It was a moment before I felt it, turned, and spotted him again, the man I thought I’d seen at the far end of the church. He was maybe twenty feet away now, backlit by the light from the window, so I couldn’t make him out clearly, only that he was big. I headed down the stairs for a better look, but he darted away, a shadow, a phantom.

I sucked in a breath, my radar still flashing. Something about the guy had felt not only threatening but familiar.

Outside, I began walking toward the bookseller’s shop. The sun poked through the clouds the way it had through the church window, sharp and bright. I tried to shake off the uneasy feeling of that guy, but Brother Francesco’s sudden death had left me feeling off-balance and suspicious about everything.

After a few blocks, I came into a lively square lined with restaurants and shops, Piazza Santo Spirito. The church was closed, but the cafés were open. I sat for a bit, sipped a coffee, and thought of my great-grandfather, a man who never quite fit in, a solitary man who had lost the one person who had truly loved and believed in him.

The area around Santo Spirito reminded me of Manhattan’s NoHo or the East Village, with lots of restaurants and artisan shops of pottery and picture frames, handmade belts and shoes. My boots still wet, I was tempted by a pair of handmade wingtips until I saw the price tag.

Via Toscanella turned out to be only a few blocks away, the street lined with bookbinders and old bookshops, all of them closed, including the Libreria Antiquaria de Firenze. Most of the shops had signs noting they would reopen after riposo, but not Liberia Antiquaria de Firenze, its metal gate down and locked. I peered through the bars, but there was little to see. I was ready to give up when I noticed a blinking sign at the end of the road.

The Ristorante Americano had peanut shells on the floor, Dolly Parton on the jukebox, and Budweiser on tap—an Italian’s idea of an American bar.

I ordered a Coke, and the bartender—masses of curly dark hair and bright-red lipstick—served it with a smile.

“American?” she asked.

“Italian American,” I said. “Does it show?”

“You look like every good-looking Italian palooka I ever dated.”

“Luke Perrone,” I said.

“Like the beer?”

“Different spelling and nothing to do with my family.”

“Too bad,” she said. “Teresa Ferrara. Nothing to do with the bakery in Little Italy.” She offered her hand, rings on every finger. “From Hackensack. That’s in New Jersey.”

“I know. I’m from Bayonne. How did you end up here?”

“Followed a boyfriend. Something I do not recommend.”

“I’ll remember that if I get a boyfriend.”

Teresa laughed. “You hungry?” She didn’t wait for an answer, disappeared into the kitchen, and reappeared a few minutes later with a plate she set down in front of me. “Homemade calzone. On the house. And no snide remarks because I made it.”