Chapter 39
FABIANA
It was the birds that woke me.
A pair of cooing doves had settled on the windowsill. Outside the window, the tiled roofs of the nearby buildings were awash in golden light.
Cosimo’s heat enveloped me like the world’s coziest blanket. I’d fallen asleep with him wrapped around me, and we’d stayed in the same position the entire night.
Carefully, I turned in his arms, wanting to see his face. He was still asleep. His eyelashes fanned over his cheeks, his hair curlier than usual and tumbling over his forehead. I reached up and brushed it back, thinking about last night, thinking about what I’d finally admitted to him.
He might not have heard me, but the words had been said, and saying them out loud had made them real.
I didn’t want out of this marriage anymore.
And Cosimo… Well, reading him was difficult, but last night, he hadn’t behaved like we had an end date. He’d held me with gentle hands while uttering possessive words, the kind that made me believe this could work.
That we could work.
Slowly, his eyes opened. Warmth unfurled inside them. It was intoxicating to have him look at me like that.
“Morning.”
I smiled. “Good morning. Should we get breakfast before we head out?”
He stared at me for a long moment, as if weighing something. Then, he smirked, tightened his hold around my waist, and dragged me on top of him.
We skipped breakfast.
We also skipped talking about the important things that we’d eventually need to discuss.
But as we got dressed, I told myself there’d be time for that later.
Today, we had a Santoro to track down.
Cosimo and I headed out to the ceramics quarter just after the shops opened. The plan was to visit as many workshops on my list as we could before they closed for the midday break.
The first was in a whitewashed building at the entrance of the quarter. A middle-aged shop owner and her daughter greeted us in Italian before the daughter switched to English.
“Do you sell work by different artists,” I asked, surveying the compact store, “or only your own?”
“We have our in-house collection, but we carry some other artists’ work as well,” the daughter said.
“We’re looking for pieces by Emilio Quaranta.”
The woman’s eyes lit with recognition. “Ah, yes. We have many designs inspired by Quaranta. He is very famous in this town. I can show them to you, if you’d like.”
“Actually, we’re looking for his originals.”
Her smile turned apologetic. “Unfortunately, we don’t have any. They’re very rare. Many were destroyed, and much of what remains has been bought by a few serious collectors.”
“Are there any collectors in town we might be able to speak to? Maybe someone willing to part with a piece?”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I don’t think I can help you with that.”
“I guess we can’t expect to strike gold on our first attempt,” I said to Cosimo as we left the shop.
He hummed in agreement.
It was too early to be discouraged. There were still tons of other workshops left to visit.
As expected, the second shop owner was also familiar with Quaranta.
“Yes, the fire was devastating,” he said.
“My father was still running this shop when it happened. I remember he was worried the fire would spread to us, but the winds managed to keep it away.” He smoothed his fingers over his thick mustache.
“Quaranta’s pieces are very distinct. Quite beautiful, but you’re going to have a hard time finding any for sale. ”
“Yes, we know they’re a rare find, but we’re quite determined,” I said with a laugh. “One of the other shops told us there are some people who’ve collected many of his pieces over the years. Do you happen to know any of them?”
A strange look passed over his face. He seemed suddenly concerned with the placement of the plates on one of the shelves, and he reached over to adjust them. “I’m sorry, I really don’t. Please, have a look around. If you like anything, I’m happy to give you a discount.”
Cosimo and I wandered through the shop.
“He knows something,” Cosimo said quietly.
“Maybe.” I glanced back toward the owner and caught him looking at us. He looked away quickly. “Let’s go. We’ve still got a lot of places to try. We can always come back here if we need to.”
Three more workshops. Three more versions of the same conversation. By the time the shutters started coming down for the afternoon break, some of my earlier optimism had begun to fade.
“Do you want to eat something?” I asked Cosimo. “We can use the time to regroup.”
He nodded, his brows drawn.
We stopped at a café in the piazza and ordered sandwiches and two bottles of Coke. Cosimo’s fingers tapped against the table as he stared out toward the fountain, his frustration written plainly across his face.
“It doesn’t make sense,” I said. “Everyone knows who we’re talking about the moment I say the name. Everyone knows there are people collecting Quaranta’s pieces, and yet no one will tell us who these collectors are. How is that possible?”
Cosimo crossed his arms over his chest. “They’ve been instructed not to talk.”
My eyes widened. “By the Santoros?”
“If Rena Santoro is the collector everyone’s thinking of. The Santoros might’ve paid them all off to keep their mouths shut.” He swiped his palm over his lips.
“We’ve still got a lot of ground to cover,” I said. I didn’t want him to give up. “Let’s just see how things go this afternoon.”
We finished our lunch, walked around town for a bit, and then returned to the ceramics quarter when the stores reopened just past five.
The next workshop was tucked away on a narrow side street. It was dimly lit, and the glass display case facing the outside looked like it was overdue for a clean, but even that couldn’t detract from the beauty of the ceramics inside.
They were the work of a master.
“Just look at this technique.” I pointed out a vase to Cosimo. “Do you see how the paint drips down the surface? It’s incredibly precise.”
“Took me about three years to perfect it.”
I turned and came face-to-face with a man who looked to be in his late forties. He wore a gray apron and had clay packed beneath his fingernails.
“Your pieces are beautiful,” I told him. “Did you make all of them yourself?”
“Me and my two sons. It’s a small family operation, but we take pride in our work. Would you like to see our newest collection?”
“I’d love to.”
He led Cosimo and me deeper into the workshop and showed us a collection called Garden Party. Every piece had been painted in a different shade of green, and together, they created the impression of foliage. I was immediately drawn to a statue of a woman’s head.
“This is stunning.” I studied it more closely. “It reminds me of a piece I saw in an article about Emilio Quaranta.”
“Emilio was a legend. So many of us have been inspired by his work. You can see his influence in this collection. You have a very good eye.”
Cosimo stayed silent beside me as the artist and I talked.
I’d realized by now that jumping straight into questions about Quaranta wasn’t likely to get us anywhere.
If I wanted someone to open up, I needed to build a little rapport first, so I spent another ten minutes or so asking the artist—Nunzio—about his work and his sons before circling back to what I really wanted to know.
“I’ve only seen one of Quaranta’s pieces in person,” I said, doing my best to stay nonchalant. “It didn’t have this particular technique, but the way he glazed the pottery and then shaped it to develop the cracks is just extraordinary.”
The man’s grin widened. “I completely agree.” He glanced around the store with a spark of excitement in his eyes. “I have a piece with his famous crackle technique. It’s not for sale, but would you like to see it?”
It took everything in me to keep my voice even. “I would love to.”
“Follow me.”
As we trailed behind him, I shot a look at Cosimo. He gave me an encouraging nod. We were finally getting somewhere.
We descended a few steps and entered a space that smelled a little damp. With the flick of a light switch, the room came into focus.
It took me only a second to realize we’d stumbled into a treasure trove.
There were at least fifty items in here, all by Quaranta.
“Oh my God,” I whispered. “You have a whole collection.”
Nunzio nodded, his hands linked in front of him. “We’ve been collecting his work ever since his workshop was destroyed in that fire. It’s a bit of a treasure hunt. A lot of his pieces are in private homes in the area, and others got mixed up with work that wasn’t his.”
He led me to a jar painted in yellow and red pigment that had intricate cracks along the side. “This is the one I wanted to show you.”
“Incredible,” I breathed, my awe completely genuine. “I know you said it isn’t for sale, but—” I glanced at Cosimo and then back at Nunzio. “We’re here on our honeymoon. Bringing something like this home would mean so much to us.”
The artisan winced. “I’m truly sorry. It’s already been reserved for someone else.”
I sighed. “Ah, that’s too bad.”
“I can keep an eye out if anything like it comes our way again,” he offered.
“But that’s pretty unlikely, isn’t it?”
“It is,” he admitted. “This is a very rare piece.”
I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “I know this is unusual, but can you possibly tell me who reserved it? Maybe I could contact them directly and see if they’re willing to sell. I’d be happy to pay extra for the inconvenience.”
Tension crept into his face, just as it had with everyone else we’d spoken to that day. “I don’t think that’s possible.”
“Are you sure? I mean—”
“Nunzio.” A rough voice cut through the air. “Che succede? Non dovresti portare nessuno qui.”
I turned. Another man stood on the threshold of the room. He was broader than Nunzio, older, and had the same set to his jaw. He didn’t look very happy to find us here.
Nunzio straightened beside me. “Salvatore.” There was a note of quiet appeal in his voice. “Li ho fatti entrare io. Sono qui in luna di miele.”
Salvatore’s eyes moved over Cosimo and me with open suspicion. “I’m going to have to ask you to step out.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to get Nunzio in trouble.” I gave him my brightest, most harmless smile. There was enough resemblance between the two men that I was fairly sure they were related. “I was just really interested in Quaranta’s work, and you have such a remarkable collection.”
Salvatore’s expression didn’t budge. “Nothing here is for sale.”
“Yes, Nunzio explained that. I was just asking him whether it might be possible to get the name of the person who reserved this piece—maybe their contact information—so we can try to work something out?”
I’d expected a firm refusal. What I hadn’t expected was for Salvatore to start toward me in a way that felt unmistakably threatening.
“You need to leave,” he said again.
“Look—” I began, but before I could finish, Cosimo stepped in front of me.
“You’re acting like we asked for a state secret.” His voice had dropped into the same chilling register he’d used with Peter at Gino’s funeral. “We’re looking to make a transaction. Possibly one your client would be very happy about.”
“Our client is determined to own this piece.”
“And I am determined to make my wife happy on our honeymoon.”
To my horror, he took a step toward Salvatore, bringing them aggressively close to each other.
Salvatore’s jaw tightened. “If you don’t leave now, I’m going to call the police.”
“You’re treating us like criminals,” Cosimo said. “Makes me wonder why.”
My nails bit into my palms.
What was he doing?
Starting a fight wasn’t going to help us. If anything, it was going to slam this door shut in our faces for good.
“What part of leave don’t you understand?” Salvatore’s voice was flat, final, and—to my growing alarm—entirely unafraid.
Cosimo lifted a hand and gave his shoulder a condescending pat. “If I were you, I’d watch your tone. You never know who you might be speaking to.”
That, at least, made unease flicker in Salvatore’s expression. Still, he didn’t back down. He only pulled out his phone.
I stepped around Cosimo. “We’ll leave. I’m really sorry.” My hand closed around Cosimo’s, squeezing hard enough to make the message clear. “This is just a misunderstanding.”
I looked up at him and forced a bright smile that felt brittle on my face. “Honey, it’s fine. It’s really not that big a deal. Let’s just go look at some of the other workshops. I’m sure we’ll find something I love just as much.”
For a second, I wasn’t sure he’d listen. His gaze stayed locked on Salvatore, and I could practically feel the tension vibrating through him.
Finally, his eyes shifted to me.
“Let’s go,” I said again.
He took my hand and pulled me out of the workshop. The second we stepped onto the street, the door slammed shut behind us.
A moment later, the sign in the window flipped to Closed.
I let out a slow breath.
There went our best lead.