But is it really her?

He had to know.

He’d set the search for proof in motion, and there was no turning back.

“Whatever it takes, I have to know you,” he whispered to her. “Whatever it takes.”

13

Laurentian Library

Florence, Italy

“How did you know I’d be coming in?” I eyed the white carton already waiting on Riccardo’s book caddy, careful to keep my smile in place, not to sound accusatory.

“I hear you with guard, in other room,” Riccardo said.

I nodded, though I wasn’t sure there’d been enough time for him to have gone into the back to retrieve the carton. But why be suspicious? Was I just being paranoid after so many years of looking for this elusive journal?

Chiara leaned toward us. “Is anything wrong, Signore Perrone?”

“Call me Luke,” I said. “No, nothing at all.” A thought: “I wonder, do you have anything on…” I stopped to think up a name. “Duccio?”

“There is much about the Sienese artist, Signore”—she smiled—“Luke. Rare books and more recent, how you say, scholarly papers.”

“May I see them?”

“There are several boxes.”

“The scholarly papers will do,” I said and smiled back.

“Uno momento,” she said, then spoke to Riccardo in Italian, while I thought about the break-in at Quattrocchi’s apartment and the inquiry from a collector of rare papers. Chiara asked again if anything was wrong. I told her no, that I was just tired, and she said I was working too hard and patted my hand with her fuchsia nails. Riccardo returned with a carton labeled Duccio II, and I slipped my hand out from under Chiara’s, balanced the Duccio carton on top of High Renaissance Masters, and headed across the room to the long table, where I took the same spot at the end.

The two scholars from the other day were there too, in the same spots, though none were assigned. The one with the ponytail looked up, seemed almost to be watching me, peering over his reading glasses. I stared at him until he looked away. Then I opened the Duccio carton, mostly folders and loose papers, and just what I needed. I set it aside, took a moment to create the makeshift fortress with Guggliermo’s folders before I removed the journal, then found my place and began to read.

14

I did not want to go to Picasso’s studio. But Simone insisted I spend more time with other artists. And it was difficult for me to say no to her.

I took the omnibus from Place de l’Odéon and got off at the top of the hill. Climbed another street lined with bakeries and restaurants where the air smelled of sweet pastry. My stomach felt hollow and empty. It had been hours since I had eaten. Only a slice of bread with strawberry jam Simone had made from berries she picked in the Bois de Boulogne.

I rolled a cigarette. Used the smoke to fill my lungs. Headed along rue Ravignan to the Ruche. A small wooden building. Several artists had studios here. Including Picasso.