03

« For as long as anyone can remember, they’ve always been at war. Fighting for money. Territory. Women. People here, around these streets-they pay for protection. But sometimes the price is too steep, and they can’t afford it. Back there at the restaurant, the owner bought the protection of the Falcones . . . but he couldn’t keep it. So he cut a deal with the Genoveses. And the gunshots ? That was the retaliation of the Falcones. »

« They’re the Mafia, » I guess.

Vittoria nods grimly. « They own this city. Everything except the churches . . . and the universities. Otherwise, you’d have to pick a side. »

Something occurs to me. Hesitantly, I say, « Back there, you said-we. We are going to take care of this. »

Vittoria’s eyes cloud over. Instead of answering my question, she says, « Two years ago, something happened. Something that put into motion the events of today. The Falcones never should have retaliated with gunshots during a time when innocent civilians could be hurt, but this has become the normal for them. Killing when angered. »

I can’t help but ask. « Why ? »

« It’s revenge. If it had been the Abruzzi family the restaurant cut a deal with, they wouldn’t have fired their guns on innocents. But it wasn’t. It was the Genoveses. »

I hold my breath. Waiting.

« Two years ago, the Genovese don slaughtered the Falcone don. But not only that . . . the Genoveses killed his entire family. Unprovoked. With no reason anyone can think of. Sure, they were at war-but murdering all of them, especially when they did business ? Unheard of. »

« And that’s why the Falcones are so harsh when the Genoveses are involved ? »

« That’s right. Because now the Falcones are run by the Angel. »

« The Angel ? »

« Nobody knows who it is. But rumour has it, the Genovese don didn’t finish the job that night. He left one Falcone alive, and that’s who is taking revenge. »

The Angel . . .

Vittoria sighs and links her elbow with mine. The Accademia looms ahead of us, lit by the glittering streetlights. « Come on, Cade. Don’t worry about it anymore. Let’s go home. »

I nod, matching the spring of her step. But I can’t think of anything but the sharp edge of a bird’s wing, the glistening white of a feather.

And I can’t help but wonder.

Who is the Angel ?

THE ROUGH, GRAVELLY VOICE of the Reaper grated through the dark.

« I’m surprised you came for a visit. »

From within the cage, the Reaper’s laugh was low, dangerous. The rasp of rock against rock.

The woman pulled back the hood of her cloak, revealing tawny eyes. A spill of hair as black as the shadows themselves.

« You know what I need, John. »

The Reaper’s eyes, lit by the torchlight, glowed. « John ? Oh, you flatter me, Angel. »

The woman bared her teeth in a ferocious grin. « Tell me what I need to know. »

The Reaper clicked his tongue. « No, no, no. What did I tell you about the art of persuasion ? »

« You’re not in any position to bargain. »

« Haven’t you learned anything ? I have something you need. I have the power here. »

« You’re the one in the cage. »

The Reaper gestured to the iron bars before him, the damp concrete of his cell. « This ? Nothing but a mortal affliction. » He tapped his head, one sharpened fingernail hovering over his temple. « There is no true cage but the one in here. And I have the keys you want. »

The woman let out a breath. « What is it that you want ? »

A gravelly laugh. « The girl. Deliver me what the others could not. »

The torchlight flickered between them, and in that moment, the only sound was the skitter of cockroaches. The rustle of hollow wind. The cold, bleak emptiness of a prison miles underground.

« You’ll give me what I want. If I give her to you. »

The Reaper nodded, a slow smile splitting his aged face. « Bound in blood, Angel. What you need, I’ll give you in exchange for the girl. »

The woman’s voice was soft, hesitant. As though she wasn’t sure she wanted to know. « And what will you do with her ? »

The Reaper chuckled. « If I told you, it would be you holding the cards. »

In turn, the woman pulled the hood of her cloak over herself. Darkness masked the glint in her eyes, the warmth of her fire-kissed skin.

As she moved to go, the low, rough voice of the Reaper called out to her one last time.

« I want Cadenza Conti by the end of two weeks. »

The woman glanced back over her shoulder.

The Reaper’s smile curved into a dark, twisted knife. « Oh, and Angel ? Don’t make me regret this. »

A WOMAN, LAUGHING. CHERRY-red mouth. Golden eyes.

« I can show you how to play. »

« As you’ll see here, if you’re following, Artemisia Gentileschi’s painting of Judith Slaying Holofernes is quite different from other artists of this time. What differentiates Artemisia’s version of this Biblical story from Caravaggio’s ? »

I lean my head onto her shoulder.

Smooth skin. The velvet straps of her black dress, warm against my cheek.

What is she saying ? Her mouth opens.

Closes.

« Right, this next slide will show you Artemisia’s rendering of Susanna and the Elders. Done when she was just seventeen years old, what do you think makes this particular painting so special ? Dante Rosso, if you will. »

Marble floors.

Silver moonlight, gleaming. Pillars of white stone and granite.

Museum―this is the museum.

What am I doing in the museum ?

The woman is here. She’s with me, holding my hand. Why is she here ?

She’s whispering, whispering in my ear.

What is she whispering ?

« That’s a good point, Signore Rosso. Alessandro Allori’s version of Susanna and the Elders makes Susanna looks young, docile, impressionable. Artemisia paints Susanna very fierce, struggling. And why is that such a strange thing in this era . . . Signorina Conti ? »

I hear my name and snap out of the flashbacks. What was real and what was a dream ? I can’t tell anymore.

What did the professor just say ? Shit. Shit. A few people in the rows in front of me turn back. I catch the smirk of a boy―roguish. Wicked. Handsome.

Too bad I’m gay.

« Could you repeat the question, please ? » I ask with the most dignity I can muster.

« What was so interesting that you didn’t hear it the first time ? » says Professor Luneta.

« Unless it was you that wasn’t interesting enough to listen to in the first place ? »

Shit. What is wrong with me ?

Sometimes I think I need a good swing. Or kick. Or whatever will get me to shut my mouth. I don’t even care if it’s tape at this point.

Well, at least you know the story of how I got kicked out of my lecture.

FOR THE PAST WEEK―or five days, whatever counts―I’ve been trying to figure out what the hell I did on Saturday night.

A heist. A heist.

Could it be possible ?

No. No. Unless―no.

That time with Nathan―it didn’t count. It wasn’t the same.

Still, I can’t shake the thought of that painting out of my mind. The Desperate Dancer. The arched neck, the impressionistic strokes. Could I have smuggled that out of the museum ? If I were to pick something to steal, it would be that.

If anything, I resolve that I’ll know by tonight. There’s been nothing on the news, but the gala is hosted by the museum. If I can’t find the painting there . . . I’ll know.

I’ll know the painting in that woman’s room is real.

That she wasn’t lying.

That I planned a heist.

Not that it will change anything. I don’t even know the name of my supposed partner in crime.

« Come on, Cade ! » Vittoria says.

I look up, dazed. « What ? »

« If you’re still moping about getting kicked out of the lecture . . . »

That could not be farther from my mind. But I nod, trying my best to look dejected. « The professor is going to hate me for the rest of the semester. »