Page 23 of Forging Caine

“Of course,” I said, nodding. “But still, Brenton is quite a distance from Capri.”

“How was your project in Pompeii?”

“Excellent. I only just returned today.”

“Really?” Fiori’s menu tipped down slightly. “I thought you said you would only be in Italy until Christmas?”

“Sometimes plans change.”

“Indeed.” He gave a half-chuckle—as though catching me in a lie—and raised his glass. “To changes in plans.”

Samantha lifted her wineglass, smiling politely.

None of this felt right. His overly familiar greetings. His bodyguards blocking the door.

But it was the way he’d slapped my injured arm, like he knew what had happened, and was threatening me. There was an ulterior motive here.

“What’s this now?” Fiori stopped raising his glass before it touched his lips, reaching for Samantha’s hand. “You’ve married? Should I call for champagne?”

“No, it’s only a promise ring,” Samantha said, far too quickly. “I do hear that a lot.” She glanced at me, then at the ring, a genuine smile peeking through the investigator’s mask.

Did she know I had the engagement ring hidden in my bedside drawer since I was home at Christmas? I’d told her the entire condo was as much hers as it was mine, except that one drawer. When I visited for her birthday in March, she promised we could open it when I got home for good.

But did she know? And how could I ask her after such a horrible day?

“I apologize for being rude, Pasquale, but the jet lag is getting the better of me.” I suppressed a fake yawn. “You were quite insistent you see us tonight. Was there something you wished to discuss?”

“This is why I always liked you, Antonio.” He knocked twice on the table—a move eerily similar to my uncle’s commandments.

Jason entered the room and the remaining guard shifted so he was directly in front of the door. “Yes?”

Samantha uncrossed her legs, planting both feet firmly, as though she were ready for an attack. It was subtle, a small reminder of how she liked to point out she could take care of herself.

“The case,” said Fiori.

Jason moved the candles and flowers, glasses, and cutlery. He then retrieved an oversized black case from behind Fiori’s seat and placed it in the space he’d made. It was hard-sided and perhaps three feet by four.

Fiori turned it to himself and worked the dial lock. “I have a damaged painting I’d like you to repair for me.”

Samantha straightened at the word ‘painting.’

“I can give you the address of our company here in town and you can have it delivered.”

“That’s very kind.” He paused with the lock. “However, I must insist. This is a personal piece—very high value—and I don’t want it going through your father’s shop.”

Fiori had been behind a stolen painting at my Zio Andrea’s shop last summer. And had paid someone to steal a fresco from the site where I worked in Pompeii. Giovanni claimed it was to get back at him for getting out of the smuggling business. Was this work more of the same?

He opened the case and swiveled it around to Samantha and me. At first glance, I would have suggested it was seventeenth century Dutch. Slightly over two feet wide and slightly under that high. Its focus was a woman dressed in red velvet and white satin, playing a lute, with her instructor standing beside her.

Samantha’s foot tapped mine. Did she recognize it as a stolen piece?

“It’sThe Music Studyby Gerard ter Borch.” Fiori smiled at the painting. “She takes your breath away, doesn’t she?”

I stood, leaning over top of it for a better look. There was a line across the instructor’s face. A scratch? A corrected tear?

“It’s very pretty,” said Samantha, playing as though she were little more than arm candy. “Did you contact your insurance company?”

“Ms. Caine…” Fiori folded his menu and placed it on the table, clasping his hands together. So much for friends not using titles. “Please.”

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