The Dark Heart of Florence by Tasha Alexander (ebook reader screen TXT) 📕

to his hiding place, which was in a narrow passageway running between two houses about a quarter of a mile from the site of the murder. No one followed us. I waited at the end, just by the main street, watching as Carlo tugged a loose stone from the wall of the building on the west side and pulled the gun out from behind it. He gave it to Cécile, who removed the remaining cartridges before slipping the revolver into her reticule. Carlo returned the stone, making sure it was not even slightly out of place.

“Thank you, Carlo,” I said when they came back to me. “You’ve done the right thing.”

“When do I get my gold sovereigns?” he asked. Cécile produced them from her bag and handed them to him. “Thank you, signora, it’s a pleasure doing business with you. May I go now?”

“First I need to know how to reach you again should it become necessary,” I said.

“Why would it be necessary?” he asked, blanching.

“I assumed you would want to know the outcome of our investigation,” I said. “It’s nothing to cause you concern.” That seemed to satisfy him. He told us his full name and address, thanked Cécile, and skipped away. I turned to my friend. “Do you make a habit of carrying gold coins with you?”

She shrugged. “I find them useful in a variety of situations.”

“You unloaded that gun with remarkable speed.”

“As I said, I’m an excellent shot, Kallista.”

Darius did not dine with us that evening, so there was no need for me to deploy a longing look to let Colin know I needed to slip off alone with him. Cécile took for granted that any well-matched couple would wish to retire early and always encouraged such behavior. Colin took me in his arms the moment we entered the narrow corridor outside our room, pushed me against the wall, and kissed me until I was left almost delirious. Then, to my dismay, he released me, stepped away as if nothing had happened, opened the door, and ushered me into the chamber.

“I do hope that was a prelude,” I said, tugging the bodice of my gown back into place and smoothing my hair.

“Count on it, my dear. I know we must discuss the case before we succumb to further distraction, but I wanted to put you on notice. Further distraction is coming.”

A delicious warmth coursed through my body, but I ignored it. “I’ve had a rather productive day.” I retrieved the gun, which I’d stashed in a fifteenth-century wooden chest decorated with scenes from mythology that looked like they could have been painted by Botticelli, and handed it to him.

“Where on earth did you get this?”

I told him about our encounter with Carlo. “He’s convinced it was used to kill Signore di Taro.”

“This is most well done, Emily. I confess I did not put much stock in your decision to make queries about his murder, but you may be onto something,” he said, examining the weapon. “It’s a Nagant M1895 revolver, used as a side arm by the Russian army. Was di Taro Russian?”

“No, he came from a village in the Dolomites. Does it matter, though? Surely his killer would have brought his own gun.”

“Quite,” he said. “Two shots to the head in rapid succession suggest a person experienced in eliminating those who need eliminating. If he and his killer were both Russian, it might have be easier to find the connection.”

“A non-Russian could have a Russian gun, couldn’t he?”

“Yes, but…” He sighed. “This wretched situation becomes exponentially more complicated every time I blink. If the Russians are involved…”

I waited, but he did not continue. “As in the Russian government?” He nodded. “Aren’t we friends with Russia?”

“I’m afraid it’s not that simple,” he said.

“Few things are. Do you think Marzo killed Signore di Taro?” I asked.

“Darius has no knowledge of any connection between them. He wasn’t aware of di Taro’s murder until I told him about it. If Marzo was involved, why would he use a Russian weapon?”

“In order to make it clear there was no British involvement in the crime? After all, he does—did—work for the British in some sort of mysterious capacity.”

“True,” he said, “but we would never have had him use a Russian revolver, even unofficially. Furthermore, he was not an assassin. Do you know anything about Signore di Taro?”

“Sadly little. No one except a man who repaired a Viennese clock for him would talk to us. He didn’t know him well.”

“I shall see what I can learn.”

“I shall regret never being able to hear about it.”

“I’m sorry, Emily,” he said and ran his hand through his tousled curls.

“I wasn’t looking for an apology.”

“Weren’t you?”

“No. I was merely trying to give you the opportunity to apply yourself to distracting me from wondering whatever it is you might or might not learn.”

“Is that so?” He put the revolver down on the table between the two chairs where we were sitting. “Is there anything else we need to discuss before I take the task in hand?”

“Nothing about either murder, but watching Carlo remove the gun from his hiding place made me think we should search for loose stones in this palazzo. Our Renaissance friend may have adopted a similar strategy when it came to securing his own treasure.”

“We could leave that to Cécile and Signore Tazzera,” he said. “They’re fascinated by the treasure, but I’m more enticed by other things.”

“Are you?” I asked, the delicious warmth returning to my body.

He knelt in front of my chair, gripped my legs, and pulled me closer to him. “Far more enticed.”

 Florence,

149128

After Giacomo came to my house, exploding the remaining shards of my peace, I lived in fear that he would try to see me again, not because I worried I might find his lewd advances irresistible, but because further angering him could push him to expose my secret or find some other way to ruin me. As weeks went by without hearing from him, I started to feel