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  Instead, we followed a narrow road to the left of the church and headed back down toward Piazzale Michelangelo, taking video in every pool of light.

  No Ethan.

  Just fireflies sparking in and out.

  “At what point do we concede defeat?” Claire asked after surveying one last burst of video. “Maybe Caro and Ethan were never here.”

  “Possibly.” I pocketed my phone. “Or maybe their meeting here wasn’t momentous. They could have just met and bundled off together.”

  “Or decided last minute to meet somewhere else.”

  “That also. We’ve been freakishly lucky to see as much as we have, honestly.”

  Tourists were thin on this part of the mountain. We were behind the major attractions and the traffic on busy Viale Galileo was a muffled hum. The lane switchbacked gently downward, winding through a garden.

  We walked in comfortable silence for a few heartbeats, holding hands. A couple of raindrops hit my face. Soft. Light. More mist than rain, to be honest.

  Just us, a few street lamps illuminating trees and rosebushes, fireflies flitting and the gentle vapor of sporadic rain.

  It was movie-worthy romantic—Italy at its clichéd best, almost a parody of itself—but I couldn’t relax.

  Claire and I were eerily alone. Too alone.

  “So what’s the plan now?” Claire asked.

  “I think we research what we can.”

  “Yeah. I hate thinking that we may never know what happened to Ethan and Caro. Has Chiara found anything?”

  “I’m not sure. We’ll need to ask her.”

  The rain settled in, scattering fireflies into the sheltered darkness.

  I chanced a glance behind us.

  Did not like what I saw there.

  “We’ll have to discuss this later, cara mia.” I pulled her closer to me. Steel laced my voice. “Right now, we’re heading back to my place.”

  She looked up, brow furrowing.

  “I’m sorry, Claire. Someone is following us. And I am determined to keep you safe.”

  Twenty-Nine

  Claire

  We pulled through the double doors of Dante’s palazzo fifteen minutes later. Me plastered to his back, arms tight around his waist, both of us a little damp but no worse for wear.

  Most of my shaking had stopped by the time we reached the Arno.

  Someone was following me. Genuinely. In real life. My emotions were this volatile mix of validation and horror.

  Dante caught one last glimpse of the man as we sped away from Piazzale Michelangelo. The stalker-guy standing in front of a vendor’s kiosk, head swiveling as we zoomed off.

  I clung to Dante until he parked the bike and I absolutely had to let go. I craved the safety of his touch.

  He led me into the palazzo stairwell, but before starting up the stairs, he dragged me into his arms.

  “It’s going to be okay.” He stroked my back—tender, kind. “We’ll find out who he is. Put a tail on him. Make all this stop.”

  I nodded my head, buried in his shoulder. “Do you think it’s my online stalker?”

  A long pause.

  Dante’s chest deflated. “I honestly don’t know. The man seems to be a professional.”

  I pulled back, alarm shooting through me.

  “Define . . . professional. Like a mafia hit man?”

  Another pause.

  “No. I don’t know.” A weary shrug. “It just felt like this wasn’t his first time shadowing someone.”

  “Well of course not. He’s probably been tailing me from the moment I arrived here. I’ve felt like I’m being watched from day one.”

  “But he hasn’t done anything, right?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I’m not sure that comforts me. What if he’s just waiting for the right opportunity?”

  I wrapped my arms around Dante, snuggling closer. “For some reason, I feel like I can cope with this . . . as long as you’re here . . .”

  I pressed my face into his chest, absorbing the soothing thump of his heart.

  This man . . . he undid me. I had been up half the night worrying over how he would react to the Colonel’s job offer.

  My throat still felt tight over Dante’s genuinely enthusiastic support. Before today, Grammy had been my only cheerleader. How I had missed that unconditional support.

  I never understood that a romantic relationship could also be a place of safety. That it should be a place of safety.

  A space of freedom and support. A sheltered cove carved out of acceptance, affection and deep genuine friendship.

  Obviously, I needed to reassess everything I thought I knew about love.

  Gah. And to think I almost passed this up over fear.

  I luxuriated in the warmth of him. I wasn’t just me anymore. I had become us.

  I didn’t have to fight my battles alone. Together, we would find a solution.

  Dante gave me a tight hug and then led me upstairs.

  Given the weather, Nonna had set the table in her own dining room. Her apartment was old-school Italian, as Chiara called it. Dante said Nonna refused to let it be renovated and so it remained in all its circa-1960 glory. Every room branched off a long central hallway, each with a discreet purpose: parlor, dining room, kitchen, bedrooms, bathrooms. I easily counted eleven doors stretching down the hall.

  The dining room was the second on the left, just past the kitchen.

  Dinner was another boisterous family affair with Nonna, Judith, Chiara and Branwell.

  Sensing my need for a breather from stress, Dante didn’t mention our stalking issue immediately. The problem could wait for an hour or two.

  “So I’ve been researching and researching Caro and Ethan but have yet to find anything concrete,” Chiara said as Dante and Branwell cleared pasta bowls off the table. (Penne with pesto . . . I had two helpings.) They had insisted Nonna sit.

  “Really?” I perked up, stroking Boney’s head as he snuggled into my hand.

  Boney the Rat had taken a liking to me. Not surprising, actually. I had always attracted troubled men.

  “And?” Dante asked, bowls in his palm.

  “Nothing much. Caro didn’t marry Blackford—that I’m pretty confident about.”

  “That’s a relief,” I said.

  “Yeah. Blackford married the only child of the Earl of Arlington in 1819 and had several children with her. Queen Victoria awarded the earldom to Blackford after his father-in-law’s death.”

  “They did that?”

  “Yeah. It was a way of getting around the whole women-can’t-inherit rule. Have the crown award the same title to the daughter’s husband and their subsequent children.”

  “Gotcha. But nothing about Ethan and Caro?”

  Chiara shook her head. “Not really. Caro’s mother had to have been Charlotte Stuart, Bonnie Prince Charlie’s only child by a mistress. Charlotte lived in Florence for several years—nursing her ailing father—before her own early death in 1789. She could have easily had an affair that resulted in Caro during those years. It’s hard to know if Prince Charlie knew of Caro’s existence.”

  “But Henry Stuart, Charlie’s younger brother and Caro’s uncle, knew,” I said.

  “Yes. That much is obvious from Caro’s memories, as you described them,” Chiara said. “Henry was the one who gifted her the Michelangelo modello. Whether that was at his brother’s behest or just out of some feeling of family loyalty, who knows. Obviously, at some point the Countess of Albany was given care of the girl. The Countess died in 1824. I managed to locate a copy of her will. There was no mention of Caro in it.”

  “But if Caro had eloped against the Countess’ wishes, then she might have been cut off,” Dante said, handing the stacked dishes to Branwell who left the room for the kitchen next door.

  “That was my thought too,” Chiara agreed. “From there, I’ve been scouring ship passenger lists. They aren’t thorough for that time period. A lot has been lost over the years—” />
  “I highly doubt they would have used their real names if they thought Blackford or the Countess would follow them.”

  “Precisely.” Chiara shrugged. “I haven’t found a single ship manifest with their names on it.”

  “And Ethan?” Dante prompted.

  “Not too much there, either. I did find record of his time as a student at the University of Edinburgh, as well as his graduation as a doctor of medicine. But beyond that . . . it’s hard to say. I found no record of his mother or sister. We would need to visit Scotland and scour parish church records to find out more. Things like birth and death records . . . marriages.”

  “I imagine looking for them in the States would be like a needle in a haystack?” Judith asked.

  “I did a cursory search of the 1820 and 1830 censuses but didn’t pull up anything helpful. Of course, if Ethan and Caro changed their names, then finding them among the over ten million inhabitants of early nineteenth century America is a lost cause.”

  Branwell brought in the secondo. A platter of oven-roasted pork with root vegetables.

  We all dug in.

  “So this is all a dead end?” I asked.

  “I, for one, wouldn’t mind a trip to Scotland,” Dante said. “We could spend several lovely weeks digging through parish records.”

  “It would be a place to start,” I agreed.

  “True,” Chiara said. “Though we may never know what happened. Some things are just lost to history.”

  “If only we had found something tonight,” I said around a mouthful of fall-apart, divine pork.

  “Yeah, about that. Why did you guys decide it was San Miniato?”

  Dante shrugged. “We both saw a bell tower and a cloister on a hill outside town. San Miniato is about it for large, old monasteries on hills outside Florence.”

  Chiara took a bite. And then waved her hand at her brother. “But what about the Certosa?”

  Dante froze, fork halfway to his mouth. He set it down with a clink. “You are absolutely right. I had forgotten about the Certosa.”

  “Certosa?” That was me.

  “It’s a Cistercian monastery south of town. On a hill,” Chiara said.

  “With a tower and a cloister. Several, in fact,” Dante nodded.

  “We’ll have to check it out.”

  “Though, for the record, I still think a trip to Scotland would be fun.” Dante winked at me.

  The conversation lulled.

  Dante and I looked at each other.

  It was time to discuss the problem of our unwanted ‘friend’ earlier.

  “So . . . Claire is being stalked,” Dante began without any preamble.

  “What?!” Judith and Chiara both swiveled their heads toward me.

  “It’s true.”

  Dante and I proceeded to catch everyone up to speed. The nasty texts. The sense of being watched. The man tonight.

  Branwell had several intelligent questions. Chiara was suitably outraged. Judith calmly absorbed the information. Nonna smiled cheerfully and fetched the insalata when we were finished with our secondo.

  Everyone gathered around as Dante played the video on his phone. The man’s face was never completely clear, but we all agreed with Dante’s assessment—the man was most likely Italian and gave off a strong vibe of having tailed people before.

  Chiara chewed on her inner cheek, thinking.

  “I know people,” she said, tapping her chin. “Could you send me a copy of the video, Dante?”

  He nodded.

  “I’ll pass it by some friends and see what I can come up with,” she continued. “If he is a professional investigator or—”

  “Hit man?” I supplied.

  She smiled. “That is probably a little less likely, but someone is bound to recognize him if he’s part of the industry. I’ll get right on it.”

  Dante shook his head. “Sometimes your taste in friends scares me, Chiara.” He tapped his phone, sending his sister the video.

  “So now what?” Branwell asked.

  “I don’t think it wise for Claire to go back to her hotel,” Judith said, rubbing Boney’s head as he perched on her shoulder.

  “Definitely not.” Dante.

  “Agreed.” Branwell.

  Chiara perked up, hitting me with her most energetic grin. “Yay! We get to have a sleepover!” She rubbed her hands with glee.

  Dante chuckled and muttered, “Hey, that’s my line,” under his breath. Or maybe I was just mishearing.

  “I’ll make sure some toiletries are laid out in the guest bedroom.” Judith rested her blue eyes on me. “We’re more than happy to have you stay, Claire.”

  An hour later, Dante strolled into his mother’s apartment.

  I had just gotten the grand tour of Judith and Chiara’s gorgeously restored space. Lots of exposed beams and brick coupled with ultra-modern furniture and recessed lighting.

  Another successful remodel, I had to say.

  I was sitting with Chiara in the living room—salotto, she called it—while Judith hunted me down some pajamas. Heaven knew I was at least two of Chiara; nothing in her wardrobe would come close to fitting me. Fortunately, Judith was about my height.

  “I want to show you something.” Dante peeked into the room, beckoning me to come.

  Chiara shot me a skeptical eyebrow as I got up, but I willingly let his enormous hand engulf mine, leading me out of the apartment.

  He tugged me up the last flight of stairs to the roof. Like me, Dante hadn’t changed his clothes. He was still wearing designer jeans and a tight black t-shirt that hugged his shoulders and upper arms.

  A blast of humid air hit me as Dante pushed open the door to the rooftop terrace. The warmth of the day lingered into night, despite the rain drumming on the tiles.

  I held back in the shelter of the doorway.

  Dante paused, turning back to me. His face all shadows and dark angles. Only his eyes glittered clearly.

  “It’s pouring.” I stated the obvious.

  “It is.”

  Silence.

  His thumb brushed over the back of my hand. Soothing. Coaxing.

  I could see part of the city scape beyond his shoulder, twinkling lights.

  “We’ll get wet.” Again. Obvious.

  “We will.” His tone warmer now.

  Another pause.

  “Will you trust me?” His deep bass thrummed through my sternum. Low. Husky.

  I didn’t hesitate.

  “Yes.”

  Heaven help me . . . yes.

  His rumbling chuckle skimmed me.

  “C’mon, cara mia. I think it’s time you danced in the rain.”

  He tugged me onto the terrace. I instantly grabbed his arm with my free hand, partly because the terracotta tiles looked slippery but mostly to bring myself that much closer to him.

  We rounded the table under its wisteria vine and then I stopped.

  All of Florence lay before us. Glistening streetlights and gilded raindrops. The Duomo soared above it all, blazing through the misty darkness. Everything reflected on the terrace flagstones, long golden streaks.

  It was utterly glorious.

  I sighed and relaxed into Dante, lacing my fingers more firmly through his. The rain plastered my hair to my head. I brushed it back and leaned my head on his shoulder. Me drinking in my boyfriend city with the man who just might be my boyfriend.

  It was all sorts of poetic.

  “Do you think they were happy together?” My voice drifted in the hush.

  “Ethan and Caro?”

  “Yeah.”

  He was still caressing my hand with his thumb. “Yes. I think they were deliriously happy.”

  “Do you think that kind of happiness is actually possible?”

  “Yes.”

  A few more heartbeats.

  “I’ve never experienced it. Have you?”

  “Not in this life. Not yet, at least.”

  “Whenever friends go on and on about how in love and perfe
ct their relationships are, I have to roll my eyes. There’s this stupid voice in my head that insists they must be lying.”

  “Such a relationship isn’t impossible. My parents’ marriage was like that.” Another pass of his thumb. “Utterly in love.”

  “I thought you said they divorced?”

  “No. Just separated. And it wasn’t due to lack of love. My dad became more unstable the older he got. They were both concerned for our safety. Dad eventually sent us all away. He didn’t want to inadvertently hurt anyone. But he always loved my mom and she him. That never changed. It was the great tragedy, I suppose. Sometimes love just isn’t enough.”

  “I hope it was enough for Caro and Ethan.”

  I could almost feel Caro and Ethan trailing us, the silvery shadow of who we had been. The promise of what we might become.

  By now, the rain had soaked us both. Dante’s wet hair dripped down his throat. His t-shirt clinging to him like a second skin, bringing every dip and valley of his chest into sharp relief.

  Damn but he was a fine specimen of a man.

  Inside and out.

  From somewhere below, the sound of an accordion and violin drifted up. A traditional Italian folk tune mingling with the soothing shush shush of traffic in the rain.

  I smiled. “You think of everything, don’t you?”

  He turned his head . . . a question mark.

  “The music.” I nodded toward the street.

  “Ah, yes. That. Well, we can’t dance without music, can we?”

  A beat.

  “I’m not sure I know how.”

  “I’ll teach you, cara mia.”

  Somehow, we weren’t talking about dancing.

  He wrapped his free hand around me, pulling me into a traditional dance position. His right hand snugged firmly in the curve of my lower back, left hand holding my right against his shoulder. Our bodies flush.

  Slowly, he began to move us in a circle. Junior high slow dance style. Pulling me even closer with each step. The rain pattered softly around us, dripping in romantic gloom . . . the scent of wisteria and lemons and Florence.

  “Is this how you dance?” I whispered in his ear. Goosebumps flared across his neck, glinting in the low light.

  “With you, cara? Always.”

  He turned me in a circle, hands firm but kind.