“And venison. This is the season for good venison from the hills.”

“You eat a large lunch,” she said as a waitress put a jar of breadsticks, a basket of rolls, a dish of olives and a bottle of olive oil in front of them.

“It is usually our big meal,” he said. “More healthy. We sleep well because we do not have indigestion.” He paused, then added, “And because we have a clear conscience.” His eyes gave a flicker of amusement, almost flirtation.

Caroline took a sip of the wine—rich and fruity and warming—and broke a piece off one of the breadsticks, acutely aware that she was sitting opposite a strange man who would no doubt try to get his hands on the apartment that appeared to belong to her.

She took a deep breath before saying, “Signor Da Rossi, is there somebody in your family who might know anything about my aunt and how she came to lease this place?”

Luca frowned. “My father is too young. He was not born in 1939. My grandfather was killed in the war, and my great-grandfather died in 1960 something. My grandmother is still alive . . .”

“She might know.”

He nodded, cautiously. “She is not always—how do you say?—clear in the head now. She is an old woman. Almost ninety. But we could try. I suggest that you attempt to prove that your piece of paper is not a fake and is still valid first, so that we don’t bother her unnecessarily.”

“Very well,” she said. “I should first check at your city hall, is that right?”

He shrugged. “Really, our lawyer could do this quite efficiently.”

“I’d prefer to hear it for myself,” she replied, her eyes holding his. She was surprised to find his were dark blue, not brown as she had expected. “Where do I find the town hall or the city offices?”

“Ca’ Loredan is the town hall,” he said. “A former palazzo on the Grand Canal, close to Rialto. But you may find that ancient records like yours are kept somewhere else. Venetians do not like to do anything efficiently. There are no big beautiful city halls as you might find in America. Things are dotted around the city.”

“You know America?” she asked, because she had detected a slight American accent to his pronunciation.

“I spent a year at Columbia University,” he said, “studying economics. And my mother is from there.”

“Your mother is American?”

He nodded. “She is from New York. She met my father when she was a student. She came to do her junior year from Radcliffe here.”

“And your parents are still alive? Still married?”