Forever (a Trilogy)

By Etienne

Forever (a Trilogy) includes three complete novels: The Path to Forever; Prognosis: Forever; and Children of Forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Etienne
• Release date: Nov 25, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005443399

Etienne

Etienne lives in central Florida, very near the hamlet in which he grew up. He always wanted to write but didn't find his muse until a few years ago, when he started posting stories online. These days he spends most of his time battling with her, as she is a capricious bitch who, when she isn't hiding from him, often rides him mercilessly, digging her spurs into his sides and forcing the flow of words from a trickle to a flood.

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The Path to Forever Copyright © 2010, 2015, 2020 by Etienne

Prognosis: Forever Copyright © 2011, 2015, 2020 by Etienne

Children of Forever Copyright © 2013, 2016, 2020 by Etienne

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Wherever possible, the syntax and spelling in this book follows guidelines set forth in The Chicago Manual of Style, 14th Edition, and in the Merriam-Webster online dictionary.

Cover Art Copyright © 2015, 2016, 2020 by Gerald Lopez

Acknowledgments

A great many people have helped make these stories what they are today, including several beta readers who pointed out inconsistencies and asked all the right questions. My thanks to all of you.

When I decided to use Italian titles and forms of address, I quickly realized that what little I knew about Italian came from years of listening to Italian opera, so I posted an appeal on my blog for a volunteer. An expatriate Italian who now lives in London answered that appeal and agreed to not only beta read the story but to set me straight on all things Italian. Thank you, Silvano Stagni. Any shred of Italian authenticity this story has is due largely to your advice and guidance.

I must also thank my patient and long-suffering editor Jim Kennedy, who guided me through the morass of commas and other punctuation errors and, made any number of helpful suggestions along the way.

Then there is my partner of twenty-five plus years, who is also my best and most thorough critic.

Etienne

The Path to Forever

(Forever, Volume 1)

Etienne

Chapter 1

Boston, MA

Marco

IT WAS LATE SUNDAY evening; I had just finished a double shift—sixteen hours straight—in the trauma center at the hospital; and I was beyond tired as I dragged my weary body through the door. Dani, where are you? I said as I closed the door of our Back Bay apartment in Boston and locked it behind me.

I’m right where I always am, waiting for my prince to come home, he said from the doorway to the bedroom. I turned in the direction of his voice just in time to see him look me up and down carefully. Rough one?

No more than usual—just another sixteen hours of dealing with the worst that humanity can inflict upon one another. I cannot for the life of me imagine why any doctor would willingly work in a trauma center. I need a drink.

Really? Is that all? I can recall a time when you found other things more important at the end of the day.

He was naked except for a pair of white boxer briefs, which looked even whiter against his Mediterranean skin. They were obviously new, as they still clung to his body in all the right places. The one thing I dislike about boxer briefs is the fact that after a few trips through the laundry they begin to sag in all the wrong places. Then he turned around in the doorway, raised his arms to the doorframe on each side, and flexed his gluteus maximus muscles. We are both fairly short men, five six, if you must know, and we are both very trim, the principal difference between us being his broad shoulders and impossibly narrow hips, the flexing of which always incite me to lust.

God, you drive me crazy when you do that, I said.

That’s why I do it.

Before he could say anything else, I rushed him from behind, grabbed him by the waist, and kept going. The momentum of my attack carried us into the bedroom, and we landed on the bed. Which of course is what he’d envisioned happening when he’d posed, oh so carefully and seductively in the doorway.

Later, as we reclined side by side in the bed in post-coital languor, propped up on a stack of pillows, wineglasses in hand, I took a long look at him. Danilo Rosati, I said, how in the world did I ever meet, fall in love with, and settle down with someone as gorgeous as you?

Pure dumb luck, Marco d’Argenzio, and it’s a two-way street as you very well know. I was but a babe of eighteen when you found me and took advantage of my youth and inexperience.

Youth and inexperience, my ass. I was only twenty, and you had twice as many notches on the headboard of your bed as I did.

Yeah, I guess I was a bit of a pop tart back then. But that, my love, was then, and this is now. Here we are, ten years later, still fucking like bunny rabbits—every chance we get.

I’ll be a full-fledged doctor in just a few short weeks. Then I’ll show you all the attention you deserve.

Promises, promises.

Speaking of full-fledged, when do you meet with your committee?

Tuesday, he said.

Do you foresee any problems?

I don’t think so, and my adviser tends to agree.

That’s great, I said. Twenty-eight years old and a second doctorate almost under your belt. I’ll have to buy you a bigger hat.

Very funny.

Seriously, Dani, have you given any thought as to what comes next?

Meaning?

Both of us will need to seek permanent and gainful employment by the end of summer.

True, but it’s only late spring at the moment.

So?

Newly minted doctors with your credentials and lab rats with mine don’t grow on trees, Dani said. We’ll find someplace to settle down; there’s no doubt in my mind.

I suppose so, but meanwhile I’ve had a brainstorm.

Really?

Yep.

Well?

Let’s spend a month or two in Italy before we settle down.

Can we afford it? he said.

Certainly—haven’t you looked at our savings account lately?

Babe, although I realize both of our names are on the account, you and I both know all of that money came from you.

Yeah, my father has done well by me, paying for my education and living expenses, and I’ve been a faithful steward of his money.

You’ve been considerably more than a faithful steward, kiddo—you have the ability to squeeze every nickel until it begs for mercy. You worked all the way through four years of college and three years of med school, even though you didn’t have to, and most of that went into savings. Not to mention the fact that you only use a fraction of your living allowance and save the rest. I, on the other hand, have had to work my ass off to get myself educated, and I’m still up to my neck in student loans.

Having a ‘pity me’ moment, are we? I said.

Just stating the facts as I see them.

Dani, we’re getting off track with this discussion. Do you want to spend a month or two in Italy or not?

You know I do. I’ve always wanted to visit the place my family came from.

That’s right. All four of your grandparents came from the same village, didn’t they?

I think it was more like a wide place in the road, but yes they did.

My friend Joel has been stationed in Rome for two or three years. He and his wife can be our tour guides while we’re there.

That’s your roomie from prep school, right?

Yep. We were thrown together by the luck of the draw, and were best friends by the end of the first term.

What did you mean by ‘stationed’?

He’s the cultural attaché at the embassy in Rome, and you know what that means, right?

CIA Station Chief.

Yeah.

Are you planning on seeing your father while we’re there?

You bet.

That’ll be a bit strange, won’t it? I mean, meeting your father in the flesh for only the second time in your life.

That’s true. He sent me a first-class ticket to Aragoni as a graduation present when I finished prep school, and I spent a couple of weeks with him. He really wanted me to spend the entire summer, but I’d already enrolled in a full load of summer courses and was too stubborn to change my plans. All I really remember from that trip is an old castle in the mountains, and a bunch of people who wanted nothing more than to please the son of their master. I think I must have met a zillion relatives, but I don’t remember a single name or face.

Remind me why he hasn’t come to see you.

He refuses to fly overseas, except in the direst of emergencies. The last time he was in this country was when he rescued my mother from that abusive bastard her father had forced her to marry after he learned that she was pregnant, and that was a few months before I came along.

Too bad she wouldn’t divorce the guy.

True, but she was too staunchly Roman Catholic for that. A permanent separation was as far as she would go.

Yeah, the church has a lot to answer for.

Well, to be honest, it wasn’t just the church. As I understand it, she was already well on her way to being more than a little batty at the time.

That’s not a nice thing to say about your mother, he said.

Why? It’s the absolute truth. As someone once said, she spends most of her time in the arms of Jesus and/or Morpheus. To put it in simpler terms, she dealt with a bad situation by creating and withdrawing into her own reality, and she’s spent the rest of her life drifting in and out of it because she feels safe there.

That’s so sad, Dani said.

True, but I’ve had thirty years to get used to the situation. I’ll give my father credit where it’s due, though. He supported us—from afar—all those years, and he paid for my very expensive education without a whimper. I’ll contact him when we have a tentative itinerary worked out.

By the way, can we spend Monday together, just the two of us? I’ve already cleared my schedule for the entire day.

Sure, I said, what’s up?

For one thing, you go back to work Tuesday; for another thing, I have to defend my thesis on Tuesday; and finally, the minute that momentous event is over, I have a huge project to begin.

What huge project?

You’ve familiar with my DNA database? he said.

How could I not be? For the last three years you’ve been testing every blood sample taken in the hospital for DNA and doing God only knows what with the results—and don’t tell me what, because I probably wouldn’t understand it.

Yeah, and I’ve got a huge database built up.

So?

So, someone was cleaning out the oldest and deepest compartment of a cooler in the morgue last week, and they found a stash of more than a thousand vials of blood.

Really? Blood from where?

That’s the best part. Someone had a pilot project going back in the fifties—nobody seems to know why—and they collected and saved a small vial of blood from everyone that came through the Emergency Room for a period of six months or more. Dr. Cauthen was going to have the vials destroyed, but I talked her into letting me test them first.

That’s going to keep you busy for a few days.

I plan on doing at least a hundred tests a day for the next week or ten days. In any case, I have to finish the work by the time the term ends, because my access to the lab at MIT and all that very expensive equipment ends with it.

And I’ll be mostly working nights during that period. We’ll just be ships passing in the night. Are the people at MIT okay with you running all those tests?

As long as they collect my grant money, I can run as many tests as I like, Dani said. And the trip gives me something to look forward to. Not to mention the fact that I’ll have you all to myself for most of the summer. That’s worth waiting for.

WE SLEPT LATER than usual Monday and spent the rest of the morning in bed—until we were finally driven into the kitchen by hunger. After a very late lunch, we showered, dressed, and went for a long, leisurely walk that lasted all afternoon—we decided to take the Freedom Trail from beginning to end and back again, winding up in the public garden. From the public garden, we walked over to Newbury Street and stopped by a favorite café to have a light supper at an outdoor table. By the time we returned to the apartment, it was dark. As was our custom, we went into our little den slash office—formerly a second bedroom—to check our respective e-mail accounts. I skimmed through a number of messages until I found one that caught my attention.

Well, well, I said, someone has been reading my mind.

Say what?

Remember our conversation about Italy?

Sure, Dani said.

My father has just issued an invitation for us to spend some time—as much of the summer as we would like—with him before, as he puts it, we begin our life’s work.

When do we leave?

As soon as we work out a schedule. He wants a list of the places we’d like to see and says he’ll be more than happy to add a few suggestions of his own. I guess we’d better fill out those passport applications—I need to renew mine, and you don’t have one.

Yeah. Can we afford to spend the entire summer?

Babe, we had this conversation yesterday. Oops, I forgot to mention that he wants to pay for everything.

No shit?

No shit. Come read it yourself. He seems to think we’ve earned it.

Our desks were side by side, which allowed Dani to roll his chair over beside my chair. He scanned the e-mail quickly, then scrolled back to the top and read it more carefully. Hot damn, he said, Italy, here we come.

Yeah. We need to make a list of spots to see, and you need to get the name of the village your family came from.

As to the former, Rome, Pisa, Florence, Venice, Tuscany. As to the latter, it’s a tiny little place near Spoleto. I’m not sure it even has a name, so put Spoleto on the list for now.

That would be my list, as well, with the addition of Milan and Conti, the place my mother came from, which is in the Veneto region of northeast Italy.

What are you waiting for? Compose a gracious message of acceptance and send it.

I’ll take care of that as soon as we sit down with a calendar and settle on the dates.

Are you really gonna let him pay for everything?

Oh puh-leeze—after all these years, you know me better than that. My reply will be along the lines of, ‘Thanks for your generous offer. We gratefully accept the plane tickets and the offer to stay with you, but we’ll pay for the rest of the trip ourselves’, or words to that effect.

Works for me.

I’ll send a quick, brief acceptance now, and promise to have an itinerary available in a few days.

Then what?

I hear the bed calling, don’t you?

Now that you mention it.

I sent the e-mail, shut down my laptop, and headed to the bedroom, where I shed my clothes and crawled under the sheets and into Dani’s open arms.

I had an early shift the next morning, so I was out of the apartment before Dani was even out of bed. As I bent over to kiss him good-bye, I said, Remind me again, what time do you meet with your committee?

One.

I don’t get off until three, so I can’t be there to hold your hand.

Thanks for the thought, but I don’t think that would be allowed.

Probably not. Good luck.

Chapter 2

Boston, MA

Marco

I FINISHED MY Tuesday shift and hurried home in a somewhat anxious state. He didn’t call after his meeting—is that good news or bad news? I wondered.

At the apartment, Dani was in bed waiting for me.

Well? I said as I undressed.

Well, what?

Don’t be coy. You know damn well what. How did it go with the committee? Did you successfully defend your thesis?

Oh, that. Yes, I believe I did. When the ordeal was over, my advisor winked at me. I interpreted that as a good sign.

When will you know for sure?

Unofficially, in a couple of days. Officially, by the end of next week.

Good thing you have a thousand or so DNA tests to run. You won’t have time to think about anything else.

Yeah, but right now, I’m thinking about this. He grabbed a tender portion of my anatomy by way of emphasis. After that, all conversation ceased for a time.

Somewhat later, after a light supper, we carried our wineglasses into the den and watched the movie I’d picked up on the way home.

THE NEXT TWO WEEKS were hectic, to say the least, and Dani was in his lab from early in the morning until early evening. He even returned to the lab and worked until midnight a few times. The formal notification that his second doctorate had been granted was almost overlooked in his rush to finish the lab work and enter the results in his computer database. Somehow we found time to hammer out an itinerary for our summer in Italy, and I sent it to my father. A few days before the end of the term, my cell phone rang two minutes after I’d finished a shift.

Hi, babe, what’s up? I said, noting the name in the display.

I’ve got something to show you.

Babe, I’ve seen it before, but I’ll be home for a closer inspection as fast as I can.

Not that, fool. As soon as you wrap things up, come down to the autopsy suite.

Okay, give me a few minutes to sign out and change.

Don’t take off your scrubs, just come on down.

If that’s what you want.

I signed off my shift and headed for the elevators. When I entered the autopsy suite, I found a visibly excited Dani waiting for me.

What’s up? I said. And why do you look as though you’ve been rolling in dust all day?

A—there’s someone I want you to meet; and B—I’ve been in several dusty storerooms trying to track down some old medical records.

Really?

Yeah. Follow me.

He led me into the back room and went to the wall that contained a bank of coolers for bodies. He selected a door at waist level, opened it, and began to pull out the tray. By the time I was standing beside him, the tray had been pulled from the vault as far as it would go. Okay, I said, looking down at the body of a man who appeared to be in his thirties. What am I looking at?

This guy has your dick.

Excuse me.

"Dr. Cauthen called me into the autopsy room the other day. When I got there, she said she had something to show me. I asked what, and she pointed to this guy, who was on the autopsy table at the time. I didn’t get it until she pointed and said: ‘This man presents an example of aposthia, also known as natural circumcision. He was born without a foreskin. It’s very rare, and most pathologists never see one’. I didn’t tell her that I’ve seen one every day of my life for the past ten years, which made me think about something else, so I asked her if he’d also been born without an appendix. She said yes and wanted to know why I asked, so I mumbled something about an article I thought I remembered reading."

That’s interesting, I said. As it happens, I asked my father about that back when I visited him, and he said it runs in the males in his family, but only the sons of sons in a direct line. Daughters don’t pass whatever gene it is to their children.

It gets much more interesting.

How so?

I’d run his DNA, just as I do for each body that comes through here, so I added it to my database. I already had your DNA, so I added it to the database as well. Guess what popped out?

I have no idea.

Babe, this guy is your brother.

Excuse me!

You and he have the same father. Different mothers, but the same father. DNA doesn’t lie.

I don’t know what to say.

There’s more.

Really?

Yep. His DNA results popped out of my program as a duplicate, so I did some checking. This guy was admitted to the ER back in the fifties, so I went looking to see if I could find out anything about him.

Looking how?

Each of those old vials of blood had a patient number on it, so I started digging in the storerooms looking for old patient records until I hit pay dirt. That’s how I got so dusty.

What did you find?

He was admitted to the ER with a broken arm and was presented as a thirty-five-year-old male at that time.

I guess I’m too stunned by all of this to get where you’re going.

Think about it, babe. If he was thirty-five in 1955, he’d be pushing ninety today. Does he look like a ninety-year-old to you?

No, he doesn’t. What the hell does this mean?

I don’t know. And by the way, X-rays of the body reveal that one of his arms had been broken and set sometime in the past, which is additional confirmation that it’s the same man, as if the DNA match wasn’t enough.

What’s his name?

He was brought in without any identification on him. The police report says that they think his wallet was stolen by a pickpocket in the Quincy Market area. Witnesses said that he was chasing some guy across the street, yelling, ‘Stop thief’, when he was hit by a truck.

Okay, so what was his name back in 1955?

The paperwork gives it as Tommaso Argenti.

Sounds Italian.

Yeah, doesn’t it? And Argenti is awfully close to your surname.

I think we need to go home and make a telephone call.

To?

My father, of course.

Yeah. By the way, I did something else you might want to know about.

What?

Before I called you, I slipped in here and opened the autopsy incision just enough to remove a two-inch piece of one of his ribs.

Why would you do that?

I sent it to a buddy of mine over at MIT. He’s going to radiocarbon date the rib on the side—that is, without any official record of what he did. He’s done it for me several times over the past year or two.

You’ve been a busy boy, haven’t you?

That’s me. Let’s go make that call, it’s kind of late over there.

By the time we get home, it’ll probably be ten in Aragoni. And I still need to go upstairs and change into my street clothes.

WE ARRIVED AT the apartment in a state of excitement. Dani was so dusty and dirty that we took a quick shower together before making the call. For perhaps the first time ever, we were too distracted to start something in the shower. Later when we were clean, dressed, and had wineglasses in our hands, we sat down side by side at my desk. I opened my cell phone, turned on the speaker function, punched in the numbers, and placed it on the desk.

This is supposed to be a very private number, I said. My father said to use it if I wanted to bypass most of his underlings.

"Castello d’Aragoni," a deep male voice said.

"I would like to speak to il Duca d’Aragoni," I said in Italian.

May I say who is calling?

His son.

"Which one, Signore? He has several."

Marco Sartori d’Argenzio. I’m calling from the United States.

"Un momento, per favore."

There was a pause. Then we heard Father’s voice. Marco, my boy, what a pleasant surprise. Are you calling about your trip to Italy?

Hello, Father. No, this call isn’t about our trip. Dani and I are in our study, and the speaker is on.

Hello, Sir, Dani said.

Good evening, Danilo. Now, what can I do for you boys?

Father, I don’t know how to say this.

Just say it.

You are aware of Dani’s most recent doctorate?

Of course. I read all of your e-mails very carefully. It’s something very technical involving DNA, is it not?

Yes, Sir. As part of his research, he has compiled a large database of DNA from all patients that have been in our hospital in recent years.

And?

There’s a body in the morgue of a man who appears to be in his late thirties. According to his DNA, he and I have the same father.

What is his name?

I don’t know. He was brought in by ambulance with no identification. The police report indicates that his wallet had been stolen. Witnesses say that he ran across a busy street chasing a man, hollering ‘Stop, thief’. He was hit by a truck and killed instantly.

There was a very long moment or three of silence.

Father, are you still there?

Yes. I’m thinking.

Who was this man who appears to be my brother? What was he doing in Boston? And for that matter, why didn’t I know about it?

Marco, there are some things that you need to know now that you are about to venture out into the world… things which I had planned to tell you when I see you this summer. For now, let me say that throughout your entire life, there has been either a member of the family or someone in my employ nearby.

Why?

In case you were ever in need of anything important. For example, had you ever been arrested, someone would have been at your side the moment it became known. I have someone near your mother’s home as well.

Why didn’t I know this?

Think about it for a moment—if you were aware that someone was, as the Americans say, ‘keeping an eye on you’, it might have influenced your life. If I resided in the States, it wouldn’t have been necessary to do this because I could be there quickly when and if needed.

I don’t know what to say.

There is nothing to say, my son. I have a large family, and I do my humble best to see that none of them come to harm.

What was my late brother’s name?

In America he went by the name Tommaso Argenti.

Is there anything you would like for me to do?

Help me make arrangements to have his body flown home to Aragoni for burial.

Certainly.

If you and Danilo would be so kind, I would regard it as a favor if you would go to Tommaso’s home and check for certain documents. I can tell you what to look for.

Did he live alone?

Yes.

How will we gain access? For that matter, if his wallet and identification were stolen, the thief may already have visited his home.

Any identification he carried, including his passport, would have contained the address of the New York office of one of the family companies. A thief wouldn’t know how to find his residence. Were there keys in his possession?

Dani, I said, are his possessions still at the morgue?

I have no idea. Let me make a couple of calls and I’ll find out.

He left the room to make the calls, so I said, Dani has gone to another room to make inquiries by telephone.

If you have something to write on, I’ll give you all the information I can. I have it right here in my computer.

I pulled a yellow pad out of my desk drawer and grabbed a pen. Ready when you are.

All right. The first information I’m going to give you is the name of a New York attorney and his private contact information. Feel free to call him at any time of the day or night.

He dictated the information and asked me to read it back to him.

I can’t imagine why I would need to, but thanks.

One has to be prepared for any contingency. Suppose, for example, a neighbor observed you entering Tommaso’s residence and called the police?

I take your meaning.

Good. Now I’m going to give you the address and the code to the alarm system.

Dani came back into the den just as I finished confirming that data.

Marco, Dani said, the hospital still has some clothing and a set of keys that were in the deceased’s pockets.

Great. Will they give the keys to us?

Normally they wouldn’t, but since you’re a relative, I think we can persuade them to do so.

That’s good, Father said. My thanks to both of you. Please call me the minute you gain access to Tommaso’s home.

Yes, Sir, we will.

We said good-bye, and I ended the call. Dani gave me the ‘look’.

What? I said.

Why were you withholding information from your father?

Whatever do you mean?

Don’t be disingenuous. You didn’t tell him that we know your brother is a lot older than he seems, or that we knew what his name was back in 1955.

It’s a good rule in a card game to never give away your hand—at least not entirely.

Don’t you trust your own father?

Of course I do. But there are some questions best asked when you’re face-to-face, not least of which is about my siblings. The guy who answered the telephone said there are several sons.

Yeah, I see what you mean.

Meanwhile, we have an errand to run.

Yeah. Where did this guy live? Dani said.

From the address, I’m guessing it must be in the North End.

That figures. He’s from a country that’s next door to Italy and would probably feel more comfortable there, just like my grandparents do.

I’m gonna look it up on MapQuest before we go.

Map in hand, we returned to the hospital and managed to acquire my brother’s keys. My brother. An odd concept for a man who’d been raised thinking he was an only child. I could still hear the voice that had said, ‘He has several’. It took our taxi a while to get across town to the North End, but finally it stopped in front of a block of late-nineteenth century town houses.

The trick, I said as Dani and I walked up the sidewalk to the front door of the town house, is to act as if we own the place and have every right to be here.

You read too many detective stories.

True, but it’s a good theory.

I found the correct key on the key ring, inserted it into the lock, and turned it. The minute we stepped inside, I heard the beeping of an alarm. I followed the sound to a keypad, pressed the appropriate buttons, and the beeping ceased.

What now, Sherlock? Dani said.

Let’s take a quick walk-through of the place before we call my father.

Right behind you.

The town house was, as are most such residences, roughly one room wide and three stories—plus basement—tall. We went to the top floor and worked our way down to the basement.

When we were back in the foyer where we’d begun, Dani said, I think that second floor study is where we want to be when you place the call.

Yep. Let’s go.

We settled down in the comfortable study, and I placed the call. This time my father answered on the first ring.

It’s Marco, Father, I said. Dani and I are in Tommaso’s study on the second floor.

Obviously you gained access to the house with no problem.

Yes, Sir.

Is there a computer on the desk?

Yes, Sir, a fairly new looking laptop.

Do you know how to remove the hard drive?

Sure, Dani said, is that what you want us to do?

Please. Remove the hard drive and take it with you. There are, I believe, bookcases on at least one wall?

Yes, Sir, I said.

One small section of the bookcase will swing out and reveal a wall safe.

Hold a moment and I’ll give it a try.

I walked over to the wall of bookshelves and began to push and pry. Finally, I was rewarded when a small section opened out on hidden hinges. I could see the dial of a safe, so I retrieved the phone from the desk. Okay, I’m looking at the dial of a safe.

Here’s the combination. I will give it to you one turn at a time.

Following his instructions, I managed to get the safe to open. It’s open, I said.

Good. Please remove the contents, close the door, and spin the dial.

I carried a bundle of documents to the desk and set them down. Then I went back to the safe, closed it, and spun the dial before closing the panel of books that hid it from view. At the desk once again, I said, All done. The safe is closed and locked, the books are back in place, and I have the documents on the desk in front of me. What else can we do?

Check through the desk for any documents that appear to be of a financial or very personal nature.

I can do that. By the way, I thought you said that he lived alone.

He does. Why do you ask?

Because the closet in the master bedroom contains a fair amount of women’s clothes.

Your brother may have lived alone, but he didn’t always sleep alone.

Yeah. Should we attempt to notify the owner of the clothes?

Yes, please. I should have thought about that. Let me give you her name and number. She might wish to come to the house and remove her personal effects. If she wishes to take anything else to remember Tommaso by, that’s fine with me.

Does she know about me?

She knows only that he has a half-brother in Boston, but no details.

Won’t she wonder why she and I have never met?

I believe she will have been told that you and Tommaso weren’t close. Let me give you her name and number.

Oh God, I thought. Just what I need to deal with—another death notification. I’ve done enough of that in the ER to last me a lifetime, but what the fuck. As a newly minted doctor, I’d better get used to it or find another job.

I don’t have the right tools to remove the hard drive, Danilo said, but we can take the laptop with us.

Good, Father said. I should have asked if either of you could use the laptop. You’re welcome to it.

My laptop is only a year old, Dani said, but Marco’s has some age on it.

Then by all means, take it and use it.

Is there anything else we need to do, Father? Other than calling this lady, I mean.

I think not. Tommaso was always a very careful man. He would have kept important things in the safe.

Would he have had a backup disk of the laptop’s hard drive? I said.

No. Any critical data would have been uploaded to a computer here in Aragoni on a nightly basis. I’d appreciate it if you would send the documents to me.

Will do. I guess we’ll say good-bye, and call the lady; it’s getting very late.

One minute. There should be some very fine Italian wine in the kitchen and in the cellar. You’re welcome to it as well.

Yes, Sir. Fine Italian wine sounds good to me. Thank you.

We ended the call, and Dani rummaged around in the study until he found what we hoped were all the software and accessories for the laptop, as well as its carrying case.

Okay, I said. Let’s call this woman and break the news to her.

I made the call, and we waited until the woman appeared at the door. When that sad mission had been accomplished and the lady had gone home, we summoned a taxi and returned to our apartment. When we were settled down in our den, I said, Well, that went well, don’t you think?

At least it went better than we expected. Go ahead and call your father before it gets any later.

Right. We did promise.

I set my cell phone on the desk and pushed the buttons.

"D’Aragoni," my father’s voice came from the speaker.

It’s us, Father, I said. We’re back in our apartment.

How did the lady handle the news?

Very well actually.

What did she look like?

Well, I—

Marco, Dani said, interrupting me, there’s no need to prevaricate. I can describe the lady in five words.

Go ahead, then, Father said.

Blonde, big tits, vacant expression, Dani said.

A burst of laughter came from the telephone. That would be my Tommaso—he knew how to pick them. Thank you, Danilo; I needed a good laugh to take my mind away from more serious matters.

Yes, Sir, Dani said. I’m sorry about your son.

He won’t be the first child of my body that I’ve buried, but it never gets easier.

Father, I said, is there anything else we can do?

I don’t think so. Once you give my contact information to a local mortuary establishment, my people will take it from there.

What will you do with the house?

Turn it over to a rental agent. I buy a lot of real estate, but I never sell. Perhaps you boys would like to live in it?

That’s a nice thought, but we are for all intents and purposes finished with our current situation and with Boston. Who knows where we’ll be in the fall?

I hadn’t thought of that. Still, the offer stands. By the way, did you find the Windows disks for the laptop operating system?

Yes, Sir.

I will trust you to reinstall Windows and wipe the hard drive in the process.

Yes, Sir. We’ll take care of it.

We’re going back to the house tomorrow to retrieve the wine, Dani said.

Wonderful. While you’re at it, take anything else you think you can use.

Yes, Sir. Let me say again that even though I didn’t know my brother, I’m sorry he has died.

Thank you. When I finally retire for the evening, I will grieve in private.

The next day after work, we took our car—a car is a liability in Boston, so we shared one—to the North End, and went through the town house once again. Our efforts were rewarded with a full dozen bottles of very fine Italian wine. We also selected half a dozen books from the shelves in the late Tommaso’s study. I called a local funeral home, gave them the necessary information, and we began to make serious plans to wrap things up in Boston. When the time came, a pair of round-trip tickets was delivered by FedEx, and we began to prepare for our summer in Italy.

The day before we were to depart, Dani received a telephone call. He listened for a few minutes and said, Send me an e-mail with a file attachment. Thanks.

Who was that? I said.

My friend at MIT.

Oh, the radiocarbon dating guy.

Yeah.

Well, what did he have to say?

He’s sending me a report attached to an e-mail.

That’s it?

No, that’s not it. But I don’t want to say anything else until I have the document in hand.

He went to his computer, clicked the mouse a few times, and the LaserJet began to hum. When the printing stopped, he pulled a single sheet of paper, read it, and handed it to me. I looked at it and tried to digest the words.

This isn’t possible, I said.

I think it is. The science is sound, and I think that report is accurate.

Well, well. I guess we’re gonna have one more question to ask my father when we see him.

That’s for sure.

We closed our apartment and left for the airport the next day. We took the subway to the airport, as we were traveling somewhat light, having shipped most of our luggage ahead.

In the airport lounge, Dani said, Are you sure you don’t want to go see your mother?

Dani, it’s too late now. Besides, I talked to her housekeeper, and it would have been a wasted effort. She’s been totally out of it for several weeks.

I’m sorry.

It is what it is, and you of all people know how long I’ve been dealing with that particular problem.

True. Let’s start looking forward to the summer instead of backward, agreed?

Agreed.

Chapter 3

Rome, Italy

Dani

MARCO AND I LANDED in Rome early the next morning and were met at the airport by Marco’s friend Joel Isaacson. Based on Marco’s description, I was prepared to meet a large man. I was not, however, prepared for the ebony giant who said, Hello, runt, to Marco, lifted him off of the airport floor in a hug, and kissed him wetly on the forehead.

Hello, yourself, Marco said. Now put me down, you big bully, and let me introduce you to Dani.

When Marco had been lowered to the floor, he said, Dani, this is Joel Isaacson. Joel, my partner Danilo Rosati.

Joel looked me up and down and held out his arms to me.

If you try to pick me up and kiss me, I said, I’ll kick you in the balls.

He chuckled and accepted my proffered hand. Feisty little guy, aren’t you? I like that. You’re a bit of a hunk as well; your pictures don’t do you justice.

While Joel and I shook hands, Marco said, Dani, I forgot to warn you that this guy fancies himself a comedian.

I looked at the two of them, now standing side by side, and said, How many people at that prep school called you guys Mutt and Jeff? How tall are you, anyhow?

Quite a few, but none of them ever did it a second time, Joel said. I’m six feet six and, anticipating your next question, I hate basketball.

Good to meet you at last.

Don’t believe him for one minute, Dani, Marco said. A basketball scholarship paid for his college education.

You guys have any checked luggage? Joel said.

What you see is what we have, Marco said. Everything else was shipped ahead. You sent me an e-mail last week announcing its arrival.

That I did. What are we waiting for? I have a car and driver just outside.

We followed Joel out of the airport concourse, which was no mean feat given that he was a foot taller than we were and had a stride to match his height. When we were outside, Joel produced a cell phone and made a quick call. A few minutes later, a Mercedes sedan driven by an attractive black woman pulled up and stopped. The trunk popped open and Joel stowed our bags in it, and closed the lid on them. He indicated that we should take the backseat, and he got into the passenger seat beside the driver. As the car eased away from the curb, he made the introductions.

Marco and Dani, your driver today is my lovely wife, Claire. Claire, the guy immediately behind you is my old roommate Marco, and the other guy is his partner Dani.

Good to meet you guys at last, she said. You’ll excuse me if I don’t take my hands off the wheel in order to shake yours. The Italians drive like maniacs, and I have to keep an eye on traffic.

No problem, Marco said.

Ditto that, I said. I’m surprised that you and Claire haven’t met, Marco.

Don’t you remember? Marco said. We were invited to the wedding, but it was in California and I was ass-deep in my internship at Johns Hopkins at the time. Interns don’t get that much time off. So, Joel, how far is it to your place?

About twenty klicks, Joel said. In this traffic, perhaps forty-five minutes.

Are you guys hungry? Claire said.

After that breakfast in first class? Marco said. I don’t think so. What we really need is a long, hot shower.

No problem, Joel said. We’re gonna give you guys the rest of the day to relax, because tomorrow we hit the ground running.

That’s true, Claire said. We’re going to give you the best tour of Rome anybody ever had. We’ve both taken a few days off for this occasion.

Yeah, Joel said. They won’t call me in to work unless somebody tries to assassinate the ambassador or the Pope.

THE ISAACSON’S HOME turned out to be a small but elegant villa. Marco saw my look of surprise and said, I forgot to tell you—Joel played professional basketball before he went into the spook business.

Really?

Yeah, Joel said, and before you ask the next question, I’ll answer it for you. I blew a knee halfway through my third season, and that ended my career.

That’s true, Claire said, but fortunately for us, Joel had allowed some smooth-talking salesman to sell him a ton of disability insurance.

Marco and I spent a delightful week with Joel and his wife. They’d been based in Rome for several years, and seemed to enjoy showing us all of Rome that they considered worth seeing. At the end of our week with them, Joel drove us to an auto rental office where we’d reserved a car. As we headed north in the rental car, Marco said, That was a great week, but after a while, I do get a bit tired of being relentlessly entertained.

Yeah. No argument there.

WE ARRIVED IN Spoleto in time for lunch, and spent the afternoon searching for the village of my grandparents. Sadly, my original assertion was correct: it was little more than a wide spot in the road. Making matters worse, there were no remaining members of my family to be found. Every name my grandmother had given me proved to be a dead end—many of them literally dead. Evidently they’d all moved on, died, and/or emigrated.

The next morning, we got an early start and arrived in Pisa with plenty of daylight left to see the sights. Over the course of the next week, we visited Milan and Florence. After that, we headed for the town in which Marco had been conceived.

Chapter 4

Conti, Italy

Dani

MARCO AND I ARRIVED in Conti—a small town in the Veneto region of northeast Italy—just in time to have a late lunch after we checked into a small hotel. Then we took a short siesta before we walked around the town doing a bit of sightseeing. When we arrived at the central square, we saw that it was dominated on one side by a large church.

I pointed. Is that the church you’re looking for?

I think so. Let’s go check it out.

We walked across the square and entered the cool, dark interior of the church. We wandered around the church for a while without any luck. Finally, Marco approached an elderly priest.

Excuse me, Father, Marco said.

How may I help you, my son? the priest said.

We’re looking for the Chapel of the Sartori family.

Certainly, my son, please follow me.

The priest led us down an aisle and into a small but very ornate side chapel. Both aisles of the chapel were lined with altar-tombs, most of which featured effigies of the deceased reclining on top of them. After a short search, Marco found the tomb he wanted.

This is it, he said.

The inscription bore the name, Edgardo Sartori, 12th Conte di Conti, along with dates of birth and death.

I hope you’re burning in hell, you miserable old bastard, Marco said, two seconds before he spat on the tomb.

It is not seemly to speak ill of the dead, my son, especially in the house of God, the priest said from behind him.

This particular dead man deserves to be spoken ill of, Father.

What did he do to you, my son?

He ruined my mother’s life.

How so, my son?

He refused to allow her to marry the man she loved, and when she told him that she was pregnant, he had the man arrested and held in jail. While the man was in jail, he had my mother sedated and forcibly removed from this country. He sent her to America and forced her to marry another man. Her new husband asserted his marital rights forcefully and very violently, up until the time she finally ran away from him.

"I’m sure the late Conte thought that he was doing the right thing."

Sure he did, just like Adolf Hitler thought he was doing the right thing when he had those gas chambers built.

I can see that you are consumed by hate, my son. May I ask the name of your mother?

Her name is Giulietta Sartori, and she was—

His daughter. I knew her well. In fact, I was her confessor.

At that time?

Yes, my son. I came to this church as a young priest when your mother was a girl.

Then you surely knew that she and my father were in love.

"Yes, my son, but il Conte flew into a rage when she tried to persuade him to allow her to marry. May I ask how your mother fares?"

Not well. After she escaped from her abusive husband, she took refuge in a shelter for battered wives. My father eventually located her, but she, being a good Catholic, refused to divorce her husband—even though the marriage wasn’t legal. Her spirit was totally destroyed, and she requires constant care to this day.

I am very sorry to hear that, my son, and your grandmother will be sad to learn after all these years of her daughter’s plight.

My grandmother?

"La Contessa."

I didn’t know she was still alive.

"She is very much alive, Signore. She spends most of her time in her villa near Siena in Toscana, but she arrived in Conti yesterday for a visit. She will want to meet you."

I don’t know about that. Did she have a hand in what happened to my mother thirty years ago?

"I think not. It is my recollection that la Contessa was at her villa in Toscana when your mother was sent away. In any case, she could have done little to help. She helped her husband with business affairs; but when it came to the children, il Conte ruled his family with an iron hand."

I’m surprised to learn that my mother didn’t confide in her mother.

"It all happened so quickly, and la Contessa was not here. After that, she and her husband began to live apart and she spent even more time in Toscana."

The priest asked where we were staying, and Marco gave him the name of our hotel and thanked him for his help. He even put a few coins in the poor box as we left the church. On the way back to our hotel, we stopped and had a great meal in a tiny restaurant.

I think this is the best food we’ve had yet, Marco said.

Yeah, this osso bucco is as good as my grandmother’s.

Still tired from several days of travel, we made an early night of it. The next morning, we went for a drive and explored the countryside to the south and west of the town. We weren’t particularly impressed with il Castello di Conti. I had done some research on Italian castles before we left home and, from the pictures I’d been able to find, had learned that they seemed to fall into two categories: some of them resembled the medieval castles of France and England, while others, usually from a later period, had a sort of Mediterranean look about them.

Il Castello di Conti fell into the latter group, and was perched on a hill overlooking the town. We returned to the hotel, parked the car, and selected yet another restaurant, where we sat at an outdoor table, ordered lunch, and discussed where we wanted to go next. A shadow fell across the table, and we looked up to see four men standing beside us. One of them was fiftyish, heavyset, and balding; one appeared to be in his mid-twenties and had a long scar running diagonally across his right cheek; the other two were wearing uniforms.

May we help you? Marco said.

"I am Clemente Sartori, il Conte di Conti, the older of the two men said, and this is my son, Guido."

Well, well. Uncle Clemente and Cousin Guido in the flesh. I’m Marco. Pleased to meet you.

I don’t know what you are doing in my town, il Conte said, but it would be best for all concerned if you left immediately and did not return.

Chapter 5

Conti, Italy

Dani

MARCO PONDERED THE threat implicit in his uncle’s statement for a long minute. Then he said, How interesting. Excuse me just a minute.

He retrieved his cell phone, laid it flat on the table, turned on the speaker function, and dialed a number.

American Embassy, a female voice said.

Joel Isaacson, please. Marco d’Argenzio calling.

One moment, please.

There was a pause and a click.

Hello, Marco, a voice boomed out of the tiny speaker. How’s my favorite doctor, or should I say, doctors?

Hey, Joel, I said, jumping into the conversation, we’re both here and we’re on the speaker.

Marco switched to Italian and said, Perhaps we should continue this conversation in Italian. How’s my favorite spook?

Hush, Marco, Joel said, we don’t like to talk about these things.

I know, but we’re with some people who might not know that the Cultural Attaché of a major American embassy is also the local Station Chief of the Central Intelligence Agency.

So, guys, what’s up?

Oh, Dani and I were sitting here at a table in a restaurant in Conti, which as you know is my mother’s hometown. We were waiting for our lunch when our table was suddenly surrounded.

Surrounded? By whom?

"The local Godfather and his son, aka my Uncle Clemente, otherwise known as il Conte di Conti, and my cousin Guido. They have a couple of their rent-a-thugs with them."

Want me to call the police?

The rent-a-thugs are wearing uniforms of the Carabiniere.

I see. Not much fun being the Godfather if you don’t have the police on your payroll.

Indeed.

And what does the local Godfather have to say?

Remember what those signs in small towns in Mississippi and Alabama said—the ones that advised your ancestors not to linger?

You mean the ones that said, ‘Nigger, don’t let the sun set on you in this town’?

Exactly.

So, what are you going to do?

Continue our trip as planned. We’ll keep on contacting you every so often, as we arranged. If we fail to make contact, feel free to send in the Marines.

Will do.

Don’t you have a buddy who’s pretty high up in the ranks of the Carabiniere?

That I do.

You might want to let him know that his people in Conti are a little too cozy with the local Godfather, if you know what I mean.

On it. Bye, guys.

Marco looked up at his uncle. Did you understand all of that, Uncle?

Yes. You are making the point that you have friends in high places.

Just so. Have a seat, if you like.

The two men sat, and Marco’s uncle dismissed the policemen.

Shall we start over again, Uncle? My name is Marco, or Dr. d’Argenzio, if you prefer, and this is my partner, Dr. Rosati. Dani, these gentlemen are my uncle and cousin, whom I’ve never met until just now.

No hands were offered to be shaken.

So, Nephew, Clemente said, may I politely inquire as to why you are in our town?

I wanted to visit my mother’s birthplace.

The priest said that you cursed my father and spat on his tomb.

So I did. He deserved it for ruining my mother’s life.

My foolish sister wanted to marry an itinerant adventurer, il Conte said, somewhat starchily. My father did the right thing.

My grandfather had my father locked up in jail, then he had my mother sedated and flown to America. The minute she arrived in the USA, while still somewhat sedated, she was forced to marry a man she neither knew nor loved—a man who was so physically abusive that she ultimately fled and took refuge in a shelter for battered women.

We knew nothing of that.

Of course not. You neither knew nor cared. My father spent a great deal of money on detectives and finally located her a few months before I was born.

The man I knew as your father could hardly have afforded to do that.

You don’t know who he really was, do you?

He was a nobody as far as my father and I knew.

"You should have made an effort to find out. My father is Marcus Valerius d’Argenzio, il Duca d’Aragoni."

Il Conte made the sign of the cross and said, Mother of God. We had no idea.

Apparently he was traveling around the region more or less incognito, and preferred to remain so. When things ultimately came to a head, it was too late to act, so he maintained his silence.

That certainly explains what followed.

Whatever do you mean?

"A few months after your mother was sent away someone began to anonymously purchase vineyards and olive orchards not only in this area, but in every part of Italy where we own such properties. Then the holdings were consolidated, and the new owner began to undercut us in the marketplace. At the time, we didn’t have our own production facilities, and we sold everything under contract to those who did. He underbid our contracts, selling grapes and olives at a price well below what it cost us to produce them. This went on for more than ten years, until we were very nearly bankrupt. At that point, my father died a totally broken man. The price-cutting stopped the following year, and it took another decade for our businesses to recover. We later learned that the man behind the purchases was believed to have been d’Aragoni, but we never found out why he did it. I cannot begin to think how much it must have cost him."

My father can hold a grudge for a very long time.

"Will you and your friend accept the hospitality of your