Page 77 of Chasing Caine

Fly?

“How much do I owe you?” Antonio retrieved our backpacks from a sofa nearby. Money hadn’t even crossed my mind, given the pain I’d been in.

“Nothing. Helping was my pleasure. Although…” Pasquale gestured to his black and white painting. “Perhaps you can handle the repair for me?”

“I’d love to.” Antonio slung both packs over one shoulder. “However, as I told you, I’m working in Pompeii until the new year.”

“Then we’ll hold the favor for later.”

“No, no.” Antonio put up a hand. “I’ll call my Uncle Andrea and cover the repair. He or one of my cousins will work on it. Trust me, they’re all excellent.”

“I’ll call that even.” Pasquale shook our hands. “It’s been a pleasure, Mr. Ferraro. I look forward to our paths crossing again sometime.”

Chapter 25

Antonio

Thenextafternoon,Istrolled along the Lungomare—the Neapolitan waterfront promenade—with Samantha on her crutches at my side. To our right, low concrete barriers topped with metal railings separated us from the small Mappatella Beach below. The beach was clogged with people under umbrellas and on towels, some children playing in the protected water. On the far side of the short beach, children climbed the sea break of stacked limestone boulders. And beyond that, the bay.

A mile away, the Castel d’Ovo rose from the water, its sharp squared castle walls our goal for the walk. Past it, Vesuvio towered over the city, as it did from every vantage point. Motorboats, yachts, cargo ships, and tankers flowed through the water.

The pedestrian roadway was a favorite among tourists and locals alike. In the rotunda next to the beach, a group of young men played basketball where two nets had been erected. The referee’s whistle was difficult to distinguish from those of the youngsters running around the monument across the street. The basketball crowd cheered and applauded with each basket, while thudding R&B music streamed from a stereo system, which competed with the squeals of excited children and the myriad of languages.

Behind us, a marina with several yachts which almost rivaled Pasquale Fiori’s. What a visit that had been. I didn’t like leaving favors on the table, so had already called my Uncle Andrea, who promised to get in touch. Favors were the currency Cristian and his father used. It could have been an innocent comment, but given the size of his ship, the odds were good Fiori shared more than a love of artwork with my Uncle Giovanni.

For once, the crowds dodged around us, as Samantha swung herself on the crutches provided by the too-attractive Dr. Ivan. She wore a long sundress of pale pink with cap sleeves and tiny blue-green flowers the color of her beautiful eyes.

I’d managed to keep her in bed with her foot in various states of elevation, occasionally resting with ice on it, but she grew stir-crazy quickly. Lazing around was not her style, and she only had a few days left in town.

“Do you think you’ll make it all the way to the Castel, bella?” I placed a hand on the small of her back as she moved. It was selfish, but the worst part about the crutches was that I couldn’t drape my arm about her shoulders or hold her as we walked. The lack of contact felt wrong.

“Did it occur to you that Pasquale’s boat was namedFive Sunflowersand our missing fresco was of yellow flowers?”

It had. And it was almost enough of a coincidence for me to forget that I feared my cousin and uncle were behind Umberto’s actions. “It did.”

“Do you think there’s a link there?”

“Bella…” I shoved my hands into my pockets. “He seemed genuine about his love of art. But even if that would extend to theft, consider the size of his yacht and the men around him. Do you think it’s wise to ask such questions about a man with those resources?”

We continued in silence for a moment, her eyes fixed on the Castel in the distance. When she finally spoke, her voice was flat. “Questions are what I do.”

How many people in the city could she accuse? Umberto, of course, but we knew his guilt. She’d accused Bianca and even me. She hadn’t come out and said it, but I could tell she was suspicious of De Rosa for not catching Umberto, likely had questions about Mario and Eva. No one was beyond her suspicions.

And now a man who was far too dangerous for her to question.

I shook my head. “Then call Special Agent Skinner, tell him your theory and leave it at that. You can’t go after a man with Fiori’s resources with empty accusations.”

Her jaw clenched and she slowed, continuing to stare into the distance, although her gaze didn’t seem focused on anything anymore. Something was warring inside her head and I was losing her to it.

“Why did the painting go to jail?”

She halted and turned to me. “What?”

“I said…” I moved in front of her, running my fingers along the backs of her hands. “Why did the painting go to jail?”

“Because it was guilty,” she said, the frown battling to remain in control.

I held my smile down as best I could, in case the joke didn’t fix her mood. “Because it was framed.”

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