The Dark Heart of Florence Tasha Alexander (novels for beginners .TXT) 📖

it over a chair. “I called on the Spichios this morning,” I said and took him moment by moment through my day. “What was your impression of Ridolfo when you met him?”

“Much the same as yours. He’s a lout.”

“Did he appear surprised when you told him about Marzo?”

“Shocked, I’d say, but I couldn’t tell you whether that was due to learning his brother was dead or because he knew my information was not the whole truth. What do you make of Lena?”

I sighed. “She’s utterly confusing. She was so upset at the apartment, but made a complete turnaround when we were in Santa Croce. I don’t doubt that she loved Marzo—”

“Why?” Colin asked.

“Why don’t I doubt that she loved him?”

“Yes. What evidence convinced you of that?”

I considered the question. “Her eyes. They were red and swollen. She could have pretended to cry, but not with that result. Yes, her mood changed after we left the Spichios, but maybe she was relieved to be away from his family. She mentioned that Marzo’s mother wouldn’t share a recipe with her until after the wedding, which suggests she didn’t entirely trust her former future daughter-in-law. Ridolfo lashed out at Lena for not wanting to live with the family. Many Italian girls expect to move into their husbands’ family home. It’s unusual to do otherwise, yet Lena was insisting upon just that. Whatever her issues with his family, she still wanted to marry him, which is more evidence both that she loved him and that her grief is real.”

“You’re good at this, Emily,” he said, his smile warm. “Anything else?”

“Her suggestion that we communicate by leaving letters hidden at Dante’s cenotaph gives insight into her personality. Perhaps she likes adventure. Perhaps she doesn’t take things as seriously as she ought.”

“Perhaps she has reason to believe that open correspondence with you on the subject of her fiancé’s death could prove dangerous.”

His response took me by surprise. He rarely embraced such extreme explanations. “Do you believe that to be the case?” I asked.

“It’s certainly possible, but I can’t say with any confidence it’s a reasonable theory. Lena might crave excitement, but that doesn’t preclude her from being in danger, even if she’s unaware of it. Now let’s talk about Ridolfo.”

“I know far less about him,” I said, “and much of what I do is based on assertions from Lena, whom we have no reason to trust as reliable when it comes to him. She calls him lazy now, but she was romantically involved with him in the past and claims they parted ways when she saw the depths of his lack of ambition.”

“Wouldn’t she be inclined, even if she was not aware of it, to paint him in a bad light to justify throwing him over for his brother?” Colin asked. “It’s not generally considered appropriate to go from one sibling to the next.”

“Quite, although Lena can’t be more than twenty years old. If she was involved with Ridolfo as an infatuated young teenager, it might not matter so much.”

“Agreed.”

“Is any of this helpful?” I asked.

“Having more information is always helpful, although I’m still of the mind that Marzo’s death has solely to do with his work for the British.”

“Even if he were killed directly as a result of his work, his assassin—I feel that’s a more fitting term in the current circumstances than murderer—might have planned his crime based on details from Marzo’s life, to throw suspicion in another direction.”

“An assassin wouldn’t bother,” Colin said. “He’d do the job quickly and efficiently with an eye on nothing beyond avoiding getting caught. It’s difficult to prove culpability after the fact when a killer has no connection to his victim.”

“Wouldn’t they have a professional connection?”

“Yes, but only in the most tenuous way. If I needed someone eliminated, I would discuss it with my superiors, who would, in turn, decide how to deal with it. They would not ask me to handle the task myself, but rather assign it to a person otherwise unrelated to the situation.”

I cringed, never before having considered that my husband might—even peripherally—be involved in an assassination. For the first time, I didn’t want more details about his work. Still, something niggled at me. “I understand the point, but surely there are circumstances in your line of work that require immediate action by an agent already on the scene. In that case, isn’t it conceivable that Marzo’s life, connections, routine could prove illuminating?”

“It is not impossible.”

“Then I shall continue my work and tell you everything.”

“I appreciate your candor and am sorry I can’t share with you what I’ve learned,” he said.

“At this moment, I’m not sure that troubles me.”

“You’re not? That shocks me to my core. Do I know you at all?” he asked, his dark eyes sparkling. “I shall have to undertake a careful examination of every inch of your person, to make sure you’re not an imposter posing as my wife.”

“I suppose your doing so is critical to the empire?” I asked. He nodded, brushed my hair away from the back of my neck, and kissed me. Who was I to stand in the way of such a noble cause?

The next morning, Cécile and I went to the Uffizi Gallery. It’s difficult to imagine Florence without this famous Mannerist structure, but it did not yet exist in the days of Cosimo de’ Medici—il Vecchio—or his grandson, Lorenzo the Magnificent. Built in the sixteenth century by renowned architect Giorgio Vasari to serve as offices for the city’s government, it is now one of the most important art museums in the world. My friend and I both wanted to see the collection, but also needed a place where we could not be overheard while discussing our investigation. In this regard, the limited privacy of a public space was preferable to the house. I was not confident we could trust Tessa.

“Do you think we are being followed?” Cécile asked, glancing back over her shoulder.

“I can’t imagine anyone would be interested in following us,” I