, prodding me with needles and ordering me to stop fidgeting… They were all for nothing, in the end. It had all been a complete and utter waste of time. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Scipio smirking as he lurks in the corner of the room. I glare at him contemptuously.
"James, I'm so sorry…"
"Don't worry about it. I've already spoken to the vicar, we can always arrange another service." He smiles, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. He seems distant, detached. "Are you okay?" he asks, this time managing to inject a little feeling into his words. He sounds concerned, and I snuggle up to him, grateful for his warm, inviting presence. As we hug, James finally notices Scipio still lingering in the corner. He frowns.
"Who are you?" James inquires, his voice full of mistrust.
"Please, I'm… an old friend. I merely wanted to see if Alyssa was alright."
"I don't remember her ever mentioning you … Come to think of it, I don't remember inviting you. What did you say your name was again?"
"I didn't," Scipio answers frostily, with a steely gaze.
Suddenly, we are interrupted the sound of a dull thud. James and Scipio do not move, assuming something has been knocked, a painting detached from the wall, perhaps, but I know instinctively that something has caused the noise. I break away from James' grasp, straining my ears for any other sounds, whilst James stares at me quizzically. I walk over to the doorway, scanning the empty corridor for any clues which might lead me to the source of the thud. James stares at me quizzically, but follows, as does Scipio. The three us eventually trace noise to the banqueting hall, and a sorry sight meets our eyes. The small body of a young boy rests on the chequered floor. On closer inspection, I recognise the child to be Arrigo de Luca, James' cousin. He doesn't seem to be moving, and a familiar trickle of fear slivers down my spine. I dash to his inert body, leaving James and Scipio to remain frozen in the doorframe, and feel for a pulse. There isn't one.
"He's dead," I whisper hoarsely, my vision blurring as tears form in my eyes.
Minutes later, James and I are stood in one of the back rooms, surrounded by family and friends who have flocked to mourn the untimely death of Arrigo. Scipio is longer with us, and I hope he never returns.
I've always thought Arrigo to be some spoilt brat; cushioned from the outside world by his overindulgent parents, who pampered him and showered him with extravagant gifts, he was a far cry from Prosper's sweet and endearing brother, Bo. But as I look at him now, his lifeless body lying on the floor, all the colour drained from his face, I feel nothing but sorrow, sorrow for a life cut short before it had been properly lived. So many missed opportunities, so many faces he would never see, so many places he would never visit… It makes my heart break just to think about it. Gone are any hateful memories of a spiteful boy who terrorized the servants and behaved appallingly in public. No, Arrigo de Luca is an angel now, a sweet and innocent child who would never harm a fly. I'm almost expecting to see snow white feathers sprout from his back, or a golden halo, radiating light. The willowy figure of Greta de Luca, James' aunt, is hunched over a small figure, crying her eyes out. On the rare occasions she looks up, I see that her normally immaculate make up is a mess, mascara running as tears cascade down her cheeks, and strands of hair stick out of her elegant bun.
The love of a mother. Such a powerful thing. But although it can give you strength during difficult times, I can just as easily tear you apart, leaving your dignity in tattered shreds.
***
Scipio stood in the banqueting hall, looking down at his scuffed shoes, which seemed to sully the hall's perfect appearance just by being there. All the rooms were exactly like this one: lavishly decorated with ornate looking glasses set in gold gilt frames, with expensive murals hung on the walls. He guessed that the amount of money spent on the frames alone was enough to keep the whole population living in the Venetian slums in clean clothes and supply them with food and uncontaminated drinking water for at least a year. But that didn't matter to the building's creators, so long as every room was kept pristine, to reflect the equally flawless people who dwelled in them.
The people… They were all so fake, so false! He knew Alyssa had come from a wealthy background, but even so, he couldn't imagine her enjoying being in the company of people like those who had gathered here today. Yes, she had been born rich, but that hadn't been her choice. In Scipio's mind, Alyssa was like a flower: beautiful, but delicate. And whereas she was compassionate, and caring, and kind, these people had hearts made of stone, unfeeling and emotionless. They cared for nought but their appearances and their wealth.
A shadow slowly approached Scipio, stopping just behind him. Probably someone who worked here, who had come to tell him off and order him to leave, he thought dully. Well, they could go to hell, for all he cared. What did it matter to him if eh was dirtying their precious floors? Scipio turned around, the beginnings of an insult already forming in his head. The figure in front of him shook his head sadly.
"I warned you about coming here."
"I know, I know. I'm sorry, Victor," Scipio apologised, hanging his head in shame. Victor had been right for once. He should never have disobeyed him. "I just wanted to…" He stopped. Wanted to what? Sensing his disappointment, Victor placed a comforting arm around his shoulder.
"The heart make us do foolish things. I don't blame you, Scipio. I probably would have done the same."
"I just thought that…" Realising that he yet again had no end to the sentence, Scipio cried out in frustration, and kicked out, venting his anger at the wall. He was satisfied to see bits of marble crumble away. It was beautiful, but brittle.
"It was three years ago," Victor continued. "People move on. If she had wanted to talk to you, she would have found you herself. She knew where to look."
"And what about Ida?" Scipio interjected furiously. "You know where to find her! And yet you do nothing, say nothing, when all the time your heart begs to be with her. You think she would have moved on, if she'd known?" Victor did not retaliate. Instead, he just looked on sadly, a wistful look in his eyes. "Sorry," Scipio muttered, apologising for the second time that day.
"No, no, you're right. Sometimes people need persuasion. You're a determined young fellow, I'll give you that. But today of all days…" Victor, strode closer to Scipio, closer to the centrepiece of the room, a magnificent wedding cake adorned with cream and edible flowers. At three feet high, it was more than just a cake. It was a masterpiece.
"Come on, now. We best be going. It's probably a good idea to give the poor girl some breathing space. It can't have been easy for her, what you turning up and then something like that happening. So sad…"
"You're right," Scipio agreed. "It was a mistake coming here. Let's juits go home and forget about it all." He turned to leave, but Victor didn't move. "What?" probed Scipio, frowning slightly.
Victor stroked his bushy moustache, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. "What do you say?" he said, eyeing the cake hungrily. "It wouldn't hurt to take a few crumbs for the journey. After all, it's not as if they're going to be needing it."
Scipio smiled back and shot a sideways glance at his partner in crime. "Well, it would be a shame to let it all go to waste…"
"Funny sort of cake," Victor mused. "Look there, where it's all uneven. Ah, well. Beggars can't be choosers." And with that, he scooped a chunk out of soft, creamy cake. Without hesitation, he brought his hand up to his mouth, so he could begin devouring the delectable desert. It made his mouth water just to think of it.
"Wait!" Scipio cried, knocking the piece of cake out o f Victor's hand. His eyes narrowed in outrage, whilst Scipio examined the cake thoroughly, even pausing to sniff a section, before discarding the crumbs on the silver platter. What was he doing? thought Victor. Then, without warning, Scipio took off, his long coat trailing behind him.
"What the-" exclaimed Victor, perplexed. "Where are you going?"
***
Dozens of people are crowded round Arrigo's body now, and Greta is still weeping uncontrollably. Her husband tries to console her, but only half heartedly. He sees her distress, and shares it, only in a more furtive way. Why should she put a brave face? What's the point in it all? he wonders. It certainly won't bring their son back. Suddenly the door is flung open, and I find myself once again face to face with the last person I want to see.
"You!" cries out James. "I don't care if you're a friend of Alyssa's. A boy has just died! Can't you give my family some privacy?" Scipio is followed a stout, wheezing an with thinning hair, another familiar face from my past. "And who the hell are you?" James demands.
"Victor Getz at your service," answers Victor weakly, his breathing shallow and heavy. His cheeks are slightly flushed, as if he has been running. "Finder of lost trinkets, possessions, and the occasional misplaced husband."
James stands there, dumbfounded and at a lost for words. "Please, Signor," begs Scipio. "It's urgent."
"I told you, I don't care! Get out of here!" His words are ignored as Scipio barges his way through to Arrigo's body, knocking a confused Greta out of the way. Then, like a madman, he lifts one of Arrigo's hands, rubbing his cold, lifeless fingers and bending down to have a closer look.
"Sorry, Signor. I just had to see… I never introduced myself to you, did I?" James looks at him as though he is crazy.
"I hardly think now is the time!"
"Scipio Massimo, private detective. Victor's right hand man." He holds out a hand for James to shake, which is not accepted.
"Signor!"
"I am sorry to say this, but I think I know why your cousin died. He was poisoned."
Everyone's eyes simultaneously widen in shock. James' lips move soundlessly as he tries to make sense of it all. "But.. What.." he stammers. "What makes you think that?"
"Two things," replies Scipio. "When my colleague-" he gestures towards Victor - "and I were in the banqueting hall, we noticed the cake looked rather worse for wear. There were small segments missing from the bottom, where the inner cake was exposed, uncovered by icing. Either the shoddy work of an unskilled baker or… something else." Our meet for a single second, and I quickly drop my gaze downwards.
"It was like something has been picking at it; there was a single nail imprint on the surrounding area. The handiwork of a hungry rat, perhaps? Not quite, unless they've suddenly developed the ability to climb tables. No, my guess is that the mark was made by that of a sticky fingered child."
"My Arrigo would never do that!" interjects Greta, but Scipio raises a hand to silence her.
"Then there was the second piece of evidence - Arrigo's body. As I'm sure you'll, if you look a little more closely, there's a smudge of cream on his right cheek, and crumbs on his fingers and trousers." I snuck a glance at Arrigo's corpse. I hadn't noticed it before, but Scipio was right. I didn't know had long I'd been unconscious, but my passing must have caused some commotion. It would have been easy for an impatient seven year old to slip out and sneak into the hall to satisfy his sweet cravings.
"But that's preposterous! To think we thought we could trust the Mozzicatos to deliver high quality food to us… What kind of company are they running?" Scipio shook his head.
"No, no. Pardon me, Signor de Luca, but your family doesn't seem the sort to employ negligent bakers. Besides, you've been using the company for years, and not once have they been found guilty of food poisoning. No, this is something bigger."
"You mean my poor Arrigo was murdered?" wails Greta, fresh tears welling up. "But who would want him dead?"
To my surprise, Scipio stares at me, his stone face expressionless, like a mask. Yet I know he doesn't see me. His eyes are blank and I can almost picture the cogs moving in his head as things slot into place. He's deep in thought, far too deep to notice to surroundings. They are blind to him, so wrapped up is he.
"Precisely…" he says, eyes unblinking. "Signor, your family are very big on traditions, si?"
"Yes, but I fail to see how-"
"De Luca weddings are practically tradition heaven, are they not? Please, tell me who is always the first to eat the cake?"
"Why, the bride, of course. But again, I fail to see-"
Scipio turns to me again, looking both serious and troubled. This time, I fail to keep the years of restrained emotion under control.
"Scipio, just leave it will you?" I snapp, much to the James' confusion. "You come in here and you ruin my wedding day. Was that not enough for you? What more do you want from me?"
He says nothing. My mouth hangs open in disbelief as I wonder if I've finally gotten through to him. I doubt it. Everyone is staring at me, wondering who this mysterious stranger from my past could possibly be. They know nothing of him, have never heard a single whisper about him. Why would they? The places where people talk of him are not sophisticated enough for the likes of them to dwell in.
"Denny… The cake… It wasn't meant for Arrigo. Who on earth would want him dead? No, of course he wasn't the intended victim. It was meant for you."