Page 1 of Bite Marks

ONE

VANESSA

Walking through the halls of her gallery, Vanessa’s heart raced with the thrill of having the premier impressionist exhibition of the year. The massive collection took an overwhelming amount of networking and paperwork to pull together, but it would all be worth it once people walked the halls with their eyes popping from their heads.

“The two Renoirs came in last night.” Vanessa’s assistant, Maria, handed her the documents detailing their condition and arrival times. “And the Pissarro is due to arrive at two this afternoon.”

When Vanessa originally hired Maria, it came down between her and one other candidate who looked entirely too similar to Vanessa. In this line of work, it wasn’t who you knew but who knew you, and having an assistant be confused for the gallery owner wouldn’t do the business any favors.

That was one of the lessons Vanessa’s father taught her before he died. That, and stay away from the mob. However, he’d taught her that lesson in a more brutal fashion.

Vanessa poured over the documents as they headed to the back. “Gavin opened them?”

“They were the only ones here.” Maria frowned and picked up her pace to make it to the door before Vanessa and held it for her.

Vanessa passed into the back room without breaking her stride and found the paintings. Gavin wasn’t bad at his job, but he was a little inexperienced. Given that the Renoirs were the second most important pieces to the collection, they should have called her to come down to open them before filling out any paperwork.

Vanessa pulled the paintings out to find them in excellent condition.La Balançoire,also known asThe Swing,had definitely been the hardest piece in the whole gallery to get on loan from the Musée d’Orsay. The French were always hesitant to let their pieces travel.La Petite Irène, orPortrait of Irène Cahen d'Anvers,was much easier to get from Zürich, though just as difficult and time-consuming to ship. They would serve as two of the brightest jewels in the gallery’s crown.

“How about we skip over to Craig’s?” Maria asked. “I could use a cup.”

Vanessa checked her watch and nodded. “We have time, and I could definitely use one too.” They headed out and waited at the corner for the crosswalk to change.

“Have you found anyone for the opening yet?” Maria raised a brow, peering up at her boss.

Vanessa frowned. “No. Haven’t had time to look.” That wasn’t an outright lie, but she knew that she hadn’tmadeany time for it either.

“You don’t need to look. Men are looking for you. All you need to do is drop the proverbial handkerchief. Watch them come running.”

The light changed, and the group of waiting pedestrians walked across Michigan Avenue. “I don’t want to watch a pack of dogs fight over who gets to drool first.”

“But isn’t that fun? Watching? We just sit back and wait for the one who breaks free of the scuffle first to hand us that handkerchief. It’s cute and sexy.” Maria’s hips picked up some extra sway. “I love seeing guys elbow each other in the ribs while keeping a smile on their faces.”

They reached Craig’s Café and hopped in line. It wasn’t overly long, given it was the end of their morning rush.

“Noon-Zio?” a barista calls out. “Venti Caffe Amere-cano, for Noon-Zio.”

Vanessa’s heart froze for a moment as a giant man rose from a chair like a mountain rising from a catastrophic earthquake. Up, up, up, till he looked like the only adult in the room among children in his fine Italian five-piece suit. Her heart leapt back into motion at a gallop when the man’s gray eyes zeroed in on the unwitting barista.Oh, you poor, poor schmuck.

She knew what was coming. Nunzio Sarducci wasn’t a stranger to her, though given the last time she saw him, he may as well have been. A mob man, which automatically put him on her do-not-date list, he’d been in the background of her life for a long time, though it wasn’t as pertinent after her father was killed. Still, she knew him as a rough-and-tumble brute.God, I hope Craig’s has good health insurance.

“Hey,” Nunzio shouted. “You work at a café, and you don’t know how to say Nunzio or, for Christ’s sake, Americano? Cosa devo fare per avere un po’ di servizio italiano?”

What do any of us have to do to get Italian service, indeed?This city was put on the map by the Italians, but it seemed like every year, people forgot it more and more. A smile crept along her lips. Maybe Maria was right, maybe watching the men fight wasn’t so bad.

Nunzio chuckled before placing two large hands on the counter. The gold on three of his fingers and a Rolex glinted in the overhead lights. He hunched over to come face to face with the man who clearly didn’t know a lick of Italian. “You, my man-bun-wearing friend, are a disgrace to our fair city. Hearing you gobbledygook our language is downright depressing. It’s like you took a beautiful lady and dunked her into the sewer. Why would you do that to her?”

The barista’s mouth moved, but no words came out. His eyes darted around as if he was going to find the answer off to the side somewhere.

“Hey! Look at me.” Nunzio pointed to his eyes. “I didn’t ask you for a pack of sugar or cream. You don’t have to go looking around. If you can’t treat a lady right, step off and let a real man have at her. Yeah?”

Craig, an older man with a short gray horseshoe wrapping his head, came up with a smile and gently pushed the young barista away. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Sarducci. I’ll make sure he goes back through the training on pronunciation. It won’t happen again.”

“I believe you, Craig.” He offered his hand, and Craig took it with his own. “You run a good outfit here. If you need a young guy to fill in for Mr. Can’t-pronounce-a-damn-thing, you let me know. I know a guy.”

Vanessa and Maria snickered at his quip.

“I’ll let you know. You have a good rest of your day.” Craig smiled and waved goodbye.

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