Mozart’s Blood Read Online Free Page A

sustained her, and he would not allow her to help him acquire it. Too dangerous, he always said. And unnecessary.
    Octavia tossed aside the cushion and got up again. She padded to the window and pushed aside the heavy draperies to look past the hotel’s circular drive into the Piazza della Repubblica. The morning rush hour was almost over, the flood of taxis and scooters settling down to a trickle. The Duomo’s forest of spires shone in the distance, and beyond it, the Galleria with its airy dome. It was good to be back. And surely, here, where there were people who understood him, Ugo could find what he needed.
    She rubbed her arms and glanced across the suite at his closed bedroom door, irritated, worried, wistful.
    She stripped off her traveling suit and shrugged into one of Il Principe’s thick robes. She undid the clasp of her hair and took up her hairbrush just as Ugo’s door opened. He lounged through the suite into her bedroom and flopped down across her bed, giving her a wide white grin. “That’s better,” he said, touching his temples. “Whole again.”
    She laid her brush on the bureau. “Ugo. You must let me—”
    â€œDon’t speak of it.”
    â€œBut—with all you do for me—”
    He lifted his brows. “Not for you,” he said. He lifted a mocking finger. “For the music.”
    She made an exasperated sound. “Ugo, I know an herbalist—”
    His face darkened, and he put up a narrow hand. “ Basta, Octavia. I know Milano better than you do. I can handle it.”
    Octavia sighed. “When you get stern, you sound just like an American, Ugo.”
    â€œO Dio, no!” His grin returned, and he pressed his palm to his chest. “Not an American!”
    She chuckled and picked up her brush again, but the flicker of anxiety persisted. She hoped his sources in Milan were more reliable than those in New York. She hated to think of him roaming the alleys of the old city, searching. She knew all too well how dark and dangerous the backstreets could be, and had always been. The architecture of the city had changed, but its nature had not.
    When she had brushed out her hair, she crossed to the desk, where she had left her bag with the Mozart score. “Dinner tonight with the maestro, ” she reminded him. “Read-through tomorrow at ten, but you don’t need to be there. Do please come to dinner, though, and help me talk to Russell.”
    â€œMm,” he said. “Delicious Russell.”
    She faced him, the score in her hands. “And you will behave,” she said. “I want to sing Donna Anna without distractions.”
    â€œ Carissima. I wouldn’t dream of distracting you.”
    â€œHa.” She laid the score ready beside her bed and began to untie her robe. “I always feel filthy after I fly. I’m going to take a bath.”
    â€œShall I wash your back?”
    â€œThank you, no.” As she passed him on her way to the bathroom, she trailed her fingers across his head and gave his curls a tug. “You’re a brat,” she murmured.
    He grinned up at her. “So true. So true.”
    Â 
    Ugo propped his chin on his hand, gazing at Russell until the conductor’s face reddened and he broke off what he was saying.
    â€œMaestro,” Ugo purred. “Please. Do go on with your story.”
    Octavia tried to kick him under the table with her sharp-toed Ferragamo, but she couldn’t quite reach. They were dining in Il Principe’s Acanto restaurant. It was a peaceful place, with neutral walls and rich wood trim. Murano chandeliers cast a gentle glow on the nondescript beige of Russell Simondsen’s hair. The risotto alla Milanese had been rich with saffron, and the grilled salmon flavored with basil and bell peppers. Octavia felt relaxed and refreshed. She was eager to begin the three weeks of rehearsals.
    Though Russell’s features were painfully