Most of group nodded in the affirmative.

“In the painting of the last judgment in the Sistine Chapel, Michelangelo put many of his rivals’ faces on those unfortunate souls being pulled by demons down to hell. Contrarily he put many of his patron’s faces on those being saved and blessed by angels.

“Many of these symbols we see in paintings were very familiar and understood by the people of that era, but are not familiar to many of us today. For instance, a few rooms down is one of my favorite paintings in the Uffizi, the Venus of Urbino by Titian. It is a portrait of a beautiful young woman lying nude on a lounge. Though it would hardly turn a head today, at the time it was considered one of the most erotic pieces ever painted. Titian, not wishing to be misunderstood, added an important symbol to his painting. A small dog is curled up near the girl, on the foot of the bed. The dog was considered the symbol of fidelity, and it was placed there to reassure the viewer that this was a good girl. I’ll point it out when we reach room twenty-eight. Remember, there is a reason for every painting.” He started walking, throwing both hands in the air ahead of him as if he were directing aircraft. “Andiamo, ragazzi. Let’s go, children.”

Ross was done with the tour before noon, but he and his scooter were stuck downtown by the rain. He sat outside the Uffizi, beneath the courtyard’s overhang, reading a book as he waited for the rain to stop. Around three o’clock there was a break in the weather, and he put on his helmet and started home just a few minutes before the rain started again in earnest.

By the time he reached Rendola he was drenched. At the end of the long driveway he saw a car he’d never seen before, a navy blue Alfa Romeo with gold trim. It was parked next to Eliana’s BMW. Ross rocked his scooter back onto its stand, stowed his helmet beneath the seat, then opened the front gate.

The courtyard stone was uneven, and where he entered, the rain had pooled into a small puddle four inches deep. He stepped around it.

An Italian man leaned against the wall next to Eliana’s front door, smoking a cigar and watching Ross’s entrance. He was lean, a hand shorter than Ross, almost feminine in form, with curled hair and bronze skin, the lower part of his face shaded with stubble, his heavy-lidded eyes fixed on Ross coolly. He bit down on his cigar, blowing out a blue-gray cloud of smoke from the gaps in his mouth where his clenched teeth bit into the leaf.

Ross nodded. “Buona sera.”

“Buona sera.” The man removed the cigar. “You are Mr. Story?”

Ross approached him. “Yes. Ross Story.”

He put out his hand. “I am Maurizio Ferrini. I own the villa. You have met my sister Anna. She has told me about you. Welcome to Rendola.”