SIXTEEN

TAKING the photo from his hands, I studied the jewel with renewed fascination. The blue diamond was surrounded in the unique setting by dozens of smaller, darker stones—“coffee diamonds,” Gus called them.

“The piece is absolutely stunning,” I said, “but I never knew the Campana family owned it.”

“Very few knew,” Gus revealed. “This picture was taken in Italy before we set out on that final, fateful voyage. It was taken as prova—proof.”

“Proof of what?”

“That the Occhio del Gatto was personal property, not something to be declared at customs and sold in America.”

“You mean you were smuggling the piece? You wanted to sell it and avoid the taxes?”

His smile returned, but this time his dark eyes carried a cunning gleam.

“As I told you, we left Florence with the means to start a new life, and bring the family business to America. The family loaned the heirloom to us. They expected me to sell it and use the money to bring them over. When the jewel was lost, that means went away.”

Matt snorted. “I guess it’s water under the bridge. Or more like a giant diamond under two hundred feet of seawater.”

I sighed. “It was such an exquisite gem. The shade of blue so sharply striking. It reminds me of Quinn’s eyes.”

“Oh, please.” Matt groaned. “Where’s a locked and loaded Panther Man when you need him?”

“Matt!” I cried, horrified. “That’s a terrible thing to say!”

Gus stifled a laugh. “He says it because he still loves you. La torcia. His heart still carries the flame.”

Matt waved his hands. “Don’t go there, Gus. It’s a lost cause.”

“More like ancient history,” I corrected. “And I wish Panther Man was, too.”

“You are talking about that crazy man from the news? Or maybe not so crazy . . .”

“What do you mean?” I looked at Gus. “Do you know something? It could help me—and my boyfriend—a great deal.”

He shrugged. “I know when someone acts crazy, sometimes they’re actually smart. Like Mussolini, maybe crazy is part of their act.”

Gus saw my disappointment.

“You know, Clare, I’ve always liked you . . .” He reached for another of my cupcakes and sighed with happiness as he ate. “In my line of work I deal with many different people. They give me their dollars, their euros, their yens, their yuans, and I fashion jewelry for them . . . famous actors, businessmen, rappers . . . and people with less . . . legitimate occupations.”

He paused to dab his mouth with a napkin. “I don’t ask questions. If they pay me—” He shrugged. “I do the work. As for this Panther Man? Maybe I can ask around. You’d be surprised who this old man knows, and what he can find out. Like the Occhio del Gatto, eh?”

“Like the diamond?” I met Gus’s gaze. “What do you mean?”

“The diamond was cut and set to honor the spirit of the bridge cat.”

“Bridge cat?”

“You don’t know about the guardian spirit of the Ponte Vecchio?”

“I know about the Ponte Vecchio . . .”

For centuries, the medieval covered bridge provided a home to the goldsmiths of Florence. I’d even visited the famous “Old Bridge” during my summer in Italy—and spent far too many lire on a twenty-two-karat-gold bracelet.

“According to legend,” Gus went on, “a mystical cat prowls the bridge as a guard on dark and foggy nights.”

“A guard against burglars?”

“Burglars, intruders . . .” He shrugged. “Any troublemaker to the merchants of the bridge.”

“But what can a little cat do?”

“A little cat?” He laughed. “This is no ordinary animal. Inside, a protective spirit lives that transforms and attacks when threatened, killing if necessary.”

He paused, dark eyes narrowing. “Heaven help the mortal who crosses it.”