Page 91 of Enduring Caine
He smiled and nodded. “Let’s go to the reception hall. Henri is preparing food and drinks to celebrate our big moment.”
“My second surprise?”
“Exactly.” He stretched an around my shoulder and ushered me out of the security room, as the guard who’d been there originally returned to his seat. “I’ll send someone to fetch Samantha. She’ll want to see this, too.”
The sound of voices carried down the hallway as Giovanni and I made our way toward the reception hall.
“Exiting a business such as mine comes with risk. Between the car nearly running over Cristian and Johann’s death, we’ve seen two of those in as many days. Some of my associates trust me to step away quietly, while others don’t. There’s one pushing harder than the others, who’s overstepped his bounds—by a lot.”
“You mean Fiori?” How did any of this tie into the mysterious surprise?
“He’s tried to hurt me more than once since I began discussing my withdrawal into private life, but last summer, things escalated. How much do you know about the stolen painting which surfaced at your uncle Andrea’s studio last summer?”
Papa had told me the news on Christmas Eve. The TPC had accused Andrea of working with the thieves who delivered the painting to his studio in Roma. They had just learned that the woman behind the theft from my worksite in Pompeii had also been the one to sneak the painting into Zio Andrea’s studio. “Only that it was linked to a theft from Pompeii in September.”
He nodded, withdrawing the arm from my shoulders. “Sending me messages, reminders to stay quiet—that was expected. I never thought he’d go after my family and their business. That I cannot abide.”
I stretched my bad arm downward so I could stuff my hand into my pocket. Every movement felt as if it was on fire. Arguing with Leonardo had been a foolish decision—not a decision at all, really. No one insulted my woman like that.
Gio stopped short of the archway into the room. It was cavernous, with exposed dark oak beams making up the vaulted ceiling. Arch-topped windows lined one wall, looking out toward the sea, while simpler windows on the other side looked out into the gardens. This room was distinct among those on the main floor. It had been built into the hill, rather than on top of it. Jagged pale rock dominated the rear of the room, the stucco wall following its edges. A meeting table of more dark wood took up the center with a banquette and pale green sofas beyond.
Henri straightened serving trays with a variety of sweets on the banquette, while Cristian inspected the work. Three guards maintained watch by the windows, while a slender man I didn’t recognize stood staring out a window.
“Antonio!” Cesca shot up from one of the sofas, a half-eaten eclair in her hand. She started in our direction, but Gio gave a near imperceptible head shake and she nodded before sitting again.
“My wife and older daughter in Paris are unaffected, but Francesca was here when Johann died.” Gio let out a long sigh. “I understand you don’t just know Pasquale Fiori’s name? You met him?”
“Sì, he helped Samantha and I after she hurt her ankle on a hike in Napoli.”
“And you understand he was the one who took the fresco from your site?”
“I do.”
“My goal was a clean break, not a war.” He looked up at me, an honesty shining in his dark brown eyes. “I know you doubt all of this, but I hope you can appreciate the risk I’ve taken to prove it to you.”
I scanned the room. No clues anywhere.
But a very excited Cesca practically bounced on her seat, so I joined her and her almost fully eaten eclair. “Henri normally only makes Italian meals, but these French pastries are amazing!”
“So we’re here for something French?”
She made a motion like twisting a key over her lips. “I’m sworn to secrecy.”
“There she is!” announced Giovanni from outside the room, in English.
“I narrowly avoided getting washed away in the deluge, but I’m here,” replied a woman, in a smooth, unaccented English.
Giovanni appeared with a beautiful woman on his arm, slightly taller than him in her high heels. Dark brown hair and cream skin. Her clothes were impeccable, a long black wrap-style dress and a small blazing red top handle bag on the crook of her arm. Behind them walked Leonardo and a man the same size, with eyes and a gait which spoke of a more calculating danger than Leo’s.
Cesca and I stood while the slender man at the window turned, and everyone made their way to the table at the center of the room.
“You didn’t tell me Dr. Ferraro would be here,” said the woman to Giovanni. She looked me up and down, smiled, then inclined her head toward the slender man. “I went to all the effort of securing an expert and you already had one.”
“Mi scusi.” I gritted my teeth through pulling out my right hand to shake. “You have me at a disadvantage.”
“I normally do.” She unthreaded her arm from my uncle’s elbow and shook my hand, a surprisingly strong and confident grip. Fortunately, she only squeezed, rather than shaking.
“Antonio, I’d like you to meet Scarlett Reynolds. She and…” Giovanni paused and gestured to the man who’d come in with her.