“I know what you’re thinking. But there’s more than one kind of courage. There’s taking on young drug addicts with knives, and then there’s facing your personal demons. I find the former much easier to handle.”
“Are you going inside?” she asked after a moment.
“One step at a time,” he said. “This was a big one for me. Besides,” he said, smiling. “I have to get back to work soon, and we haven’t had lunch yet.” In those few moments, she thought, he seemed somehow already lighter. Freer.
She returned his smile hesitantly. Clearly, his coming to terms with his wife’s death was even more difficult than she’d believed. His interest in her was becoming obvious, but she was going to have to be careful and guard her feelings, because she feared that in the end his wife’s memory could be stronger than any attraction.
The boat came back to life with a roar, and they left the narrow canal with its old ghosts. Back in the Giudecca Canal, Alessandro cut the motor again, and they drifted slowly while eating their sandwiches. Gulls circled overhead, waiting for handouts. Alessandro warned her not to feed them or they’d be ambushed by every gull in Venice.
“I’m giving a recital tomorrow night for my father’s seventieth birthday,” he said, pouring her some more wine. “It’s by invitation only, just family and friends, and I’d be honored if you came.”
“I’d love to!” she said. Guarding her feelings was going to be difficult.
He pulled out a pen and business card from his pocket and on the back of the card wrote, Friday, February 1, 8 p.m. The Apollo Room—Fenice Opera House.
“You know where to find the Fenice?” he asked.
“Of course. It’s very close to my cousin’s apartment. And top of my list is to see an opera there. I want to sit in one of the boxes.”
“I won’t be playing in the main space. Even my father doesn’t have that many friends.”
He passed her the card, and she flashed back to the moment he’d handed her his business card in the airport. It was almost impossible to believe she was with him now, accepting an invitation to hear him play.
“Just give your name at the door. I’ll put you on the guest list.” He took out his cell and called a pre-programmed number. “Hi, Julia? Alessandro. Very well. And yourself? Glad to hear it. Could you please add Olivia Moretti to the guest list for Dad’s party? Thank you.” He hung up. “There. Done.” He gave her a smile that was like the sun coming out, and she didn’t think for one moment that that was an overstatement. He started the motor yet again and crossed the canal.
“There’s the Rio de San Vio,” she announced as they cruised alongside the Zattere. “I could point out the palazzo where I live.”
“Great!” he said, turning the boat into the canal. After they passed under the first bridge, Olivia pointed to the opera balconies of her apartment.
“Very nice,” he said. “I love this little area. Not that I don’t love all of Venice, but this neighborhood is very peaceful.”
“I time my grocery shopping with watching the sun set behind the Giudecca. I always stop into the Salute. It amazes me that I can see a painting by Titian on my way to the grocery store.”
“I love the Salute too. Have you ever gone to hear the organ vespers?”
“No. I know they start at 3 p.m., but I always seem to miss them.”
Alessandro looked at his watch as he swung the boat into the Grand Canal. “Come on, we should be just in time.”
“Don’t you have to get back to work?”
“I can take another hour—I don’t have anything pressing this afternoon. I’m not keeping you from anything, am I?”
She shook her head vigorously. She’d have to work late into the evening now on some letters Silvio wanted translated, but she didn’t care. She didn’t want the afternoon to end. So much for taking it slowly.
He docked in front of the Salute, and they walked side by side up the Salute steps, the plaintive sound of the organ reaching them through the open doors. The old blind woman was begging as usual beneath a sign that stated “Absolutely no one can ask for money to enter the church.” Olivia was surprised when Alessandro dropped a couple of one-euro coins into the woman’s basket.
“How are you this afternoon, Maria?” he asked politely.
She looked up, and although her eyes were clouded over with blindness, a smile of recognition spread over her wrinkled face. “Bene, bene, molto grazie, Signor Rossi. And who is the lady with you?”
“This is Olivia, Maria. She lives in the neighborhood.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Olivia said, still puzzled. She knew that begging was illegal in Venice, yet Alessandro, a cop, was giving this woman money.
“I recognize your voice and your step,” Maria said. “You always wish me a good evening.”
It was true, but she’d never given her money. The beggars of Venice made her uneasy. With their almost theatrical subservience, she imagined them enslaved to some Dickensian, Fagin-like boss, something she didn’t want to encourage, although neither did she want to be uncharitable.
She dropped a euro coin in her basket, and Maria thanked her. “I’ll watch out for her, Signor Rossi,” she added.
“Thank you, Maria. I appreciate that.”
“I don’t understand,” Olivia whispered once they were seated inside. “I thought begging was illegal in Venice.”
“It is. But Maria is a special case. She was an Albanian refugee, and for many years, she lived in a deserted garden shed near you. While she qualified for social assistance, she refused to accept it. It was very frustrating for the authorities, and there was talk of forcing her into an institution for her own good. Then one day she told the priest she overheard two men planning to steal one of the Salute’s Titians. He reported it to the police, and the plot was foiled.
“She was very proud of her role in saving the painting, and it gave me an idea. I told her that as a reward for saving the priceless painting, she would receive a check every month. It’s only a welfare check, but she believes it’s a reward. She won’t leave her garden shed, so I convinced the city to let the guys at the station convert it into a cottage, and it now has a tiny bathroom, heat, and electricity. Sometimes police work takes a lot of creativity.”
“I’ll say. That’s really generous. But why is she still begging?”
“I admit that part backfired on us,” he said with a low laugh. “She thinks she’s an undercover cop now. But she takes the role very seriously, and we consider the church—if not the whole neighborhood—safe in her hands. She may be blind, but she hears a lot.”
They left the church just as the final notes of the organ were fading away. Maria was gone, and they were docking in front of the Chiesa dell’Angelo San Raffaele just as it started to gently rain.
“Will you call me if you need to talk to anyone about the man who attacked you?” he asked as he helped her out of the boat.
“I’m fine,” she insisted and put up her umbrella. “You know, every time I see you, someone is getting arrested. I’m glad it wasn’t me today.”
“How about yesterday at the bar? I didn’t arrest anyone then.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m certain. But seriously, sometimes the shock hits later. Call me any time if you need someone to talk to. Otherwise, I’ll see you tomorrow night.” He kissed her then. It was the customary kisses on both cheeks, but then he added a third to her forehead, his lips lingering there a moment longer before he turned and walked back to the station.
When she arrived back at her apartment less than an hour later, a box containing the most exquisite bouquet of orchids was waiting outside her door. She didn’t have to read the card to know who they were from.
She took out her phone and typed a text. She didn’t need to refer to the card he’d given her today, because she already knew his number by hear
t.
Thank you for the orchids and the wonderful lunch (not to mention being my guardian angel). See you tomorrow night.
The message left with a whoosh, and seconds later an incoming one pinged:
My pleasure. I’ll be your Raphael anytime.
Chapter 11
The next morning, Olivia went to the island of Murano to meet Rocco Zucaro, the glass artist she’d be translating for in New York. It was going to be hard to keep her thoughts from wandering back to Venice. Indeed, the day ahead in Rocco’s studio now felt like only a way to fill time before going to see Alessandro at the Fenice.
Silvio came to her office before she left. “I don’t know how much reading you’ve been doing on the family. Rocco had a sister who was also a glassmaker. She married the son of one of the wealthiest men in Venice, if not Italy, and was murdered not long after. It was probably a botched kidnapping, but it was all kept quite hush-hush. I thought you should know so you’re not caught off guard if it comes up.”
She thanked him, thinking this was the second woman she’d heard of being murdered in Venice. First Alessandro’s wife and now Rocco’s sister.
Silvio offered to call Dino for her, but she declined, saying she’d take the vaporetto. She’d never told Silvio that despite her attempts to get over it, Dino still made her uneasy. He was friendly, but she couldn’t quite shake the feeling that whenever she was in his presence, he was watching her. Today, it didn’t help that she’d had a nightmare the night before about a giant seagull in the Piazza San Marco. It pulled a baby out of its mother’s arms and, carrying it by one leg, flew out over the Grand Canal. Hovering there, it held the baby under the water as the baby’s mother screamed from the canal’s edge. She had awakened with a start to the sound of her alarm, seagulls, and an ambulance siren, which explained some of it, but the rest had to have come from Dino.
Fortunately, the image evaporated an hour later when Rocco welcomed her into his studio and offered her a glass of grappa. He was in his mid-thirties, with cropped blond hair, a relaxed smile, and blue eyes that sparkled with humor. He was meticulously polite and, after handing her the bottle of grappa and a couple of glasses, he carried two wooden chairs closer to the warmth of the glass furnace, dusting one off with a towel before offering it to her. Everything about his manner indicated that he’d be an easy charge in New York, unlike some of the more temperamental artists Silvio represented.
He poured their grappa and set the bottle on the floor between them. “It’s so nice to meet you at last. Marco is always talking about you. I thought I saw Marco near San Marco the other day, but Silvio tells me he’s in Iceland. Such an interesting place to visit. I’m sure you’ll be glad to have him back in Venice with you, though. I know you recently lost your father, and I know how important family is at such times.”
“Yes, it is,” she said. “And Marco has been wonderful.”
“You probably know of my sister’s murder. She was better than I’ll ever be. You’re getting poor seconds in representing me. Her work was so intricate. She could make a goblet so delicate and so detailed, if you looked at it and nothing else for an entire year, you would still see details you had missed before.
“This business meant everything to her. We suffered some bad times after my father died. I was sure we were facing bankruptcy, but Katarina took control and found us an American dealer. Our less gracious competitors like to say it was her wealthy husband and not her skill that saved our business, but I know for a fact that she had turned it around before she married. And she worked every bit as hard after. Unfortunately, the dealer seemed to lose all interest after her death. By then, though, she had set us fully back on track, and while I still miss my sister every day, I’m satisfied with how things are going.” He picked up the bottle of grappa, but Olivia declined—she didn’t want to show up at Alessandro’s concert with a hangover.
Rocco topped off his own glass before continuing. “Of course, unless one of my children decides to follow in my footsteps, there will be no one to carry on the family tradition. It was assumed I would follow my father’s path, but it is not like that now. Children have to choose their own paths. Right now, my daughter talks of becoming a veterinarian, and my son wants to be a professional soccer player. They are young, and so they may change their minds many times, but I will support them in whatever they choose.
“And this studio will continue—only the artists will not have the surname of Zucaro. And I’m at peace with that too . . . although I know if Katarina were alive, she would not take it so lightly. She used to say it was good I had a son to carry on the family name. She made the beads you’re wearing,” he concluded with a smile. “I didn’t know they could still be had—so much of her work ended up in the States.”
“I love them,” she said. Now she knew who’d designed them. She only wished they weren’t connected to such a tragic story.
Rocco had put together a series for his show. They were calling it Water Like Glass, and he’d taken for his inspiration the colors of the canals, the lagoon, and the Adriatic. He wanted to give the impression that at any moment the piece would turn to water and flow away and join the sea. He handed Olivia a string of beads, and she held them in her hand, expecting them at any moment to drip through her fingers.
He offered to give her a little demonstration before she left, and when she agreed, he went over to one of the worktables and turned on a blowtorch. Picking up a rod of blue glass, he heated it in the flame until it became a glowing white orb. With a pair of pliers, he pulled out a strand of molten glass. Shaping it with a few swift twists, he transformed the blob of glass into a tiny seahorse. “A little present for you,” he said, laying it on a stone block where it cooled to a sweet blue.
“It’s lovely,” she said. “I’ll always treasure it.”
“No, it is but a trinket, like what we make for the tourists.”
“It’s very lucky for the tourists.”
Her work itself was easy, since he’d already chosen the pieces he wanted to show. Just as she was leaving, Luigi arrived with a red carry-on suitcase and an armload of forms to be signed for Customs. She resisted the urge to tell him to pack carefully. He was, after all, working for Silvio Milan, and it was his job to make sure nothing would break.
Still, as she left, Luigi looked at her a little oddly, and she wondered if he was expecting her to admonish him.
Chapter 12
Yesterday was a disaster. All he had to do was steal her purse, put a tracker on her phone, and return it through her mail slot. And he does it in front of a cop? Stupid idea to hire a junkie to do it. At least he’s in jail now, and as he doesn’t have a clue who hired him, at least he can’t name names. But without the tracer, I have to be doubly sure I don’t lose sight of her now. Just one more day, and it’ll be done.
Chapter 13
Olivia arrived at the opera house at a quarter to eight. She was directed up the wide sweeping staircase to the Apollo Room, where an attendant took her coat. The bar adjoining the salon was packed, and Olivia took a glass of champagne from the tray that was being offered around.
Alessandro’s father’s friends looked very affluent. Every woman there was dressed in an elegant, flawless way that made her think of Kate Middleton or Michelle Obama. Pearls and diamonds graced their necks and sparkled on their earlobes and fingers. The men, from young to old, were dressed impeccably in dark suits, and expensive watches peaked out under diamond-cuffed white shirts. Women and men alike greeted each other warmly with kisses on both cheeks.
Not knowing anyone, Olivia felt awkward. But the fact she was dressed well in a new cream cashmere dress helped give her some confidence, and if the violet Murano beads weren’t diamonds or pearls, she knew how much they flattered her.
She was glad she hadn’t told anyone she was coming to this event. She wanted to keep it to herself. Silvio would want her to network, something she wanted a break
from, while Marco would want all the details about Alessandro. But she still didn’t know where this was going, and if things didn’t work out, she wanted to be saved the pain and embarrassment of having to explain. After all, she’d met him only three times, and in one of those meetings she’d been under suspicion of having planted a bomb in an airport.
She took her champagne and walked from the lounge area into the hall itself. She was looking for Alessandro, of course, and she finally glimpsed him near the stage standing next to a distinguished older gentleman who was clearly his father. They were surrounded by people, and Alessandro was talking to a very elderly couple. Tonight he was wearing a formal jacket, not his black leather, but the effect was every bit as devastating.
She had no hope of getting near him, so she had just resigned herself to waiting for the recital when he looked at her. He gave her that sexy smile, and she raised a hand in greeting. Then he was swallowed back into the crowd before suddenly appearing at her side.
“Come here,” he whispered, and taking her by the elbow, he led her through the crowded salon, making his apologies as he went. Moments later, they were alone in the green room.
“I’m so glad you made it!” he said.
“Me too,” she said a little breathlessly. She started to add something conversational about his father having a lot of friends when she noticed him staring at her with alarm.
“What is it?” she said.
“Your necklace . . .”
“What? Don’t you like it? It’s from Murano.”
“It’s my wife’s . . . I mean, she made it. Where did you get it?”
“It was a Christmas present from Marco. I’m sorry, I didn’t know. Your wife was a glassblower? Rocco Zucaro told me his sister Katarina made it . . . Oh my God, Rocco’s sister was your wife, Katarina! I’m so sorry.” She was out of her depth here. What was she supposed to do? Her hands flew to the back of her neck to undo the clasp.
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