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Carlo responded. Wondering what sort of plan had him trudging in the evening in his new clothes when he had an engagement with a seamstress named Vivian, lovely, curvy and downright pleasurable to the pene.
    “Your humor appears at the oddest time. This is a grave situation.”
    Carlo grinned. “Perhaps you should have considered the consequences .”
    “There is nothing to consider when dealing with a thief.”
    “Agreed, I detest their lot.”
    “Let’s end this chat. I do not want blood to seep in the floors.”
    The glint in Luzo’s eye was similar to the beacon from lighthouses leading fishermen to shore. But the human SOS signal requested aid. This was the first time Carlo had seen Luzo even slightly frazzled; perhaps because he murdered a privileged aristocrat and being hauled in front of a magistrate in his expensive duds was unsettling; either way, the deed was done.
    Carlo pushed off the wall. “I will handle this. I think a fitting way for Monsieur Pompous to have allegedly died is in disgrace.”
    “You take too much pleasure in wickedness, but then go on tangents about honor.”
    Carlo laughed. “I did not kill him. I am being honorable by helping my murderous cad of a brother. That is my duty as well. Besides, I anticipate the reaction of the snobs as news spreads about the son of a respected parliamentary official without finances or his trousers being discovered murdered where the courtesans prowl will be the talk of Parisian high society.”
    And as Carlo predicted, the scandalous demise of the banker was the talk of Paris for days. Not an iota of suspicion filtered Luzo’s way.
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    C HAPTER FOUR
     
     
     
     
     
     
    “Who are those men at our home papa?” Alberti asked as he rode beside the man he knew as father, Ernesto Serano.
    His f iery-spirited young Aunt Sophie sat in the backseat flipping through a fashion magazine. The models had similar poses and wore muted colored dresses, matching hats and gloves, smiling with their legs crossed at the ankle, demure and boringly plain. She looked up when her nephew said visitors awaited. She leaned over Alberti’s seat to get a better look as they neared the modest villa. Her attention went from the dark strangers to the automobile on her brother’s property.
    She squealed, “Bellissimo, stop. I must see Ernesto!”
    Ernesto’s green eyes darted to his youngest sibling. Since completing culinary school in France, she had traveled to America without permission and found trouble. He had to contact a relative in the states to pay away the charges. She was immediately sent home. This occurred a week ago and now Sophie talked incessantly of America’s segregation policy being unfair to coloreds and immigrants. The untamed teen had gone abroad to learn recipes only to return a feminist and activist.
    She had planned to return to America to protest, but her mama had forbidden. Approaching twenty-two Sophie refused marriage to many of the eligible sons of mafia families, which did not bode well with their mama. Her unladylike behavior worried an aging matron. She did not want her adopted daughter to end up in prison in another country or an old maid. Sophie was stunning, but the penchant for guns, cars and her bold speech were distressing, even to her brother.
    Today while waiting for the train carrying his son, Alberti to arrive, Ernesto had an unpleasant encounter with a local Don.
    The Don had commented on Sophie’s attire. An innocent compliment nearly ignited a killing.
    A h armless compliment such as, “You are very lovely Signora Sophie. I like the color of your dress,” resulted in the sarcastic and inflammatory reply, “Grazie, when next I visit Milan, I will buy a dress for you…uh…I mean your wife Don Casentini.”
    The Don turned red. Had Ernesto not intervened with an apology, Sophie may have received a backhand slap for the affront to the Don in the presence of his Capo.
    “Out of respect for your