The Venetian Series 02: When the Snow Comes Down in Venice

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Murder, intrigue, and a dungeon full of kinky aristocrats.
11.2k words
4.63
13.4k
5

Part 2 of the 5 part series

Updated 06/07/2023
Created 10/09/2015
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Gentle reader, welcome to my story, my entry in the Winter Holidays contest. It is a tale of murder, intrigue, and steaming, raunchy sex. If you will be just a little patient with me, we will get to the sex soon enough. I'd like to offer my sincere thanks to my sagacious editor, legerdemer.


As the first rays of the dawn peered into his apartment, Bedrich Farkas rose from his bed and went to the window. He shuddered a bit, because the cold was deeper and more penetrating than he had anticipated. Outside the air was thick with a silvery mist, and Bedrich could discern irregularly shaped, thin slabs of ice littering the surface of the gray waters of the canal outside. For a moment, he cast his eyes toward the thermostat across the room, then seemed to have second thoughts. He pulled on a heavy robe and knelt before the ancient fireplace, lighting some crumpled newspapers and adjusting the logs until a respectable fire was burning and the apartment was steadily growing more hospitable.

Bedrich's apartment looked like something that had been lifted intact directly out of the 19th century. He had accumulated furniture that seemed contemporary with the design of the building, ornate, evocative, time-worn. There was a set of armchairs and a couch with faded wine-colored damask upholstery, and mottled, golden ball-and-claw feet. The only concessions to the 21st Century were a laptop computer and an espresso maker. Bedrich was about to avail himself of both.

First, the espresso machine. He listened with satisfaction to the whispering sounds of the pressure building, then watched his single espresso trickle into the little beaker, after which he poured it directly into a small cup and drank it. He wouldn't dream of adulterating with sugar or milk foam or anything else. He felt his senses heighten as the stark winter light began to pour into the room, and he moved to the couch with his laptop.

Bedrich brought up a search engine and started a search for anything in the news on Till Acquati. For years, Acquati had been a personal obsession for Bedrich. He had spoken to no one about it.

When Bedrich had first come to Venice from his native Czechoslovakia, he was working for Správa II,Kontrarozviedka, the counter-intelligence division of Czechoslovakia's Internal Affairs Ministry. He was there on assignment, but he had another agenda of his own: the Czechoslovakian economy was in the midst of a calamitous contraction, and Bedrich's family was facing harsh privation, despite Bedrich's relatively prestigious (albeit secret) government position. He wanted to defect with his family, a very difficult proposition.

All three members of the family would have to exit at once -- family members who remained behind would be treated in ways that Bedrich did not care to contemplate. Bedrich was unwilling to approach his counterparts in the Western intelligence services for help, because if they helped him, they would own him. He wanted to find another way to get out, and then quietly disappear.

Venice in those days was a hub of intrigue for every cold war intelligence agency, as well as the private intelligence organizations that had been its hallmark for centuries. Bedrich had very little time in which to make a connection with someone who could help, someone with whom he could barter his skills as a field agent and analyst, in exchange for the safe re-settlement of his wife and daughter. Bedrich had to make a quick judgment and rely on his instincts. His instincts were wrong.

He remembered meeting Till Acquati, back during that fateful week. Bedrich's Venetian contacts had recommended him as a man who had the right sort of connections, a man with whom he could do business. Acquati had impressed him with his serene confidence and impeccable manners. Bedrich had offered himself, with his training and connections, as a private operative for Acquati's networks, in exchange for the safe re-settlement of his family. Acquati had questioned him closely and knowledgeably, then agreed to the deal. And shortly thereafter, Acquati had betrayed him.

Today, on this wintry November morning, Bedrich's web search had turned up nothing. Bedrich was unperturbed. Acquati knew how to fly below the radar, and he seldom received any mention in the press. Venice was like that. The powerful people were invisible, most of the time. Bedrich would continue with his web searches and other measures, patiently waiting for Acquati to make a mistake.

With reluctance, Bedrich rose and entered the bathroom. He knew how long it would take for the building's ancient plumbing to deliver water that was actually hot. However, on this particular morning, Bedrich had places to be, and he couldn't afford to wait. Steeling himself, he turned on the shower, tested the water gingerly and plunged into the stream, washing as quickly as he could while he suffered the punishing cold of the spray. After what seemed a very long time, he emerged, dressed, and proceeded outside, walking briskly along the canal toward the residence of Michela da Rimini.

Michela had acquired a reputation in Venice as a pampered, oversexed aristocrat. The reputation, it occurred to Bedrich, was entirely deserved. She was born with wealth and status. In her early 20s she had struggled to come to terms with her inclination to sexually sample each new acquaintance, and by the time she had reached the age of 30, she had simply abandoned the struggle and surrendered to her impulses. This was a given as far as Bedrich was concerned, but he also knew that Michela was a complicated person and that there was much more to her than public perception acknowledged.

Bedrich stopped to catch his breath, and to take in the panorama around him. It had begun to snow, depositing a soft white coating on the idle gondolas in the canal. There was an eerie glow in the air as the weak daylight labored its way through the thick mist. The ancient buildings looked more obscure than they usually did, and the waters of the canal thickened with forming ice. A halting wind fluffed Bedrich's curly gray hair, then let it fall once more around his ears. Snowflakes left tiny wet trails down his thick glasses as he began to walk again.

Michela had been another person referred to Bedrich by his intelligence contacts, during those fateful days. She was well connected by virtue of being a member of an aristocratic family, which in Venice carries with it certain responsibilities and privileges which must necessarily be of interest to an intelligence operative. He had declined the invitation into her bed, but accepted her help when he was suddenly stranded after Acquati's betrayal.

Then, in the wake of that betrayal, came the inevitable reprisals. A person like Bedrich, who had been entrusted with an important job and a certain amount of leeway in terms of his personal movement and associations, must be made to pay dearly for any disloyalty. After a few weeks, it became clear that his wife and daughter were dead. Michela had then sustained him with patient emotional support, until, in time, he had allowed her to provide him with consolation in the way that she preferred.

A solitary motorboat came putt-putting slowly along, avoiding the ice in the canal as Bedrich turned toward Michela's impressive residence. He was the first to leave footprints in the new snow upon the circular drive that led to her doorstep. It was early still, and the city was quiet, but Michela was expecting him. He rapped softly on her door, and she greeted him in an elegant diaphanous gown, flinching against the cold before ushering him back into her warm home and closing the door. Then she led him up the grand staircase and to her chambers on the second floor.

Michela's room was large and offered a sweeping view of the canal, which was quiet now, save for a solitary gondolier who was sweeping the snow from his vessel. The snow continued to fall slowly, almost as if in slow motion.

Michela's blond hair was braided and coiled upon her head. Her green eyes were limpid in the winter light. Bedrich joined her on a settee near the bed, in front of small table where some breakfast was waiting. He declined the coffee she offered, but accepted some bread and prosciutto, which they shared as they chatted quietly in Italian.

"So the O'Shaughnessy girl is dead," said Michela.

"Yes, she was killed on Halloween," replied Bedrich. "There was a business deal in which she became... inconvenient."

Michela did not seem to find this surprising. "Who killed her?"

Bedrich looked up and said quietly, "Till Acquati."

Michela sat silently for a half minute.

"Why?" she asked.

"A financial transaction, where he needed a company to be in trouble. She was a major stockholder. Her death created the trouble."

Michela seemed to accept Bedrich's rather terse explanation.

Bedrich asked gently, "You liked her, didn't you?"

Michela shrugged. "She was not so close to my heart. I found her attractive."

Bedrich recalled her flame-red hair and saucy manner. Her husband, the American consul, had been more distraught than anyone might have imagined, after her body had been found in the Grand Canal.

Michela arched her eyebrows and said, "Bedrich, there is some trouble between you and Till? From long ago?"

Bedrich looked up from his bread and prosciutto to meet her eyes. He had known her for years, but her perceptiveness still surprised him. "Do you remember when we first met?" he asked.

Michela replied slowly, "Yes. You wanted to escape your country."

"With my family."

"I could not help you with that."

"But my contacts told me that there was a person who could help me."

Michela looked at him. "Till."

"Yes, Till."

"What happened?"

"I don't know for certain. He and I made an agreement. But I think he found someone who offered a better deal than I could."

Michela paused to consider the implications of what he was saying.

Softly, she said, "So, your wife and daughter..."

"Yes. My wife and daughter."

Michela reached for his hand, and they sat in silence for a while. At length, Bedrich spied a bottle of champagne sitting in in ice upon a dresser across the room, along with two flutes. He rose, crossed the room, and opened the bottle, then returned with it and the flutes. He poured for the both of them. They sat close to one another, and as they began to drink, Bedrich spread the fingers on his hand and began brush his palm across the bumps in her robe that revealed the location of her nipples. She gave a deep, contented sigh as her nipples hardened, and she scooted forward on the settee, parting her thighs.

Bedrich responded to her, as he always had. He was a complicated man, but he relished the simple, dependable, blazing intensity of Michela's libido. He would allow himself to surrender to it and for a time, all other cares would be forgotten.

Michela had allowed her robe to hike up, fully exposing her shaved pussy, and with hungry eyes she watched Bedrich react to the sight. His face became taut with desire, and, emboldened, she rose from the settee and stood before him, holding the hem of her robe high with her left hand, and fingering herself with her right.

"Look, Bedrich," she said, "do you like it?"

Bedrich quietly groaned out the word "yes" and sank to his knees before her. She felt his hands caressing the backs of her thighs as she showed herself to him, running her fingers along the outside of her labia and dipping them into the flooded crevice between them. She felt the exciting heat of his gaze as she drew her juices out and up onto her clit, and as she watched his nostrils flare, she knew that he was smelling her aroused cunt. She knew just how much he loved that. It is then that she felt the first tremors; she began to massage her clit a little more firmly, a little more lasciviously, until she felt the undeniable shock waves of her climax approaching.

Michela pushed her cunt closer to his face as she began to work her fingers faster on her clit. She was going to cum, she had felt herself passing the point of no return, and now she wanted to cum as hard as she could, and she wanted Bedrich to see it. She heard him moaning words of encouragement in Czech and Italian both, to excite her. Then she began to cum.

"Look, Bedrich, my cunt -- I'm cumming now!"

He plunged three fingers inside her and felt her contract around them as she cried out in pleasure. Then he abruptly pulled them out, covered in her juices, and offered them to her mouth. She made a growling sound and sucked them hungrily for a moment, before pushing him backwards onto the floor and straddling his face. Her abundant juices spilled out all over him as she writhed against his mouth and he passionately sucked her clit. In less than a minute she was cumming again.

Michela was in full sexual flight now. Bedrich, after all the years he had known her, was still in awe of the intensity of her arousal, which swept him along like a tidal wave. She yanked his belt open and pulled his trousers down to his thighs, just enough to let his cock spring free, and immediately impaled herself on it. Bedrich seized her hips and they began to fuck slowly and relentlessly, both crying out with each emphatic thrust. Michela had both hands up under her gown, working her nipples. She began to cum again, and then some more, until she was cumming almost continuously. This in turn excited Bedrich to the threshold of his climax -- Michela could hear the urgency in the sounds he was making. She quickly clambered off him and bent down to take his cock in her mouth, swallowing spurt after spurt of his orgasm.

Later, Bedrich took his leave, kissing Michela on the forehead as he always did when they parted. Both of them knew they would never be lovers in the proper sense of the term. For Michela, he was a good friend, and she fucked her friends. It was that straightforward for her. Bedrich was not built that way, as a rule, but he made an exception for Michela, and she had provided an odd sort of stability, a life-saving stability, really, from the time he was first stranded here in Venice.

***

The following morning Bedrich was ready for the wintry weather. He had his heavy robe at the ready, hanging from a post on the headboard of his venerable bed, and he swiftly donned it and started a fire before finally going to the window. Outside, the air was still. The snow had stopped falling and had generously frosted the gondolas in the canal outside. Much of the surface of the water was frozen now and snow-encrusted as well. A thin black channel of open water meandered along, and a solitary gondolier was woefully threading his way through it.

As the apartment began to warm up, Bedrich repeated his ritual with the espresso maker, followed by the fruitless search on the internet for news of Acquati. Then, as he was about to once again face the antiquated plumbing of his shower, a fresh idea came to him. He did a search for the late Heather O'Shaughnessy. This search turned out to be much more productive. Her name came up frequently: evidently, she was something of a socialite. There were many Heather sightings at various social events, mostly diplomatic functions and fashion shows. Then, as he scrolled through them, one item in particular caught Bedrich's eye, because of the date, October 31 -- the night of Ms. O'Shaughnessy's untimely demise. It was a blog post, a notice on what seemed to be a tell-all gossip page:

The glamorous Heather O'Shaughnessy put in an appearance tonight at the Discoteca Sotterranea, on the arm of a certain distinguished gentleman, and though we of course do not discuss what goes on at that somewhat famous night spot, we have heard that they got right into the spirit of the place.

This was a significant clue. On Halloween, the night she had been killed, she had been expected at the masked ball at Michela's residence. She never arrived, and no one, including the police, had been able to find any record of her movements that night. Beyond that, although Bedrich was very well-informed about life in Venice, he had never heard of the Discoteca Sotterranea. Today, he would learn something about it, and "the spirit of the place." And with a little luck, he might learn the identity of the "distinguished gentleman" as well.

***

When Bedrich had first found himself alone in Venice, after his disastrous attempt to defect with his family, he had fallen back on his professional training; he had become a private spy. People in this line of work were always in demand in Venice, but typically they were those who grew up in it and learned from their parents. Bedrich had to scramble to learn the ropes. He possessed an eidetic memory; he soon had a catalog in his mind of all the members of the Venetian ruling elite, their habits, their routines, and their foibles. For a fee, he could ferret out whatever information the client required. If he did not know the answer himself, he knew whom to approach to get it.

Bedrich could not avoid becoming known to others in a similar line of work, but he could find ways to cooperate with them. And if he could not cooperate with them, he could learn the codes of conduct by which they managed to co-exist with one another. He could avoid crossing the line into open confrontation. He had acquired certain habits to protect himself, including a distrust of electronic communication that had carried over into the digital age.

This morning he was seated at one of his favorite haunts, a quaintly garish cafe on the edge of the Piazza San Marco. People who knew him and wanted to talk to him away from prying ears could find him there. The person who found him today was Rodica.

Bedrich had met Rodica five years earlier, when she had first come to Venice from her native Romania. She was trained as an artist. He had found her sitting on a side street near the Piazza, sketching tourists for a pittance. After observing her for a few minutes, Bedrich had recognized her talent, and as he was in the business of knowing people, he offered to put her in contact with some people that he knew who might be inclined to reward her efforts somewhat more generously. What followed were some introductions, some shows in galleries, and a long-term friendship.

Rodica reminded Bedrich in some ways of his lost daughter. She was of a similar age, and also wore her dark hair short. And like his daughter, she was shy, which gave greater significance to that smile of hers when it blossomed upon her face, as it was doing now.

"Hello, Bedrich," she said, in his native Czech.

"Hello, Rodica. You look happy this morning."

"I am happy, Bedrich. Helmut is coming back today."

Helmut was her German boyfriend, the only person (aside from Michela and Rodica, who each had their nascent suspicions), who had some sense of Bedrich's desire to bring down Till Acquati. Helmut was an investigator for the Financial Intelligence Unit of the GermanBundeskriminalamt. He had come to town in late October, and had somehow gotten involved with Rodica -- which was somewhat extraordinary, because Rodica was very picky in her taste for men -- and upon meeting Bedrich, had revealed to him an interest in Mr. Acquati.

This interest had turned out to be an actual criminal investigation. Helmut's agency had suspected Acquati and his employer, the famed reinsurance firm Assicurazioni Generali, of being involved in some irregularities with respect to the trade in financial derivatives. Bedrich had marshaled all his powers to assist him, and as their investigation progressed, it appeared that Acquati was planning the contract killing of one of his business associates. The death of this associate would enable Acquati to profit handsomely from derivative "side bets" on the demise of a company in which he and his associate were both heavily invested. He would lose money on the company, but gain much, much more on the financial wagers.