Page 46 of Enduring Caine
I gestured to the canopic jars. In the early 2010s, a wave of pro-democracy protests swept across the Middle East and North Africa. That led to an increase in looting of antiquities, a problem Egypt suffered from almost as much as Italy. “Those aren’t Italian, are they?”
Antonio’s voice echoed in my head,No snooping. No investigation. But what was I supposed to do? Let him talk like he was the savior of his culture while ripping apart others? And what about everything else? If he masterminded smuggling activities for decades, why should I believe any of the pieces were legitimately his?
“My wife bought them for me on our fifth anniversary.” Giovanni walked over to them and chuckled. “She said they’re a reminder that if I step out of line with her, I’ll meet the fate they were designed for.”
Cristian snorted a laugh.
“How long have you been married?” I asked.
He picked up a framed piece of stained glass, predominantly blue, with yellow and white sections. “She gave me this for our thirty-eighth anniversary last year. An earthquake destroyed the chapel we were married in and the church decided to sell some pieces to help raise funds to rebuild it.”
“This is from one of the windows?”
“It was.” He handed it to me. “This long golden section had been Saint Gabriel’s trumpet.”
The angel Gabriel was often depicted carrying the trumpet that would announce Judgment Day. The Resurrection. The end of time on Earth.
Cristian, still stifling laughter, said, “This was to remind him that if he stepped out of line, she would be the one blowing the trumpet announcing the end of days. For him.”
I forced a laugh with them, restraining the bubbling anticipation vibrating in my belly. This wasn’t snooping if Gio invited me directly to the stolen piece. And Antonio didn’t believe his uncle was changing, anyway. These two were not good people, no matter how polite Gio’s daughter was or how many funny anecdotes they could tell.
Cristian put the glass back as footsteps sounded from the doorway. Johann was there, as Giovanni had requested, to take us—
But it wasn’t Johann. As I turned to the door, I saw Vincenzo. He said, “Leonardo asked me to come down and join Samantha on a visit to Cesca’s studio?”
Did he know aboutThe Magdalen? Had he communicated the contents of this room to his handler before the messages stalled?
Antonio broke off from his conversation with Cesca and returned to my side, putting an unsurprisingly possessive arm around me. “I’m her escort within these walls.”
Thingsdidchange when Antonio found out Vin was TPC.
Vincenzo put up his hands in conciliation. “Surely he meant only as Cesca’s art history teacher. I understand you’re an artist and conservator, Dr. Ferraro. I would love to hear your opinion on my student’s work.”
Chapter 20
Samantha
“Here,likethis.”Antoniotook the charcoal from Cesca and traced a line underneath where she’d been focusing on the lower lid of Mary Magdalen.
I’d never watched him draw or paint before—been in the same room, sure, but I’d been on the wrong side of the canvas. The sketching process prior to picking up brush was a kind of magic I’d never figured out. Stick figures were about as good as I could do.
Cesca’s studio was on the main floor of the tower with double doors leading out, like so many other rooms on the ground level. Hers opened into a garden with a path that meandered out to the larger one Johann had shown me yesterday.
The room itself was as large as my bedroom three floors above with the same cream-colored walls and bathroom, but devoid of furniture other than a couple of rolling chairs, a drawing table, and two easels.
Rain and thunder continued to jostle her terrace doors and windows. Flashes of lightning sparked from behind the closed curtains. I scanned the paintings on the walls, very few of them framed. Tightened canvases and some pieces of paper held up with tape. Some were as good or better than her beach scene Giovanni showed me.
Before coming to Cesca’s studio, she’d taken us up the wide marble staircase from the great room to the second floor of the villa for a tour of the paintings lining the walls. None as spectacular as in the gallery, but beautiful pieces, nonetheless.
Vin had walked quietly behind, playing the guard instead of art history teacher. She looked to him several times as she told us what each piece was, and he answered with only a nod.
An obvious war had raged in Antonio’s mind the whole time. If Vincenzo spoke, Antonio’s hand clenched on mine. If Cesca spoke, he smiled and engaged her in further conversation.
When we arrived in Cesca’s studio, Vincenzo had talked with her and Antonio for a few moments, discussing similarities between her work and earlier attempts by modern masters. She watched Vin move, clearly infatuated with the man, which inspired a need deep inside me to hit him.
After she began working on her copy with Antonio, he transformed into proud uncle and art teacher, as Vin and I faded to the background.
Vin said, “Samantha, you look as though you’ve caught a chill. Do you need to fetch a sweater?”