“Nor a thief, nor conniver, nor beautiful—though I looked a lot better than I do now!”

“From what I’ve read, Leonardo was a beautiful young man who liked to parade through the streets of Florence in rose-colored tunics and purple stockings—but he grew old before his time.”

“Don’t we all.” Quattrocchi dragged a multi-ringed hand across his comb-over. “You know that officially Salaì was Leonardo’s adopted son.”

“Didn’t he forge some of Leonardo’s paintings and try to sell them as originals?”

“Never proved, but possible. Though he must have cared for Leonardo—he stayed with him until his death.” Quattrocchi looked away, eyes tearing up again. “Sorry. I am very nostalgic these days. It has only been a month since Tonio died, and on the day before his ninetieth birthday.” He dabbed his eyes daintily, then pulled himself together and launched into a discussion of how gay artists dominated the Renaissance—“Michelangelo and Donatello among them—though only brave Leonardo was out, the others in the closet, and probably wise, as homosexuality was against the law in fifteenth-century Florence.”

“Maybe too out for his time,” I said. “He was arrested for sodomy with a male prostitute. And you must know his treatise on the male organ—‘On the Penis’—where he claims the penis acts without the will of man and how it should be adorned rather than concealed? It’s very popular with my students.”

“Your art history class must be a lot more fun than mine!”

“I try.” I smiled. “You said Professor Guggliermo asked you to contact me. How did he know to do that?”

“Oh, I imagine Tonio discovered you were Vincenzo Peruggia’s great-grandson, and you are not difficult to find—Facebook, Twitter, your university profile. Tonio was a serious researcher and, despite his age, sharp as a tack.” Quattrocchi signaled for the check and insisted upon paying when it came.

Outside, the air was chilly, the street wide, a mix of old tan and sienna-colored buildings. Quattrocchi was heading back to the university, and I walked with him, hoping for more answers to my questions.

“Do you know what he had intended to publish about the journal?”

“No. And he never got the chance. His dying was”—he took a deep breath—“such a shock. You must think that death at his age could not have been a surprise, but Tonio was not your typical ninety-year-old. He walked several miles a day and was the picture of health. Had it not been for the accident, I’m certain he would be sitting here right now.”

“Accident?”

“Hit-and-run. Can you imagine, leaving an old man to die in the street?” Quattrocchi shook his head. “And then, on top of that, just a day after Tonio’s death, some hooligans or drug addicts ransacked our apartment. It has taken me weeks to get it back to normal.”

“What did they take?”

“That’s the strange part: nothing. Perhaps they were looking for something, though the police speculated it was just a gang of malicious kids, or they’d have known enough to steal our antiques, several of which they broke!”