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  I wasn’t sure if I should be confused or just sorry for him.

  When I was about halfway through my bowl of pasta, Tennyson lifted his head and fixed me with a look. As if he knew what I was feeling or thinking . . . which, I supposed he did. Maybe. Dante hadn’t been too clear on how Tennyson’s gift worked.

  Sheesh. And I thought Caro’s emotions were messing with me. How would it be to constantly feel the emotions of people around you?

  Tennyson raised an eyebrow as if to say, Welcome to my hell.

  Not wanting to contribute to his emotional overload . . . or whatever he experienced, I turned to Judith and asked the question I had been wondering about.

  “So why Dante, Branwell and Tennyson as names for triplets?” I stabbed more penne. “They seem a little—”

  “Random.” That was Dante.

  “Unrelated.” Tennyson.

  “Adorable.” Chiara winked.

  The brothers groaned.

  “There was a method in my madness.” Judith chuckled, petting the rat on her shoulder.

  “Mom has this thing for Victorian British writers.” Tennyson gave a weak smile.

  “I would say artists, more than writers specifically,” Dante said.

  “I do love poetry,” Judith agreed.

  That explained a lot about Dante’s interests, I supposed.

  I glanced at Tennyson. “So you were all named for Victorian British artists?”

  “Yep.” Dante turned to me. “See if you can guess.”

  I raised my eyebrow at the challenge.

  “Well, the first one is easy. You’re named for Alfred, Lord Tennyson.” I waved my fork at Tennyson across the table.

  He nodded.

  “And British Victorian . . .” I turned to Dante. Raked his fine form up and down. He took a bite of pasta, smirking. “So not named for Dante Alighieri, the thirteenth century Florentine poet—”

  “Which would have made a lot of sense,” Chiara said.

  “Agreed.” Judith sighed.

  I ran my brain through Victorian artists . . .

  “Hah!” I crowed. “Dante Gabriel Rossetti. Pre-Raphaelite poet and painter.”

  “She’s good.” Tennyson saluted me with his fork.

  “One more.” Dante returned my perusing look, running his eyes over me. “Branwell.”

  Mmmm, that was more difficult. I searched my brain but was coming up blank.

  “Does it help to know my middle name is Bronte?” Chiara offered.

  “No giving hints.” Dante shot her a stern look.

  Bronte . . . three sisters—Charlotte, Emily, Anne—all writers. But they had a brother . . .

  “Branwell Bronte.” I snapped my fingers. “The ne’er-do-well artist and poet brother of the Bronte sisters.”

  “Who’s saying I’m a ne’er-do-well?” Branwell asked, crossing the terrace.

  Branwell carried a large platter of heavenly-smelling roasted chicken and potatoes in his gloved hands which he set on the table.

  Everyone passed their dirty pasta bowls to Nonna, who placed them on a side table.

  And then we all dug into the secondo. Lemon-herb chicken and garlicky, oven-roasted potatoes. It was all so good, I couldn’t help but eat until I was stuffed.

  This was the problem with Italian food, I had decided. You didn’t need to eat it all, but it was so delicious, you couldn’t help yourself.

  Branwell joined us this time, placing an already dished plate on the table with pieces of chicken cut up. He then proceeded to eat with chopsticks, careful not to alter the food before it hit his mouth. Which made sense, once I thought about it. A fork would pierce the chicken, altering it at that moment, making it difficult for him to follow our conversation. Chopsticks just lifted.

  The conversation continued to ping around the table, some in English, some in Italian. The brothers ribbed Chiara about a new boy-interest. Apparently she had terrible luck with men. Obviously, our names weren’t the only thing we shared.

  Judith asked supportive questions and laughed at their jokes. Nonna teased and scolded. Through it all, I clearly saw the web of love and support that bound them all together.

  Part of me felt incredibly uncomfortable. I was an intruder on an intimate family moment. I didn’t belong and wanted to make my excuses and leave.

  Another part kept swallowing a large lump in my throat.

  Did Dante even remotely understand how blessed he was to have all these people in his life? A mother, grandmother and sister who clearly doted on him? Brothers who loved and supported him?

  When had I ever had the privilege of even seeing a family like this?

  It felt almost sacred somehow. A moment of shining hope. That such a family was actually possible.

  I thought about the last time I had a meal together with both my parents. Gosh. How long ago had that been? Three years? Four?

  We had met at a restaurant in downtown Boston. JB had been forty-five minutes late due to traffic (so he said), but both Mom and I knew it was more likely because of his assistant, Jennifer. My parents’ marriage could politely be described as unconventional. They tolerate each other’s serial philandering and stay together as more of a business arrangement than anything else.

  On this night, my mom refused to start dinner until JB got there, unloading her irritation on my ears and a full bottle of Chianti. Then JB arrived, and I listened to them snipe back and forth for the next hour—neither one asking me any questions beyond wondering (to each other mostly) why I had chosen the tuna instead of the salmon—JB ordering a bottle of some California white for himself.

  I wisely chose not to drink. Someone sober had to drive those two back home.

  But seeing the D’Angelos together . . . I swallowed back that lump again. An odd mixture of longing to be part of it all and anxiety that they would expect me to be.

  I was so messed.

  I caught Tennyson studying me. Was I being impolite again, not controlling my emotions better around him?

  Which emotion he probably felt . . . oy.

  We finished up the secondo and moved on to the insalata. Everyone piled mixed greens on their plate and dressed it with olive oil and syrupy balsamic vinegar from the cruet I had carried up.

  Dante was recounting our little regression on the bridge, including what we had found out about the Michelangelo sketch and Caro’s history.

  “So, wait. She was literally Prince Charlie’s granddaughter?” Chiara asked.

  Dante nodded. “That’s Ethan’s understanding.”

  “Legitimate granddaughter? Did Prince Charlie have any legitimate children?” Chiara asked.

  “I have no idea. We haven’t had time to research it yet.”

  “How unsettling to just have a regression in the middle of the street like that.” Judith lifted a small piece of bread to the rat on her shoulder. He grabbed it with his little paws and politely nibbled.

  I gave a nervous laugh. “They definitely catch you . . . unawares.”

  The rat fixed his eyes on me. Angled his head. And then stood at attention, placing a paw over his ribcage.

  It was . . .

  “Uncanny, isn’t it?” Branwell motioned toward the rat.

  “He looks just like—” Did I dare say it?

  “Napoleon.” Chiara finished my thought.

  “Yes.”

  I whirled on Dante.

  “Boney’s shadow has the bicorne hat and everything.” He shrugged.

  I looked at the rat, who had gone back to nibbling bread. “Well. I suppose there are worse things to be reincarnated as.”

  Judith smiled and rubbed Boney’s head with her fingers. “Yes. He makes an excellent rat.”

  I laughed.

  “So back to this regression,” Dante said. “Caro gave another coded message at the end of the conversation. Something about their friend John who likes to fly hawks on Tuesday mornings.”

  Dante shifted, stretching an arm across the back of my chair. Totally moving int
o my bubble. Again.

  I froze, not sure how I felt about that level of familiarity. He clearly hadn’t even noticed what he had done. As if drawing near me was somehow completely natural for him. Dumb Italians and their lack of personal space.

  “John who likes to fly hawks?” Chiara asked.

  “Didn’t you say Caro saw a monument in her mind?” Dante turned to me. Or rather just leaned about three inches. The heat of his body lapped my side.

  Emancipated-Claire wanted me to scoot my chair out, say a few polite thank yous and get the hell out of here.

  Sentimental-Claire was begging me to lean about five inches in the opposite direction, snug myself firmly into his shoulder and stay until he kicked me out.

  It’s just Caro’s lingering emotions, I reminded myself. That sense of security I felt around Dante.

  Without Caro’s trust thrumming through me, I would have runrunrun by now. Even as it was, panic was winning out.

  My mind finally caught up with his question. “Yeah. I did—or rather, Caro did. It was one of the monuments with the knight on a horse. The one by Uccello—”

  “Of course!” Chiara snapped her fingers. “The monument to John Hawkwood.”

  “Chiara, your knowledge of Florentine history is encyclopedic.” Tennyson’s tone so very dry. “You’re a living Wikipedia page.”

  “Grazie.”

  “I’m not entirely sure that was a compliment.” Tennyson sat back.

  “Don’t care. Hawkwood was one of the generals of the Battle of Cascina actually.”

  “Again. Encyclopedic.”

  Chiara stuck out her tongue at him. Tennyson folded his arms in reply.

  “Interesting coincidence,” Dante said.

  “Is it?” Chiara asked. “You said Caro knew John Hawkwood was part of the battle featured in the Michelangelo. It’s no stretch to know about his funerary monument in the Duomo.”

  “Hawkwood was so celebrated for his feats in saving Florence, they buried him in the Duomo?” I asked.

  “Eh. Not really.” Chiara waved her hand in a big, Italian way. “I’m pretty sure he was a general for Pisa during the Battle of Cascina, but Florence later won him over and then used his celebrity to lure other condottieri. It was all a game for them.”

  Dante leaned even closer; his ribcage brushed my shoulder. Spicy male and heat and him. My heart sped up.

  My emotions were a volatile cocktail of excitement and panic.

  The panic portion was all mine. Fear was a bird of prey digging its claws into me.

  The excitement . . . I wasn’t so sure. Caro’s emotions again?

  Curse these stupid regressions, messing with me like this.

  It was all I could do to remain glued to my seat.

  I knew it was weird to be struggling with this. But sometimes you just react and there’s no logical explanation. It’s just how you feel.

  “Didn’t Ethan say something like that during our first regression?” Dante asked. “That the wars of the Trecento—sorry, the thirteenth century—were all a game?”

  I reminded my lungs to breathe and nodded. “Yeah.”

  Dante finally sat back a bit but didn’t remove his arm from my chair.

  I locked eyes with Tennyson across the table. His blue gaze was all too knowing.

  Yep. Not sure what was worse. The fact that the poor guy had to deal with all my emotions (and, quite frankly, Caro’s too) before I did or that he knew how I felt.

  “Two minutes,” Tennyson said.

  Everyone turned toward him.

  “Claire’s going to be upset in about two minutes. No offense.” He shot me an apologetic grin. “Just figured I should give fair warning.”

  Heads looked back at me.

  “Uhmmm, thank you?”

  “Think nothing of it.”

  “Any idea what causes this anger?”

  “Not really. But logic says I should lay my money on Dante.”

  “Hey, why you throwing me under the bus? I thought you had my back,” Dante said.

  “I do. Which is why I’m giving you a friendly warning.”

  Tennyson and Dante stared at each other.

  A beat.

  “So back to our conversation. Let me research all the players for you. I have some time right now, and I know you guys are busy with the Colonel’s stuff.” Chiara pulled out her phone, typing as she spoke. “So Caro Stuart—for lack of a better last name—Ethan MacLure, Countess Louise of Albany and the Duke of Blackford. I’ll see what I can find.”

  “Thanks, Sis. That would be great. Now Claire and I just need to figure out how the Michelangelo fits into it all too.”

  Chiara continued entering notes on her phone. “Mmmm, good point. Seems too coincidental. I’d be incredibly surprised if there isn’t some link between Caro and the Colonel’s sketch.”

  “Yeah.” Branwell kicked back in his chair. “Especially given the brogue I heard.”

  “Was it Scottish?” I asked.

  “Definitely.” Branwell’s voice confident. “It was faint but there.”

  “Assuming the Colonel has one of Caro’s drawings in his possession, the question is which one? Caro’s own sketch or the one she is copying from?” Dante tapped his hand still resting along the back of my chair.

  “The mass spectrometry should sort that out pretty fast,” I said.

  “Maybe,” Branwell shrugged.

  “Agreed.” Dante inched even closer. “Unfortunately, no amount of studying the Colonel’s sketch or reviewing mass spectrometry will tell us the exact history. The best source of information is the most obvious.”

  I looked at him, raising an eyebrow.

  “Based on everything we know, I think Claire and I should visit the Duomo.” Dante winked at me. “Another regression could give us all the information we need.”

  My lungs tightened, cutting off my air supply.

  Yep. Tennyson was right.

  Two minutes on the nose.

  Nineteen

  Dante

  Claire froze. And then jumped to her feet, walking away from the table and around some of my mom’s potted lemons.

  I shot daggers at Tennyson.

  “No one ever listens to my warnings.” He nudged my foot under the table, nodding his head toward Claire. “Go talk with her. If it makes you feel any better, she doesn’t stay upset for long.”

  I leaned forward, mouth open.

  “No.” He kicked me again. “Don’t even ask it. Her emotions are her own. I’m not spilling how she feels about you.”

  “What good is having a brother who can feel others’ emotions then?” I half-laughed.

  A beat.

  Tennyson’s eyes got that weary too-knowing look. The one full of shadows and things unspoken.

  “Not much, Dante.” He sat back on a sigh. “Really not much at all.”

  Damn.

  I held his gaze for a moment, dragging all my love for him to the surface, letting it flood me.

  Feel that.

  I stood, tossing my napkin on the table.

  Tennyson used to tattle on us as kids, saying Branwell and I were throwing mean emotions at him.

  We always denied it, but he was totally right. We did. Anger, jealousy, scorn, disdain . . . I’m sure he got every nasty emotion possible from us over the years.

  Love, acceptance, devotion. Those were the emotions I channeled when around Tennyson nowadays. He had lost so much more than just a leg in Afghanistan, not to mention the events afterward—

  I stopped myself right there.

  Better to think about Tennyson when he wasn’t around to feel all my thinking.

  I rounded the corner. Claire stood at the iron railing on the edge of the terrace, hands hugging her arms, looking out toward the Duomo.

  Fitting.

  Clouds were moving in. A breeze ruffled her hair.

  I wanted to wrap my arms around her waist from behind, snug her tight against my chest and just hold her until the tension passed. Le
t her soak up my strength.

  Instead, I joined her at the railing, gripping the iron tight to keep my hands and feet still.

  Silence.

  “Let’s go over my problems with chasing a possible regression in the Duomo, shall we?” She spoke without looking in my direction.

  Score one for honesty. I had to give her that.

  I would always know where I stood with Claire.

  “First, despite your hedging on the Sandbox Rule, we’re definitely drifting into trouble territory here—”

  “Regressions aren’t plagiarism, Claire.” I moved to lean against the railing, angling my body toward hers. The need to study her winning out.

  “No, having the occasional lunch or dinner together isn’t plagiarism.” She brushed a strand of hair out of her mouth. “Actively pursuing a joint answer to the Colonel’s sketch is. It’s like sharing exam answers or copying homework.”

  “No. That’s cheating. Not plagiarism.”

  “Wow. Splitting a very fine hair there.”

  “If I have to.”

  “You should have been a lawyer.” She rolled her eyes. Her knuckles were white, gripping her upper arms.

  “How would the Colonel ever find out about this?” I relaxed an elbow into the railing. “On the outside, we’re just colleagues visiting a completely unrelated Uccello monument in the Duomo.”

  “Well, I’m having dinner with the Colonel tomorrow night, and he’s going to ask how things are going—”

  “So don’t volunteer to tell him. I know I won’t.”

  “And that makes it okay?”

  “Claire, we have a unique way of finding an answer to the provenance of the Colonel’s sketch that would be impossible with any other methodology.”

  “Yes, which also means it will be impossible to prove too—”

  “Possibly. But we don’t know that right now.”

  “Look, Dante, I get your point. But any information we might find will be useless when I get tossed off the project and lose this job.”

  “Maybe. But aren’t some answers worth the risk?”

  She sucked in that succulent bottom lip again.

  And then very slowly turned her head my way. Gave me a definite you-must-be-nuts look.

  “Dante, I don’t have the luxury of a loving family and an already successful business and . . . and people who care. I have me.” She tapped her chest. Emphatic. “That’s it. That’s all I have. Just psycho me, a mountain of baggage and the pathetic hope that I might get this job.”