by Nichole Van
Deep breath. Another.
“I can do this. Let me finish.” I spread ointment over his last cut and reached for the bandage tape, cutting off a strip in the silence.
“It’s a saint’s medal,” Branwell said as he watched me. “San Cristoforo . . . Saint Christopher.”
I raised my head.
“If I remember my Catholic catechism, he’s the patron saint of travelers and protection,” he continued. “I noticed there’s a shrine to him in the stairwell, too.”
There was a shrine just inside the main door, opposite the mailboxes. A statue surrounded by fake flowers and candles.
“Professor Ross did say something about the medal being for protection. His mom was concerned for my safety.”
Branwell grunted in agreement. I smoothed the last bit of bandage on his arm. Mummy-wrapped.
I handed him the altered t-shirt. He raised an eyebrow at World’s Okayest Brother but didn’t say anything. He stood up and pulled the shirt over his head, hiding all that glorious muscle.
“My question is why?” he asked. “Why is Cat Lady concerned for your safety?”
He pulled the long sleeves down over his bandaged arm. Or as far as he could. The shirt was clearly a size too small. It hugged his chest with shocking precision. The sleeves stopped an inch above his wrist bones.
I shrugged. “Because she is a busybody with a lot of time on her hands?”
“Or she thinks someone or something would be a danger to you. And possibly Grace by extension.”
“Maybe. Though I’m still siding with busybody.”
Branwell stooped and picked up his leather gloves from the floor, pulling one on to his right hand. He tucked the other one into his front pocket, leaving his left hand bare.
“Well, let’s keep searching. I listened to the bathroom while I was in there and didn’t hear anything. Let me see if I can find anything helpful in the other bedrooms.”
He walked out into the hall.
I paused, momentarily overwhelmed. And then kicked my feet into action.
“You would do that?” I followed him into the central hall. “Something just attacked you, and you still want to touch things?”
He paused and turned to me. Eyes intent. Looming tall in the shadowed hallway.
“A mere flesh wound won’t stop me from finding that little girl.” Voice so emphatic.
How I loved this man.
The world instantly swam before my eyes.
I swiped away the tears. “T-thank you. I don’t know how I—”
Bzzz. Bzzz. Bzzz.
I jumped.
Doorbell.
I turned toward the door, Branwell suddenly at my heels. I peeked through the peephole.
“Speak of the devil,” I sniffled, wiping my eyes dry.
I shot Branwell an apologetic look over my shoulder. He was pulling his glove onto his left hand.
I opened the door to Cat Lady, dressed in another one of her famous pantsuits (this one baby blue with little pink flowers). She stood on the doorstep, wringing her hands. Agitated. Relief flooded her face as she spotted me, eyes lingering on the necklace around my neck.
“Santa Maria piena di grazia,” she muttered while crossing herself.
And this was why she was my new BFF. Anyone who greeted me by crossing themselves and muttering saint’s prayers was a friend for life. Seriously. Everyone needs a friend like that.
Cat Lady went off in Italian, talking straight to me, my mind too frazzled to even attempt to keep up.
Branwell shifted behind me, his chest a wall of comforting warmth against my back.
Cat Lady paused, eyes pinning him.
She said something, sharp and concerned. I thought I caught the word ragazzo.
Boyfriend.
Or simply boy, perhaps.
But given the way Branwell froze, I was guessing the former.
I half turned to him. “Did she just ask—”
“—if I was your boyfriend?” he finished for me. “Indeed she did.”
I mentally rattled through several responses. But I blame my poor tired brain for what happened next. Everything caught up with me—
Grace’s disappearance.
Branwell’s arrival.
Branwell’s bloody injury.
The fact that Cat Lady took a too personal interest in my love life.
Before Branwell could reply, I wrapped a hand around his (uninjured) rock-solid bicep.
“Why, yes. Yes, he is.” I sighed. “I’d love for you to meet my boyfriend, Branwell D’Angelo.”
Twelve
Branwell
Talk about living my own private hell.
This was it. One hundred and ten percent.
Lucy gazed up at me, love and adoration shining out of those gorgeous eyes of hers. Her soft body tucked firmly against mine. A possessive hand wrapped around my upper arm.
Everything I had ever wanted and knew I could never have.
It was bad enough I was wearing the t-shirt she had stitched, hearing her breathing and movement over and over.
But now to be her pretend boyfriend . . .
“Boyfriend?” Cat Lady sighed, continuing with that Italian thing where she rattled on as if we could understand. Which, unbeknownst to her, I could. “Che peccato. I was so hoping you and my Roberto”—Roberto? Oh right. Professor Ross.— “would hit it off. He just needs to find a nice girl and settle down and give me some grandbabies. But he’s always off at that museum chasing after things that are better left alone . . .”
Cat Lady droned on. I started to tune her out because the more Cat Lady talked, the more Lucy sagged her weight into my arm, eventually resting her head on my bicep. Practically cuddling into me. I knew it was all an act, but that didn’t stop my stupid heart from lurching.
Sweet, darling Lucy.
And still Cat Lady talked. Aside from being a gattara, she clearly laid claim to the title, chiacchierona. A chatterbox.
Quite the combo.
I kept looking for a way to interrupt her, but Cat Lady was an experienced chiacchierona, not making eye contact long enough for me to break in.
Clever, this one.
“ . . . and, of course, now the police think that Roberto is a suspect,” Cat Lady said, yanking my attention back to her, “even though he wasn’t even here that morning—”
“Roberto is a suspect, too?” I asked in Italian. “Because he had a key to the apartment?”
Cat Lady paused, eyes wide and surprised, assessing me.
“You’re Italian?” she asked.
“Sì. My father was from Florence.”
Lucy pulled away from my arm to shoot me a raised eyebrow, blue eyes inquisitive in her freckled face. I gave a subtle I’ll explain in a minute shake of my head. She lowered her eyebrows in response.
“Roberto is a suspect as well?” I prompted in Italian, turning my gaze back to Cat Lady.
Cat Lady licked her lips, recalibrating her course, and then jumped in with both feet. Talking away.
“Yes, he is. Which is just utterly ridiculous. My Roberto wouldn’t hurt a fly. He loved little Grace to distraction . . . like his own daughter.”
Cat Lady believed that. Her words rang solid. Truth sounded like that. Substantial. Dense.
Lucy relaxed back into me, head against my arm, clinging like I was the only thing holding her upright.
I fought the urge to shift my arm and wrap it around her waist, supporting her. As it was, her warmth readily seeped through the t-shirt, keeping every cell on that side of my body hyper-alert.
“It’s a moot point,” Cat Lady continued, “because Roberto was with me the whole time, so of course he had nothing to do with the little girl’s disappearance.”
My GUT buzzed at her words, hearing them as hollow. Not substantial. Empty.
Everything within me stilled.
Cat Lady was lying.
But what part of her statement was the lie? The part about her son being with her? Or the p
art where he had nothing to do with Grace’s disappearance? Both?
I played stupid.
“What a relief that he was with you. It must be nice to know he has an alibi.”
“Too true.” She nodded emphatically. “Such a comfort to this mother’s heart.” She thumped her chest with a fist.
She firmly believed that.
Lucy relaxed even more into me. Poor thing.
I gave up fighting the urge to hold her. I tugged my arm out of her grasp and wrapped it around her curvy waist, pulling her tight against my side with a gloved hand. Practically forcing Lucy to rest her head on my chest.
I half-expected her to pull back in surprise, but she sagged into me willingly enough and even wrapped her arms around my waist. Obviously interested in keeping the ‘boyfriend’ ruse up.
She was heaven in my arms. Soft. Cuddly. I had to swallow back the urge to brush my lips on her hair and pull her even closer. It felt so natural, so right.
My heart howled in frustration, tugging at the chains that shackled it. Why did Tennyson have to stand between us?
Keep it together, man.
“So where were you and Roberto when Grace disappeared?” I asked Cat Lady, forcing my mind away from Lucy.
“We were at an important all-night worship service with my church group. Before the demons can be cast out, we have to properly purify ourselves, you know.”
Right.
A half-truth there.
Wait—did Lucy just snuggle closer to me? Madonna mia—
Focus.
“And Roberto was with you the whole time?” I asked.
Cat Lady didn’t like that question—it puckered her mouth like a sour lemon. “Well, of course. That’s why he has an alibi.”
Such empty words. Wind whistled through them.
Lie.
Bingo.
Relief washed through me. At last. A real clue.
Roberto, who had a key to this apartment, had not actually been with his mother during the time in question.
What had he been up to? Had he snatched Grace? Or was it something else?
We needed to talk with Roberto. Fast.
“So is Roberto home today?”
“He’s at work and won’t be home until late. After the museum closes, he’s going down to the police station to answer their questions.” Cat Lady smiled with pride. “He wants to help find Grace, too.”
Truth.
Excellent. Something eased inside me knowing that Roberto was being cooperative. The police would get answers.
Cat Lady leaned forward, lowered her voice slightly. “Between you and me, Roberto needs to find a new museum to work at. The bad things happened.”
I blinked, processing her words.
Le cose maledette. The bad things.
No. Not bad, per se. Cursed.
The cursed things.
An interesting distinction, though perhaps crucial.
Lucy stiffened slightly, arm tensing around me. What?
And then I noticed. I had begun to unconsciously rub my gloved thumb across her lower back.
Nice. Even my hands were betraying me.
I swallowed and ordered my wayward appendage to behave. Lucy relaxed again, her body melting into mine.
“The cursed things?” I asked Cat Lady.
She waved a careless hand, as if talking about old news
“You know, all the terribleness with that baron. Bad things happened here. You can feel it in the air.” She flapped her hands around like a bird.
Okay.
So . . . either Cat Lady was utterly cuckoo. Or she knew more about this whole situation than the rest of us combined.
She flapped her hands twice more, rustling her pale blue pantsuit and cat earrings.
It honestly could go either way.
Worse, my stupid thumb was rubbing Lucy’s back again, refusing my repeated requests to stopitrightnow. Fortunately this time, Lucy didn’t seem to mind. She actually cuddled closer, playing the part of girlfriend to perfection.
“So the bad things happened in this palazzo?” I asked Cat Lady.
“Sì. Jack Knight-Snow should have left the cursed things in the ground where the shadows belong.”
A chill chased my spine.
I had already heard similar words once today.
Was that Lucy’s ancestor I had heard earlier? John Knight-Snow? The upset Englishman who put a dent in the mantel?
My thumb was now doing figure-eights on Lucy’s spine. Stupid thing.
Cat Lady was still going strong. “When I heard little Grace had vanished, I instantly prayed they would find her—”
Footsteps sounded in the stairwell, running quickly upstairs.
Cat Lady turned around just as Dante’s dark head came into view.
Lucy startled. I gave her waist a tiny squeeze, silently telling her to stay put. Jumping back would make the situation look even more suspect. She froze in place, keeping one arm wrapped around my waist. Smart girl.
“You made it,” I said in English as Dante topped the last stair.
Trust me to state the obvious.
“Yeah, sorry it took longer than I thought with the client and that enchiridion. Then traffic was bad, of course. Prato is only ten miles as the crow flies, but it takes forever to get out of town.”
Traffic was always bad coming and going out of Florence.
“Besides, have you seen the paparazzi out there?” Dante scrubbed a hand through his hair as he came to a halt in front of us. “I had to park two blocks away and bluff my way inside this building. So if you see the family in 4E, I’m terribly sorry that their grandfather did not actually leave them a villa in his will.”
Dante’s eyes darted back and forth between Lucy and myself, noting our blatant We’re a couple stance.
Lucy stiffened even more. I could practically feel her soaring anxiety.
“Lucy, nice to see you again,” Dante said, voice very measured. “I wish the circumstances were different, however.”
“Me too.” Her voice tense.
What was up?
Dante finally lifted his gaze to mine. I gave him my fiercest brother non-verbal-communication stare. The one that said, Say nothing and I’ll explain later.
Dante flicked his eyes over my t-shirt, noting the bandages poking out the bottom of my right sleeve.
“Nice shirt,” he said with a teasing jerk of his chin. One that promised retribution if I didn’t explain myself as soon as possible. “I’ve always thought you were the okayest of us three.”
For her part, Cat Lady stared at Dante.
He turned to her, pasting on his most charming D’Angelo smile. “Pleasure to meet you, signora.”
Cat Lady smiled and then looked at me. Raked me up and down. And then she turned back to Dante and did the same.
A wry grin tugged at Dante’s mouth.
“This is . . .?” Cat Lady’s voice trailed off into a question mark.
“My brother, Dante D’Angelo.” I nodded, helpless to stop a smirk of my own.
You would think playing the Identical Twin game would get old after thirty some odd years, but it never really did.
Boys were eternally boys.
Lucy remained tense at my side, her eyes trained on my twin.
Dante looked like . . . Dante.
A classier version of me.
Same height. Same build. Same hazel eyes. Same dark hair. Same face shape.
But then we diverged. Dante wore his hair a lot shorter and sported carefully manscaped stubble. An expensive designer suit clung to his frame with military precision. Cool. Professional. Outwardly, he seemed the walking definition of ‘international playboy.’
“You are . . . twins?” Cat Lady pointed between us. “Identical twins?”
Dante kept on grinning. “Yeah, but I’m the good looking one.”
It was true, even if Dante laughed at the worn joke. Though we were technically identical, Dante somehow wore it better. More urbane and sm
ooth.
“Yeah. But I’m the smart one.” I ribbed him.
Also true.
I wasn’t technically any smarter than Dante, merely the hulking recluse who preferred studying to socializing. From an early age, I had been so overwhelmed with listening to the world that I often forgot to interact with it. Besides, Dante had always done the talking for me.
Cat Lady turned back to me, mouth open, ready to continue her monologue.
“It was a pleasure to meet you.” I held out my right hand, my left still holding Lucy.
Cat Lady reluctantly took it, doing that Italian limp handshake thing. Why they preferred dead fish handshakes, I would never understand.
Lucy took the opportunity to let go of me and turned back into the apartment, wrapping her hands around her upper arms. Dante followed her. Lucy stood tense in the hallway, facing me as I shut the door.
I took a step toward her. “Lucy—”
“Can we please get this over with?” She shot a terrified look at Dante. “I-I have to know if my little Grace is alive.”
Oh Lucy.
I closed my eyes, silently berating myself. That’s why she had tensed up once Dante arrived.
Stupid me, I had been so distracted holding her, I had utterly neglected the most important thing going on here.
Could I be a more inconsiderate jerk?
“Absolutely. Lead the way.” Dante swept a hand, indicating the hallway. “Show me Grace’s bedroom and a photo of Grace, if you can.”
Lucy darted into the living room to grab her phone, swiping into her photos as she came back out and walked down the hall.
Before following her, Dante looked me up and down, blatantly cataloging my replacement t-shirt, bandaged arm and damp jeans and hair. He spared an even more pointed look for Lucy’s retreating back.
“You gonna tell me what happened?” he asked in Italian. His concern and suspicion swirled around me.
Just what today needed.
“Later.”
He grunted.
We both followed Lucy down the hall, stopping in the doorway to Grace’s bedroom.
“So this is Grace.” Lucy held up a picture on her phone—a darling little girl with dark curls, hugging her dad’s hand.
Dante studied the photo. “She’s a cutie.”
Lucy nodded, the phone shaking in her hand. She bit her lip but was unable to stop two huge tears from brimming over.
