Page 40 of Chasing Caine

“And when was the last time you were in Italy prior to last Tuesday?”

Antonio’s shoulders heaved with a deep breath, looking at Mario as he exhaled. “Eighteen months? Two years?”

Mario shrugged. “Between those.”

The non-note-taking pen gestured between the two cousins. “You two are living together. How do you know each other?”

Mario nodded. “Cousins.”

“But you’re not a Ferraro?” De Rosa didn’t bother flipping through his notebook to check the names. Mario was a De Luca, from Antonio’s mother’s side. If the officer recognized the Ferraro name from the start, he’d remember Mario wasn’t in the same family.

“No,” said Mario.

“And what about that bruise around your eye?” De Rosa gestured to Antonio’s cheek with his pen. “How’d you get that?”

Also Nathan. The night Antonio and I split up, Nathan had come to my rescue. I’d only called him to drive me home, but he’d taken the opportunity to show Antonio what he thought of him.

Antonio’s face squirreled up. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“The easiest explanation is usually the right one. A man who has full run of the space, able to cordon it off from the public, knows the comings and goings, able to hide away a piece of equipment to delay official progress…” De Rosa waved the pen around as he spoke, as though conducting an invisible symphony of implication. “Not only with the knowledge of how to conserve a fresco once it’s gone, but access to facilities in Rome to do just that. And perhaps also pigments to help the process, not to mention…”

The carabiniere slowed, letting the tip of the pen rest in Antonio’s direction before continuing. “Contacts who know how to move such a piece along?”

Before Antonio got it in his head to punch the man, which he appeared to be on the verge of, I piped up. “He was with me when the fresco was taken. The entire time.”

“Really?” De Rosa looked me up and down, then did the same with Antonio.

I knew that appraising look. We weren’t standing next to each other, not in physical contact at all. Professional mode wasn’t what the moment needed. I closed the distance between Antonio and me, slipping my hand around his waist, resting it on his opposite hip, while he did the same around my shoulders.

Warmth spread through me, nudging out the frustration. Antonio wasn’t being punchy because of me—it was about De Rosa. Something must have happened between them on Saturday.

“Really.” When I looked up at Antonio and smiled at him, his tension visibly eased. “I arrived in Naples Saturday just after noon, and we haven’t been apart since then. We were in Capri Monday and Tuesday, if it becomes relevant.”

De Rosa flipped to the spot in his notebook he’d bookmarked with a finger and tapped the pen on it. “So… Ms. Caine? American tourist, you say, yet your Italian is flawless. If you’ve never been here before, how did you identify the missing fresco, despite two men who work here failing to notice?”

“She has a remarkable—” began Antonio.

“I’m speaking to her, please,” said De Rosa.

I shrugged. “I have an eye for certain things. Not quite photographic, but close. Dr. Ferraro showed me photos of the wall on our way here, and I recognized the real thing didn’t match, but needed to see the photograph again to know why.”

“You have your documentation?”

I let go of Antonio and opened my small crossbody bag to produce my passport for him.

He held it open, comparing my face to the photograph, made some more notes, then skimmed the pages. “Only one stamp?” He passed it back to me, some of the youthfulness reappearing in his face.

“I haven’t traveled outside the United States since I got this one.” The passport was six years old. And he was right, it needed more stamps. I slid my arm back around Antonio, who hadn’t let go of me. Deep inside, I sighed. Maybe more Italian stamps.

The officer with the camera motioned to De Rosa, and they stepped away from us to discuss the images.

Mario whispered, “Do they really think you’d steal from the Park?”

Antonio shot him a look, one of the cousin looks, where the two shared unspoken words. “He’s doing his job.”

“A little zealously,” I said under my breath. “But at least he sounds like he’ll do something about it.”

More of the tension left him, and he squeezed my shoulder. “Which means I get your focus back on me?”