Page 3 of Chasing Caine

Asthecaptainannouncedour flight time remaining until Rome, the plane gave a bounce. I gripped the armrest and breathed through the turbulence.

It was five in the morning at home in Brenton, Michigan and I’d slept for maybe three hours in the last forty-eight.

Yesterday, I’d completed a spontaneous tour of my favorite places in New York City. That visit was supposed to sort my brain out and remind me that I was better off without Antonio Ferraro in my life. But it only jumbled things up further. I realized I didn’t want to let him go, despite the secret he’d kept from me.

Now here I was on my way to Italy. Half the cells in my body were screaming for sleep, the other half were spinning around with such energy that my leg hadn’t stopped twitching for two hours.

What was I going to say to Antonio when I got to his cousin’s place?Hi, sorry I was such a stubborn jerkorSurprise! I forgive you.

Or maybe I could just be honest and tell him how much I missed him. Missed his arms around me, his lips on mine, the way he called me ‘bella.’ Missed his bad jokes and his laughter and his never-ending questions.

I unfolded the letter he wrote before he left town, still clutched in my right hand, all rumpled and torn from when I’d first read it. Not like there was any need to look at it. I’d memorized everything Antonio had written. His apology for lying about the Chagall. Telling me he wanted a future for us.

The head of the woman next to me lolled to the side, then snapped up. She blinked at me rapidly, like I was responsible for waking her, and she jutted her chin toward the aisle.

I undid my seat belt and stepped out to let her pass, her stale breath overwhelming me. Tucking my nose against my shoulder, I inhaled the scent of my motorcycle jacket. What I needed was a fast ride down a long rural road. That would’ve been smarter than flying to New York, let alone to Italy.

No, Sam, it wouldn’t have.

A young couple a few rows behind us caught my attention before I sat back down. He had dark hair and bronzed skin; she was blond with porcelain skin and freckles. Her head on his shoulder.

The last time I’d made this flight, I’d landed in Rome and driven to the town of Amelia. The idea was to help my boyfriend finish packing, ship his stuff off to Michigan, and we’d fly back together. A surprise. He was supposed to be excited.

An itch pricked at the back of my eyes, and I slipped into my seat, letting my head fall into my hands.

Vincenzo had lied the whole time. He hadn’t packed a damn thing. Had a shiny new job and hadn’t bothered to tell me. Didn’t want to hurt me, he’d said. He just floated along, hoping I’d eventually tire of waiting and end things so he didn’t have to.

I was so naïve back then. The delay with his passport. His visa. The job offer in Detroit he claimed fell through. His sick mother.

All lies.

Antonio had only told me one lie, but it was a big one. No, it was a small one that snowballed.

I’d brought a burned painting purportedly by Marc Chagall to him for authentication—for an insurance claim I was adjusting—and he knew from the get-go it was a fake. Instead of telling me, he pretended to go through all the steps of cleaning and testing it, dragging the process out for weeks. If he’d told me the truth that he knew where the real Chagall was on day one, I would have denied the claim and been done with it.

But then no one would have figured out that the house fire that destroyed the painting was arson, nor that it was covering up a murder. I wouldn’t have made up with my estranged best friend. I wouldn’t have fallen for the most remarkable man I’d ever met.

A hand brushed my arm, and a soft male voice said, “Stai bene? Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.”

A flight attendant knelt next to me. “It’s just a few bumps. Nothing to worry about.”

Nodding, I straightened to give him a weak smile. Turbulence wasn’t what had my stomach churning.

He patted my hand as my seat mate returned.

She was tall and slender, dressed in a navy suit that traveled surprisingly well. She carried a small Chanel bag under her arm and didn’t seem the type who normally flew coach.

I stood again to let her by and cast a glance back at the couple. He was awake and turned to kiss her head. She cracked her eyes open and yawned. He smiled and they looked at each other inthatway.

The way Antonio looked at me Friday night at his parents’ house. Before I discovered the truth about the Chagall—that his parents owned the real one, purchased in a private sale, legal, but strictly confidential.

My gut twisted at the memory. I had to stop focusing on that and make this right. People made mistakes and deserved forgiveness. Both of us fell into that camp.

But what if he’d already moved on? Maybe I should email him first. I pulled out my phone as I sat, which opened on the email I’d been reading before takeoff, from Elliot Skinner, my old boss in the FBI Art Crimes Team.

My seat mate, who’d freshened her breath while she was gone, smiled at me. “Work or pleasure?”

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