Prologue

Cinquedraghi

rome, february

I

The Cinquedraghis weren't an ordinary family. Nor were their funerals.

Three blue Lancias were parked in a row in the inner courtyard of Palazzo Cinquedraghi. Plainclothes Carabinieri and ex-special-forces men exchanged places around the cars.

Marco watched them move according to some mysterious plan, whispering into their earpieces. He counted at least twelve of them. Evidently, his father wanted to exploit the funeral of the year to impress both the public and his political adversaries by having a security detail fit for a president.

He looked up to the top of the winding staircase. Next to the matching columns, stood another bodyguard, but the 'Honourable' Tommaso Cinquedraghi hadn't appeared yet. Marco, dressed in black from head to toe, began to think he'd left his room too soon. Exasperated by the incessant flow of incoming e-mails and texts, as well as the coming and going of friends paying their respects, Marco had come down to the courtyard.

Once there, he couldn't stand still and proceeded to wear a path in the cobblestones, pacing back and forth. Oddly nervous, he wanted to put the day behind him, one way or another.

He just wanted to slog through it, to use a word his grandfather would've disliked.

Then he'd sort out what his life had become, now that being alone had such a drastic meaning.

Even after three days, his grandfather's absence seemed quite strange. It was some kind of peculiarity he didn't trust, a half-truth that went against good sense.

It was a totally normal thing for a ninety-something-year-old grandfather to die. But the fact that his grandfather, 'Senator for Life' Edoardo Cinquedraghi, 'Prince of Rome' and 'War Hero', could die seemed absurd to him. He was the strongest, most intelligent, brilliant, energetic and wilful man Marco had ever known.

He wasn't a burnt down candle, flickering at the slightest breeze. He was a dragon; he was worth five men, just like their family motto on the coat of arms that even now watched him from the entrance hall: IN VNO QVINQVE. Such people couldn't die.

A sudden commotion forced him to concentrate on more practical matters. Footsteps and voices announced his father's arrival. Marco stiffened instinctively. The group that came hastily down the granite stairs was headed by MP Barca-a very honest Member of Parliament-and Prince Colonna, an old aristocrat through and through.

They talked earnestly, though they didn't have much in common except for their friendship with the deceased. His father Tommaso followed, tall and solemn as a statue and speaking, apparently, to himself.

Behind him came two assistants on the phone. Sophia Ricciardi Sezzi brought up the rear about ten meters behind as she hurried along on her stiletto heels. Anyone would've taken her for a very elegant, and quite attractive, secretary but she was actually Tommaso's wife. This, in turn, made her Marco's stepmother.

It was ridiculous to think that the angular, twenty-five-year-old anorexic his father had married two years earlier had expected to take care of Marco. He was nearly seventeen now and had grown up without a mother. He kept these thoughts to himself. He would never dream of laughing at his father's decisions. Marco went towards his father and joined him just as old Colonna was dismissed with a handshake.

As soon as Tommaso noticed his son, he became more serious and his black eyes took on a stern glare. He looked Marco up and down. Tommaso was one of the few who still could; in part because Marco was over one hundred eighty centimetres tall and in part because it was the kind of stare only a Cinquedraghi could get away with. And now there were only the two of them left with that surname.

"Marco, you know what you've got to do."

"Yes, Father."

"It's a State funeral. The president's here. And the television news, too."

"I know, Father."

"So remember,"

...composure...

"composure,"

...reserve...

"reserve,"

...and detachment...

"and detachment."

"Yes, Father," he nodded, resigned to being told the same things over and over again, though he'd never-in his entire life-given the impression he hadn't understood them.

"And no scenes." He gave Marco the once over. "You're a Cinquedraghi."

Scenes...Marco couldn't recall ever having made any, even considering his father's broad definition of the concept, which included tears as a sentimental excess, ridiculous in private and unacceptable in public. Funerals were no exception.

Marco wasn't worried. He had no desire to cry. He wasn't even sure he knew how to.

He didn't cry for his brother Riccardo, who died two years earlier at the age of seventeen, and he wouldn't cry for his grandfather. And he was sure he wouldn't shed a tear for his father when the time came.

He nodded and followed his father into the limo.

II

He hadn't yet reached the portico of the Pantheon, brilliantly lit by the photographers' flashes, and already the first paparazzo had tried to force their way past the barrier of bodyguards escorting the family into the church to get a good shot of the last 'Honourable' Cinquedraghi and the only living grandson.

While Marco had never liked the smell of churches. The smell of a large crowded church during a funeral-with that mix of incense, people and decaying flowers-was something that went beyond his endurance. Sitting in the first pew next to his father, looking up beyond the crowd of curious onlookers held back by the security cordon, Marco listened to the funeral ceremony.

More than that, he was waiting for it to end.

He'd learned one or two things from funerals. Firstly, the length of a minute was relative and the minutes it took for a priest to finish a homily could be eternal. Secondly, funerals aroused people's voyeurism and their desire to take part in the dramatisation of pain, of showing contrition. Making a display of pain was a meaningless act of vanity, as nobody really wants to feel true pain.

State funerals were the worst. People not only felt authorised to be present, displaying excessive sentiment, they actually believed themselves invited to take part.

If his grandfather could've been at his own funeral that day, he would've hated all the drama. But, at the same time, he would've put up with it. Playing the appropriate role was inevitable for people like them.

The Cinquedraghis had an ancient coat of arms. They had always been rich and had always been powerful. Popularity, too, had gone hand in hand with their fortune. Both their successes and their tragedies always ended up in the spotlight.

Marco had quickly grown used to the stares, the curiosity and the admiration his name evoked. But he could never get used to the idea that his funerals would be attended by so many people.

The ceremony had been going on for ages, when he felt his tie begin to tighten up around his neck. He felt warm, even though it was a freezing February day.

He recalled that this ancient and grandiose Roman church was known as la Rotonda. This free-association brought to mind a buried feeling of a day from his childhood.

His grandfather had taken some visiting English friends to discover Rome's splendours and brought Marco along. There were in the Rotonda, when Marco-fed up with the adult conversation-had gotten distracted and started roaming about with his nose in the air amidst the shrines and niches, mesmerised by the geometry of their opus sectile decorations. He'd found himself in the centre of the concave floor, right under the oculus. All of a sudden, he had an idea that anyone would've had while standing in the centre of a circle, but that only a child would put into practice. With his arms wide open, he started spinning around and around until he lost his balance. He fell to the floor and bumped his head. Although his grandfather had great respect for places of worship, he hadn't scolded Marco at all.

Remembering that feeling brought back the same dizziness he'd experienced then. Marco blinked, creeping over him was the certainty that the surrounding space was changing. The immense, coffered dome, which always seemed miraculously suspended, slipped down over his head. While the church itself changed shape, as if it were becoming wider all around him, like a bubble of molten metal about to be forged.

The surrounding space articulated by pilaster strips, columns and polychrome marble began to move; first lowering itself on the left side and then accelerating and swirling infinite times as though it were marking the perimeter. The circle. The Rotonda.

He closed his eyes again and felt his father grip his arm.

"What's happening?" his father whispered, annoyed.

"Nothing," Marco murmured as a trickle of cold sweat slid down his back. Clenching his fists, he tried to calm down. When a new wave swept over him, he simply refused the idea that he could be ill. If he dared to be sick on such an occasion, his father would never look him straight in the eye again.

In any case, he was happily relieved to finally see six Carabinieri in dress uniform move towards the coffin in accordance with the ceremony. At least that part was over. Thankfully, as soon as he came out of the church, the cold air revived him.

Soon after, he found himself on the Lancia's black leather seats. Through the tinted windows, the city had taken on an unusual appearance; it was foggy, a rare phenomenon in the Capitale. He was tempted to point this out to his father sitting next to him but breaking the silence to comment on the weather felt stupid.

Tommaso, on his part, behaved as if he were by himself. Perhaps he had forgotten about Marco and truly believed he was alone. He stared at his phone, impeccable in his black coat, wearing sunglasses though there wasn't a ray of light in the sky. After their brief exchange that morning, he hadn't addressed Marco again.

At the Verano cemetery, Marco was relieved to find that most of the huge crowd of mourners had left. However, there were still hundreds of people remaining and both he and his father had to receive their condolences.

Most of the comments were so cloying and irritating that Marco had to call on everything he'd been taught about being respectful. But when he felt his tie tighten up again, he managed to slip away. He moved quickly amongst the paths and monuments-ignoring the weeping angels, the praying cherubs and similar idiocies-and headed towards the family mausoleum, where his grandfather was to be entombed.

The private tomb was a circular structure four meters tall. Built of squared blocks held together by black metal bosses, it wasn't embellished by a single architectural frill.

Marco knew it was ancient but wasn't sure exactly how old it was. It had been dismantled one stone at a time and brought to the Verano cemetery two centuries ago.

The door stood wide open, guarded by two Carabinieri. Marco passed by without acknowledging them and they allowed him to enter.

After a very short corridor, he came to a round room that was lined from floor to ceiling, all the way up and all the way around, with the tombs of the Cinquedraghi family.

Remembering all the times his grandfather had brought him here made his stomach clench. The feeling of unease returned. Though his steps were unusually heavy, like they were weighed down by lead leggings, they brought him to the centre of the perfect circle.

The marble was solid underfoot, but Marco had the feeling it could cave in under his weight. A tremor went up his ankles. He forced himself not to look at the image of his brother's face-identical to that of their father-affixed to his crypt and tried to remind himself that mourning was part of life's journey and must be faced with head held high. His grandfather wouldn't have wanted to see him so upset.

"Rex quondam rexque futurus." A voice resounded in the room.

Marco pulled himself together and turned towards the door.

The voice belonged to a small man of uncertain age. His white hair was thick. He had spoken Latin with an unmistakably British accent, so Marco wasn't at all surprised when he then addressed him in English.

"You do know what the inscription outside the door means, don't you?"

Saddened, Marco raised his chin defensively.

The small man's eyes sparkled and then a smile spread across his face.

"Perhaps I should introduce myself, as is the custom amongst civilised people." He extended his hand. "David Angus." Marco shook it coolly.

"I was in the war with Edoardo. We were friends."

Hearing this, Marco softened.

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Angus. I am Marco Cinquedraghi."

"I know," said the man, "I knew even before you sat down next to your father during the funeral. I knew who you were the moment I set eyes on you." Again his eyes twinkled.

His insistence on this point was bizarre to say the least. Maybe it was his way of emphasising Marco's physical resemblance to his grandfather.

"My grandfather, he not like to speak of the war," Marco said, attempting his best English.

"Only madmen and murderers enjoy recalling the war," said the man in a more rueful tone. "And a young man like you cannot even imagine the likes of the one we fought." He sighed, his grey eyes suddenly weary. "In the end we lost so much, in so many ways, we wondered what exactly was that victory we'd won."

"The regime ended," Marco pointed out. "My grandfather, he joined the British army to combat the Fascism. And I believe that, as an Italian, he was satisfied."

"Defeating an enemy doesn't mean you've defeated evil. Your grandfather knew that evil never dies," he said as if revealing a great secret. "But, luckily for us, its antithesis is also immortal. Good is like a phoenix that rises from its own ashes."

Marco prepared to take his leave. The day had already been complicated enough and he wasn't in the mood for sermons on Heaven and Hell.

Angus concluded, "This teaches us that death is not the end."

A knot tightened in Marco's throat and he couldn't keep himself from saying, "But this is." He pointed to the tombs. "This is really the end."

"Remember the inscription on your family tomb," Angus admonished him. "End is simply the name we give to the beginning of something new." He clasped Marco's arm with unexpected strength before saying, "My most sincere condolences." And with that, he quickly disappeared.

III

Marco stared at his reflection in the mirror. There was something wrong and it wasn't only that he was tired. He barely recognised himself. His green eyes were the same as that morning and his dark curly hair had not changed. And yet there was something that wasn't quite right.

He came out of the bathroom into his room. He threw himself down on the bed and the mattress rocked under his weight. He stared at the wooden inlays on the canopy posts, a fussy floral design that forced his eyes away.

He noticed his mobile on the bedside table. It had been off for hours. Maybe he should ring his friend Pietro, or simply go to the Open Gate or the Art Café. He would find someone there, not that it mattered; they were all the same to him. He dragged himself across the bed on his elbows, turned on his mobile and immediately regretted it. The device rang in his hand and, next to the number, a picture of Beatrice appeared. His 'almost girlfriend' or 'semi-girlfriend' or whatever; in any case, not for long.

He answered.

"Marco, amore, I've been trying to phone you all day!"

"I didn't have my mobile with me."

"I saw the entire funeral. On TV!"

This made so little sense that he made no comment.

"You looked great! You're videogenic, really videogenic!"

"What do you want?" he cut her short.

"Nothing, I just wanted to know how you're doing. If you're depressed. Stuff like that."

"I'm fine."

"And I wanted you to know that I'm here, if you want a distraction."

"I don't need anything."

"Will I see you later?" she tried.

"No."

"Tomorrow?"

"No, Beatrice, not even tomorrow."

"When, then?" Her voice quivered as she started to understand.

"I think that, for the time being, we won't be seeing each other at all."

"Marco, no, don't just close yourself up!"

He wasn't. He was just closing her out.

"I'll phone you."

"Marco-"

He ended the call and, with it, his latest stupid relationship. It always ended like this. He got tired and lost interest.

"After all, every end is a beginning," he murmured, turning off the mobile and flinging it away. Beatrice was just a bit player. He could find countless candidates for the role of 'girl of the moment', as soon as he raised his head. However, he let it sink into the pillow instead. Cramps in his stomach reminded him that he hadn't eaten.

A hesitant rustling at the door caught his attention.

"Come in."

"Sir," a maid whose name he didn't know came forward. "The Honourable... I mean, the Prince, asks that you join him in the Mercury room."

Marco nodded and hurried to oblige.

He really didn't like the Mercury room. It was a huge baroque hall with solemn windows and frescos dedicated to the messenger of the gods. The redundancy of the columns and the opulence of the stuccos immediately created a feeling of distance. Of course, that's what it'd been designed to do: celebrate wealth and the power that comes with it.

His father awaited him holding a glass of cognac. He had poured only one. Marco was still walking towards him when his father announced, "In September, you're leaving for Switzerland."

These words made him freeze on the spot, as though a granite wall had appeared out of nowhere to block his path.

"Switzerland?" he repeated. "What am I supposed to do in Switzerland?"

"I've enrolled you at Albion College," he declared.

Marco reacted slowly. For a moment, he was halted by that name: Albion. It had always been a part of his past but he'd hoped it would never be a part of his future.

"To Albion?" he asked, breaking the silence. "We decided two years ago that I wasn't going to go there."

"Your grandfather decided that, not I."

"Yes, but after what happened to Riccardo-"

"What the hell are you insinuating, Marco?" his father burst out. "Your brother had an accident. Obviously, the school had nothing to do with it."

"I'm just saying that..."

"I will not allow you to disrespect Albion."

Marco swallowed. That school was considered sacred in his family.

"Your grandfather graduated from Albion, I graduated from Albion. Now it's your turn."

"You enrol when you're fifteen," Marco objected, his throat tight. "I thought you couldn't begin half-way through."

"Others can't. You can," he explained. "They've admitted you directly into third year." He sipped his cognac. "As you can see, there's no problem. It's a great privilege."

"But Grandfather was against it."

"Your grandfather's dead. He has no say in this matter any longer. Now, leave me."

Marco was baffled. How could these be the last words? How could something like this be decided this way? His father answered these unspoken questions in his own manner, by turning his back. Marco left the room. Going back down the corridor to his room, under the gaze of his ancestors, Marco again brought his hand to his throat. He'd taken his tie off; he didn't understand what kept choking him. Maybe it was anguish. Maybe it was shock. Maybe it was his need to release the rage that had been building up for so many reasons. He closed the door behind him and realised he was drenched in sweat. He whipped off his jumper and, when he tore open his shirt, all the buttons scattered to the floor.

The room began to spin, just like in the church.

When he felt the cold marble against his cheek, he realised that the funeral had taught him another lesson. If you deal with stress on an empty stomach, you'll end up fainting. And if you're a Cinquedraghi, you should have the decency to do it in your own room. Where no one can see you.