Page 7 of Chasing Caine

Mario took a sip, eyebrow raising. “You don’t find that strange?”

“That a branch of the Italian police would look more closely at anything with the Ferraro name on it?” I cocked my eyebrow back at him.

“Could your Uncle Giovanni be involved? Or Cristian?”

“Why would they bother with those pots? Or my equipment?”

He set his coffee down and clasped his hands. “Because that’s what they do, is it not?”

I let out a long sigh. Memories of blood, tears, and anger flooding me. Despite the years I spent with my uncle and cousin, I only knew the portions of their business they’d let me see—primarily money-laundering and extortion—but I’d always suspected they trafficked in looted antiquities. “Possible.”

“And knowing that…” He tapped my phone screen and shook his head at the photo. “Do you think a woman that at home at a police press conference—who appears to know not only the officer in charge, but the FBI agent—would be the right one for you?”

I started the video again. She scanned the crowd, the intelligence sparkling in her eyes. Was it my imagination, or was there pain? A pinch in the corners of her eyes when she said my company’s name? Did she feel regret for what happened between us? Did she miss me even a fraction as much as I missed her?

“Mario…” I paused the video and looked him dead on. “There’s not a doubt in my heart.”

Chapter 4

Antonio

Aftertheheadachefaded,I took an easel and fresh canvas to the terrace atop Mario’s villa. His home was built on a hill, providing a stunning view in all directions. I could see Capri to the west, Vesuvio and Napoli to the north. The olive grove nearby, the bay, the boats, the red and pink potted flowers by the ancient green railing.

Painting usually calmed me and inspiration was all around. Yet I was frozen, the palette and brushes taunting me, rather than inviting me. Samantha was all I could think about. I’d watched the press conference at least a dozen times before Mario threatened to take my phone.

The confident, professional woman in the video was such a change from the one in my office last Monday. The disdain in her eyes that day had torn through me.

Had it only been five days since she told me her heart was as broken as mine? That her heart wept as mine did? The next day, I’d boarded a flight to Napoli, crushed under the weight of time. Four and a half months working in Pompeii, at my father’s behest, and only after that could I return to the States and see Samantha again.

Ifshe would see me. If she was still in Brenton and not half-way across the country chasing storms and fraudsters.

A car motor sounded three stories below on the small side street running alongside the villa. A car door slammed shut, then the gate to the courtyard creaked open.

“Buongiorno, bellissima,” came Mario’s voice.

Was his friend from last night back already?

“Is Antonio here?” said a female voice in English.

My chest tightened. My brain was so fixated on Samantha, I was hearing her voice.

“Antonio?” Mario scoffed, in his Italian accent so thick, even I recognized it. “He doesn’t see the pretty tourists. But I do. I’m Mario, his far sexier cousin.”

I picked up a tube of titanium white and put some on the palette. Perhaps I’d start with clouds. Mix with a blue, but which one? Or a green? Or I could paint the sea, like Capri, like Samantha’s pale sea-green eyes.

Why had I lied to her? Because my father told me to keep his ownership of the real Chagall a secret, and I was not man enough to stand up to him.

‘Work with the insurance adjuster,’ he’d said. ‘Find out who created the forgery, but don’t tell her the truth.’

The logical parts of my brain told me it was not Papa’s fault. And yet, I could barely speak with him on the phone. I’d lost her because of his demand for family loyalty.

“Un momento,” said Mario. “I know this face. You are his Samantha?”

“I hope so.”

My heart bounded into my throat, and I bolted to the terrace railing to look down. It was not my imagination.

It was Samantha.

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