Antonia gunned the motor and arced around the ferry, our boat throwing off heavy spray. The yacht slowed and started to follow, but there was no way for it to compete with Antonia’s tight turn. Just like that we were completing the circle, heading for the black boat’s low stern.
Out of the corner of my eye I caught Nolo Tecci rushing toward the back of the big boat, one hand going inside his black leather sport coat.
I lit the scarf, swung the gas can around like a discus, and let go. It sailed up and over the gleaming rail of the yacht, the scarf in flames, and crashed onto the deck, exploding with a gigantic whoosh.
Antonia straightened our boat and headed full throttle for the open sea.
When we were about five miles from anywhere, she cut the engine and stepped back onto the deck. We stood there looking at each other, bobbing in the Gulf of Venice, awash in blood, sweat, and adrenaline.
“You promised nothing bad would happen, you son of a . . .” She balled a small fist and punched me right in the stomach. It caught me totally off-guard and half-knocked the wind out of me.
“Jeez, why’d you do that?” I groaned. “I saved you.”
“Saved me? If you hadn’t taken me out here I wouldn’t have needed saving, you big jerk. Did that occur to you?” She rubbed her knuckles.“My hand hurts. What do you have, rocks in your stomach?”
“I guess I deserved that.” I slumped back on the seat, massaging my gut. “I did save you, though,” I huffed.
She placed her hand on my shoulder. “Well . . . maybe I shouldn’t have hit you. Are you all right?” She removed her shades.
I looked at her face, framed by the shot-up boat and pale blue sky. Almond eyes. Just a little eyeliner and mascara that had streamed down her lovely high cheekbones like black rain.
From the cabin, the walkie-talkie crackled and squawked: “You still there?” There was a pause and then: “Hey, you still there?”
Antonia looked up with panic. We both scanned the horizon. Not another boat in sight.
I stepped into the cabin, trying not to tread in Big Nose’s blood. It wasn’t easy. I spotted the radio, picked it up, and stepped back out on the deck. “Hey,” it squawked again, “Flame Boy.”
The voice on the walkie-talkie was the last voice my father had ever heard. Those vocal cords had vibrated in my house as I lay upstairs in bed. I wanted to cut them out, hang them on a chain around my neck. I was hotter than the center of the fucking sun.
I pressed the talk button. “Well . . . Nolo Tecci.”
“Who? I don’t know anybody by that name. Who are you?”
“One of your goons accidentally nailed your man here,” I said.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, but if someone’s injured on your boat, we’ll come right over and pick him up. Procure him some restorative remedies. Where are you?”
“You mean you can’t see us?” I said. “Must be all the smoke on your boat. We’re right off your bow.”
“Hey,” he said, “I only wanted to chat with your lady friend.”
“You’re going to have to learn some manners first. The carabinieri will help you.”
“Don’t get too invested in them, Flame Boy.”
“Then I guess I’ll have to teach you myself,” I said through clenched teeth. “So long, Nolo.”
“For now,” he said. I clicked the radio off. A sensation of relief flooded me. I understood it. I had asked Satan to dance.
Antonia was sitting on the backseat, her hands over her mouth, eyes wide and blank. I sat next to her.
She said softly, “That’s the guy? Nolo Tecci?”
“Not just him. He works for Werner Krell,” I said.
“The German with all the money? He’s had a long affiliation with Professore Corta.”
“Tell me.”
“Corta knows Krell, brokers art for him, and did for his father before him. Both of them sought out Leonardo artifacts, especially the Circles of Truth and the Medici Dagger, which, of course, haven’t been found.”
“Of course.”
“Krell will pay any price for Leonardo pieces. Corta brokers to him for a fat fee. The competition for Leonardo artifacts is brutal.”
“I know that.”
“Do you also know that Krell’s father, and Krell, lost more than one piece to the National Gallery?”
I studied Antonia’s eyes as the implication of that statement sank in. Werner Krell and my father had known of each other, had been adversaries.
I suddenly felt the need to defend my father. “He was an honest man. A good man. My father wasn’t Werner Krell.”
“I didn’t say he was. I’m not making any assumptions about your father.”
