The Shadow (Florentine #2)

by Sylvain Reynard

  It was Tuesday. Raven was having lunch with Patrick and his girlfriend, Gina, both of whom worked at the Uffizi with her, at an osteria near the Piazza Signoria.

  Carefully, Raven rested her fork on her bowl of pasta.

  “I haven’t seen Batelli since he cornered me in the restoration lab.” She resisted the urge to mention that Batelli had been ordered by his superiors to stay away from her since then.

  “I saw him,” Gina interjected. “He and Vitali were on the second floor, arguing.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me.” Patrick tucked into his lunch with gusto. “Batelli looks like an idiot. No fingerprints, no footprints, no physical evidence at all. No wonder Emerson brought in a private firm.”

  Raven focused on her meal, trying hard not to think about the reason why no physical evidence was found.

  “I understand why Professor Emerson is giving up.” Gina shifted her dark hair behind her ear. “If you look at the major art thefts of the twentieth century, most of the artwork was either retrieved in a few weeks or it was lost for decades. Thieves took thirteen paintings from the Gardner Museum in America. It’s been twenty-five years and they still haven’t recovered them.”

  “The FBI think they know who took the paintings,” Raven mused. “National Public Radio did a story about it.”

  “In twenty-five years, NPR can do a story about Batelli and how he harassed innocent employees while failing to find a single clue.” Patrick gave Raven a sympathetic look.

  “I have a theory.” Gina lowered her voice, glancing between her friends. “I don’t think the theft was one of opportunity, because there are other rooms that are more accessible. I think the thieves had a buyer in mind. They’ve probably already delivered the illustrations and the new owner is hiding them.”

  Raven’s cheeks flamed as she thought of the elaborate display on the walls of William’s villa. She began nibbling at her pasta determinedly.

  “I agree.” Patrick leaned over to press a chaste kiss on his girlfriend’s cheek. “I think Emerson knows this, he’s frustrated with Interpol and the Italian police, and he’s decided to throw in the towel. For now.”

  Raven made an effort to sound nonchalant. “Do you think he will come back?”

  “Emerson strikes me as a stubborn person. He isn’t going to give up completely, but he isn’t going to waste his time waiting for Batelli to grow a brain.” Patrick sipped his wine and replaced the glass on the table. “I hope Vitali keeps Batelli away from us. He was quoted in La Nazione saying he won’t rest until the culprits are found. I have a suspicion he’s going to want to interview us again, since he doesn’t have any other leads.”

  Raven kept her eyes fixed on her lunch, not knowing what to say.

  “Enough talk about Batelli.” Patrick’s posture relaxed. “How about you, Raven? What are you going to do when the restoration project finishes?”

  “I still have a position at the Opificio. But I won’t be expected to return until September. As soon as the project at the Uffizi is finished, I’ll be on vacation.” Raven touched her gold bracelet.

  “Will you go back to the States? Or are you and the rare vintages collector on again?” Patrick pointed to her adorned wrist.

  “I’m not sure what I’m doing for vacation, but yes.” She smiled. “He came to see me after my birthday.”

  “So you have a boyfriend.” Patrick gave Gina a significant look.

  Raven squirmed. “Yes.”

  “I’m happy for you.” Gina lifted her glass in a toast.

  The three friends clinked their glasses together and the subject of conversation turned back to their respective jobs at the Uffizi and workplace gossip.

  As they approached the employees’ entrance after lunch, Gina placed a cautious hand on Raven’s arm. “Raven?”

  “I’ll catch up with you two later.” Patrick gave Gina a lingering kiss before disappearing through the door.

  Raven leaned on her cane, looking at Gina expectantly.

  “I wanted to apologize,” she stammered. “About my cousin. I was speaking with Roberto yesterday, asking him about you.”

  Raven chewed at the inside of her mouth, wondering what Roberto had said.

  “He was angry with me,” Gina confessed. “He thought I was trying to play matchmaker and that I was doing it only because he’s blind and because . . . because of your leg.”

  She glanced down at Raven’s cane and blushed.

  “That wasn’t what I was doing. I just thought you and he would have a lot to talk about. You’re both good people who love artwork and history. I thought you would understand one another. But I didn’t think— I didn’t think that it was only because of your handicaps.”

  Gina bit her lip, her expression sorrowful.

  “I’m not saying this correctly. Roberto said I was prejudiced, thinking handicapped people should only be with other handicapped people. But that’s not what I thought. I just wanted you and Roberto to know each other—not to be romantic, necessarily, but to be friends.”

  Raven stared. Her friend was obviously in distress, and even though her explanation was muddled, it seemed sincere. Certainly, it appeared Roberto had given voice to the concerns Raven herself had had. She could hardly fault Gina for apologizing.

  “Thank you,” Raven said quickly. “I like Roberto. He’s a good person and I know we’ll be friends. So thank you for introducing us.” She touched the bracelet she was wearing, almost instinctively. “But I’m seeing someone.”

  “I’m glad.” Gina’s smile was wide and happy. “I will tell Roberto this, and he will be happy for you, too.”

  She opened the door for her friend and held it, before following Raven into the corridor.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “‘Transformations are strictly forbidden until further notice. Any killing of human beings within the city is also strictly forbidden. Violations of this new law are punishable by death.’” Niccolò lifted his gaze from the scroll he was reading, interrupted as he was by a cacophony of noise emanating from his fellow Consilium members.

  Maximilian was already on his feet. “You’re taking away our ability to add to our numbers and to defend ourselves.” He leveled angry eyes on the Prince. “Your edict means death!”

  “Sit down.” The Prince’s voice was low, barely above a whisper. Max hesitated, but only for an instant. Then he slung his large body back into his chair. The Prince stared at him, his body still, his gray eyes cold and angry.

  “If I may, my lord.” Niccolò looked at the throne.

  The Prince waved a hand in his direction.

  Niccolò turned to face his detractor. “I am eager to hear your alternatives, Sir Maximilian. But before we entertain them, I’d like you to accompany me to the principality library. I want to show you the accounts of the Curia’s massacre of Prague.”

  The other members of the Consilium began to murmur in response. Niccolò continued to stare at Max until the Prussian giant lowered his gaze.

  “We must do all we can to avoid Prague’s fate. The best course of action is for the principality to exist quietly and avoid undue attention. Will you mind the new recruits? Keep them from killing when they feed?”

  Max remained sullen.

  Niccolò turned his attention to the other Consilium members. “Friends, the austerity measures are temporary but necessary. We must work together to promote them amongst the citizens and persuade them to obey.”

  “Precisely,” said the Prince. “We don’t know the Curia’s plans. As intelligence is gathered, we may modify our response. But unless you wish hundreds of blackcoats swarming our streets, you must support and enforce the new laws.”

  His gray eyes moved from member to member, pausing perhaps a bit too long when they met Aoibhe’s eyes. The Prince nodded at his head of security to continue.

  The lieutenant bowed. “With respect to the Curia, there are wheels within wheels. It’s possible they’re looking to make an example of a principality in or
der to demonstrate their power to the Americans, who are notoriously unruly. If we bide our time, perhaps their eyes will fixate elsewhere and we may regain our former liberty.”

  “We could distract them.” Pierre stood and bowed. “Why not send a killing party to Zurich, London, or Berlin? Have them pile bodies in a public square. Panic will ensue and the Curia will have no choice but to forget Florence and deal with it.”

  “The thought had occurred to me,” the Prince observed. “If you were caught, the diversion would be in vain. We’d find ourselves under renewed scrutiny and at war with another principality.”

  “They would have to deal with panicked humans first,” Pierre countered. “If the spectacle was large and public, the Curia would have to investigate it. They’d be focused on another city, not Florence.”

  “They’re adept at dealing with more than one principality at a time. But I agree, it would attract attention.” The Prince gazed at Pierre with renewed interest. “Are you volunteering?”

  “It would be an honor, my lord.” Pierre gave an exaggerated bow.

  “The covens in Switzerland are sparse and weak. We needn’t fear retaliation from them and certainly the Curia would be surprised by killings within those borders. But Switzerland is near. What about Paris? If you were caught, they’d think you hailed from the city.”

  “That’s true, my lord.” A hint of discomfort shadowed his face. “I had thought of Russia.”

  “The eastern covens are at war with the patriarchs,” Lorenzo interjected, tapping the staff of the principality impatiently on the stone floor. “The patriarchs despise the Curia and would never let them past the borders.”

  “A fair point.” The Prince peered down at Pierre thoughtfully. “Paris is the obvious choice, given their history with the Curia. They’ll be too concerned with staving off a massacre to wage war with us, even if they discover who sent you. Who would you choose to accompany you?”

  “Max.”

  The Prussian growled. “It’s a fool’s errand.”

  “You were just bemoaning the fact that you wouldn’t be allowed to kill or add new recruits.” The Prince’s tone was sharp. “Pierre’s suggestion will enable you to have your fill of killing.”

  He gestured to Max to stand. “Maximilian, you are hereby ordered to assist Pierre in his mission. I am placing you under his command.”

  “That’s an insult!” Max spluttered. “I outrank him by over a century.”

  “Audentes fortuna iuvat. In case you’ve forgotten your Latin, that means ‘fortune favors the bold.’ Pierre will lead the mission to Paris and you will accompany him. If you fail, it will mean a death sentence. If you succeed, you will be rewarded.” The Prince leaned forward on his throne. “If you refuse, I will kill you.”

  If Maximilian could have gone pale, he would have. His eyes widened almost to the point of bulging, his large fists clenching and unclenching. His gaze flickered to his left, but it was unclear who he was looking at. Both Niccolò and Lorenzo avoided eye contact.

  Max returned his gaze to the Prince and nodded.

  The Prince turned back to Pierre. “I want you to leave at once. Gregor will see that you are outfitted for your journey. Tell no one about your mission. We can’t risk the news reaching the ears of the Curia.”

  Pierre and Max bowed and exited the chamber.

  The Prince cast his eyes on the remaining three members of the Consilium. “Our numbers are dwindling. We have yet to replace Ibarra and will be without Pierre and Max indefinitely. Lorenzo, invite Stefan of Montréal to join us at our next assembly.”

  “As you wish.” Lorenzo bowed. “But he lacks the requisite years for Consilium membership.”

  “He is a person of influence, despite his youth,” rejoined the Prince. “Let us return to the matter at hand. Are there any further objections to the new laws?”

  Aoibhe stood. “None from me, my lord. I saw what the Curia did in Paris to a coven of old ones. I came here because it was widely known that Florence was one of the only European principalities the Curia ignored.” Her expression shifted. “I support the Prince and his new laws.”

  The Prince nodded and Aoibhe regained her seat. He waited a scant minute before turning to Niccolò.

  “Remind the brethren they are free to leave the city, should they find the new laws too restrictive. Suggest they wear the safety vests we procured to protect them from hunters, but remind them if the Curia invades, the vests won’t protect them. Let us hope we’ll have good news from Paris in short order.”

  The Prince stood, as did the Consilium members, who bowed before him as he swept from the council chamber, his black velvet cloak streaming behind him.

  “Take this missive to Venice at once. Instruct Tarquin to hand over the delinquent tribute immediately or risk the consequences.” The Prince addressed his lieutenant, holding out an envelope that had been sealed with the mark of Florence.

  He was annoyed at having to deal with a minor irritation—the puppet prince he’d installed after defeating the Venetians in a recent war.

  Lorenzo eyed the envelope nervously. “My lord, I am eager to serve you in all things. But if I deliver this message, the Venetians will kill me.”

  The Prince tossed the envelope on top of his desk. “And risk another war? I doubt it. We culled their army when we defeated them.”

  “Forgive me, Prince. Perhaps Niccolò would be a better choice?”

  The ruler’s gray eyes lasered into his lieutenant’s. “Why would you say that?”

  Lorenzo’s lips pulled into a sour expression. “They fear him.”

  “If they fear him, they are more likely to kill him.”

  The lieutenant’s expression relaxed, marginally. The change did not go unnoticed.

  The Prince sat back in his chair. “If Venice is foolish enough to execute a high-ranking member of my principality, I’ll invade them and execute their leadership.”

  “With respect, my lord, what about the Curia?”

  “It’s to our benefit that the Curia see us concerned with affairs of state and not looking over our shoulders. The threat of war with Venice should put them at ease with respect to their spies. Send Gregor.”

  “If I may, Prince.” Lorenzo adopted a conciliatory tone. “Why not Aoibhe? She’d charm the Venetians easily enough. Tarquin is already taken with her.”

  “Yes, I know,” the Prince muttered. “That was one of the reasons why we chose him. But Aoibhe is too valuable to risk losing.”

  The Prince withdrew a single piece of paper and scribbled on it. Then he folded it to form an envelope and melted some wax with a nearby candle. He sealed the envelope with the wax, imprinting it with the ring that held the symbol of Florence.

  He placed the second envelope on top of the first.

  “Tell Gregor to read the top message and deliver the second one. He is to leave immediately.”

  Lorenzo lifted the envelopes. “As you wish.”

  “Order Gregor to return with the tribute as soon as possible. Once you’ve sent him on his way, I would like you to meet with Aoibhe.”

  “To what purpose, my lord?”

  The Prince frowned. “You are free with your questions this evening, Lorenzo.”

  The lieutenant lowered his gaze. “I beg pardon, my lord. Lady Aoibhe is, shall we say, challenging. I prefer to arm myself before accosting her.”

  “Too true.” The Prince indulged himself in a small smile. “In view of the brewing conflict with Venice and the new edict we’re enacting, I think the principality is in need of a diversion. I want you and Aoibhe to plan a Bacchanalia.”

  Lorenzo’s eyebrows lifted. “Yes, Prince. But given the Curia’s scrutiny . . .”

  The Prince was swift to interrupt him. “The time is ripe to reward my citizens for their loyalty and to inspire their fidelity. So long as there is no killing, the brethren should be free to eat, drink, and fornicate.”

  “Of course, Prince. I live to serve you.” Lorenzo bowed and w
ithdrew, leaving the Prince alone with his thoughts.

  Chapter Nineteen

  After almost a year of work, the restoration of the Birth of Venus was close to completion. The team had to contain their excitement so as not to rush any of the final stages.

  Raven painstakingly continued to cover the magnificent painting with protective varnish, day after day. Her work was important and far from mindless, yet it led naturally to contemplation and the occasional flash of insight.

  Raven had several intellectual virtues that made her an excellent art restorer. She was extremely focused and disciplined and she paid attention to detail, down to the smallest fleck of paint. However, these were not the mental powers needed to figure out why Professor Emerson had walked away from the investigation.

  She knew William had interfered and that he’d done so to protect himself. He’d also interfered to protect her—using his influence to keep Batelli at bay. Having seen Professor Emerson’s anger at the theft and his wife’s sorrow, Raven was convinced it would take more than a survey of the past century’s art heists to convince him to wash his hands of it.

  He’d made much of the strange disappearance of another Dante specialist, Professor Pacciani. Raven wasn’t clear on the connection between the two events, but whatever Emerson thought it was, it had intimidated him.

  Raven was well aware of the antipathy that existed between the Emersons and William. She was the one who’d exacted his promise that he wouldn’t kill the man. But William wanted his revenge. He’d confessed to confronting the professor in Umbria. Funny how that confrontation came only a few days before Emerson’s visit to Vitali.

  Raven meditated on these ideas, but as Monday became Tuesday and Tuesday became Wednesday, she was unwilling to mention them to William. She was concerned about Mrs. Emerson’s health and hoped that her return to Massachusetts would enable her to receive the medical care she needed. Certainly, the farther away the Emersons were from William, the better for them.

  As she packed up her art supplies on Wednesday evening, she hoped the Emersons would reach their home safely and that they would stay safe, living long, happy lives that did not incur the wrath of the Prince of Florence. And she did not give up hope of persuading William someday to share his illustrations with the world.