The wrecked cars are gone from the courtyard. Big burn marks and boarded-up windows are all that’s left of what happened here five days ago. It still smells like burned rubber. How cheerful.
We don’t say much while we sit for forty minutes, waiting by the gallery’s back door. Carson’s talked out and I have a lot to think about. If it means anything, I feel a bit less uncomfortable sitting next to her than I did at the start of this drive.
About every other minute, my anti-conscience kicks me: get out of here… take the Sisley… figure it out later. And just when that starts to sound reasonable, my conscience barges in: do it, and I’ll never let you sleep again.
The sky’s orange-tinged black is fading to violet when Gianna steps through the tunnel leading to the street. She skitters sideways when Carson flashes our headlights at her. I meet her halfway between the car and the tunnel.
I’d pictured her with bedhead and a sleepshirt over ratty jeans. Instead, she’s wearing a very 1965-girl-out-shopping outfit: white capris and a clingy, short-sleeved, butter-yellow sweater.
We stop a couple steps from each other. I say, “I’m glad you came.”
She nods, then points to the car. “Is Miss Carson there?”
“Yeah. Don’t worry about her.” She only kills gangsters. I step in for the two-cheek kiss and get a handshake instead. “Still mad at me?”
“Maybe. Why do you want me to come?” She sounds grumpy and a bit suspicious.
My conscience and anti-conscience are still in a cage match over the Sisley. Having Gianna standing in front of me doesn’t make the decision any easier.
I take the easy way out. “You’re going to need some walking-around money when Diciannove closes. This might help.” I show her my phone screen. “It’s a 1945 Miro in Morrone’s holdings in the storage room. One of the stolen ones. It’s got a €30,000 reward out on it. It’s on frame three left.”
She frowns at the phone, then at me. “What if Signore Morrone comes for it?”
“He won’t. He’s—” Dead? No, only one of us needs that picture in our heads “—left the country. Some people will come for his stuff pretty soon. They probably know how many pieces he has, but not what they are. Do you know how to roll back the date on a computer?”
She nods slowly, like it’s a confession.
“Good. Switch the date on your gallery computer to the last time Lorenzoni changed Morrone’s inventory. Pick a piece about the same size from the gallery’s holdings. Take the Miro out of Morrone’s inventory and replace it with whatever you choose. Update the gallery’s inventory to get rid of the piece you’re swapping to Morrone. Fix the date on the computer, run a backup, and delete any other backups. It’ll all look normal if the cops decide to investigate any of this. Got all that?”
Her eyes flick from the Miro to me and back. “But… what do I do with this? It is stolen, yes? What—”
“Hold on. Lorenzoni must’ve agreed to fence it. He hid it someplace in the gallery where you’d never look for it. Can you think of a place like that?” After a moment, she nods. “This morning you’ll go through the gallery trying to get a handle on what you’ll need to liquidate, and you’ll find this. You look it up on that great new StolenArt app and see it’s hot. Okay so far?”
She’s staring at the screen, yanking on her thumb. “Yes. Yes, I do all this. I am very surprised I find it, of course.”
Good girl. “Of course. You call the insurance company and tell them you found their painting. Send them a photo so they know you’re serious. Get them to commit to sending an adjuster right away. Don’t call the cops—they’ll just seize it and put it in a locker—”
“But I must! It is stolen!”
“No, you don’t. You’ve contacted the rightful owner and made arrangements to get it back to them. The only parties to the actual crime are either dead or long gone. There’s nothing here for the cops. Understand?”
She looks dubious, but she nods. “This is why you want me to come?” It sounds like, is that all there is?
Final decision time. Keep the canvas? Knock down a big chunk of my debt?
I should. When I promised I’d help with her gallery, I never figured I’d actually do it. I took advantage of that fake hope to use her and lie to her, put her in danger with Belknap, and push her into Angelo’s arms. That’s why I made the promise. Me being me.
The thing is, I don’t shaft people I like. It’s one of the few rules I follow more-or-less all the time. I like Gianna a lot. I’ve been a shit to her. And now—God knows why—I can keep my promise and pretend that makes up for what I’ve done. All I have to do is give away more money than I’ll see in the next ten years.
This is a real-life right choice. No wonder it’s so hard for me to make it.
“I’ve got something even better for you. Come on.” I lead her back to the car. The trunk thunks open just as I reach the back end.
Gianna cocks her head when I show her the canvas. She gasps when I shine Carson’s light on the signature in the lower-left corner. “Sisley? Albert Sisley?”
“Yeah. It was stolen in France in April ‘98. It’s on INTERPOL’s list and in Art Loss Register. There’s a €100,000 reward out on it.” I hesitate, then hold it out to her. “It’s yours.”
Her jaw drops. She steps back. “But… I… no, I cannot–”
“Same deal as the Miro. Lorenzoni hid it in the same place. Call the insurance company, send a picture. You’re a hero and you make some real money at the same time.” I hold it out to her again.
This time, she takes it. Her mouth works a bit before sound comes out. “I… I do… I do not know how to… to thank you.”
“It’s okay. I promised to help you. You deserve it. Now there’s no loan, no interest, you don’t have to pay it back. You’ll start your gallery free and clear.”
Gianna keeps staring at the canvas like she’s waiting for it to disappear. She has enough sense to not ask where it came from. When she looks up at me, her eyes are swimming, which makes me almost choke up. It’s been a long, long, long time since anybody was grateful for anything I’ve done to them. Winning the Powerball couldn’t feel this good.
She sniffs, wipes her nose on a tissue from her white satchel purse, then nods. “I think I am very busy this morning.”
I swallow the knot in my throat. “You will be. But it’ll be worth it.”
Gianna nods, dabs at her eyes. She gives me a shaky half-smile. “Do you have more things for me to do today?”
“That ought to hold you ‘til lunch.”
She glances at the Sisley, then me, then gets a thoughtful look on her face. “We are only business partners still?”
I like where she’s going with this. “Just you and me.”
Gianna carefully leans the Sisley against the Alfa’s back bumper, winds her arms around my neck, and gives me a six-stars-out-of-five kiss. This makes everything that’s happened in the past three weeks totally worth it.
As we break the kiss, I glimpse Carson’s eyes glaring at me in the Alfa’s side-view mirror. I turn Gianna so my back’s to the car.
“You leave Milano now?” she murmurs.
“Afraid so. I wish I didn’t have to, but…” Especially the way she feels right now.
“I wish that also.” Mischief plays with her lips. “I change the inventory soon. Do you want something from the gallery? It is my gift, so you do not forget the Italian girl.”
Seriously? I’m a bad influence on her. “There’s no way I’d forget the Italian girl. You don’t have to give me anything you haven’t already.”
She presses against me the couple square inches of her that aren’t already touching me. “Hm. I think that when you are at home and all the beautiful American girls come for you, you forget Gianna. I give you something to remember her. What do you want?”
Other than you? The obvious answer—the one that’s got me ready to explode—is out; there’s no time, and she deserves better than a quick screw on the viewing-room couch. She’s rolled out the puppy-dog eyes, so I’m physically incapable of saying no to her. Then it comes to me. “The Camoin landscape. The one you showed me that first day.”
“I remember. That is my gift to you, for being my, um… knight in white armor.”
“White knight, or knight in shining armor. I’m not either, but thanks.” I give her a thank-you kiss. “I’ll text you an address. What you did for Belaiev’s canvas? Do with this one. No duties or inspections.”
She laughs. Angels playing scales on clouds. “You think of these things, you could be Italiano.”
A car horn screams off the courtyard walls. We both jump.
Carson’s voice cuts through the dawn’s quiet. “Either get a room, or he has to leave for the airport.”
“In a minute,” I tell her in my best boss’s voice.
Gianna’s face scrunches in a mom’s-scolding-us grimace. “Now you have the trouble.”
“She still works for me. There are limits.”
We snuggle for a few moments. I notice Carson watching and point inside the car. She gives me the finger, but disappears.
Gianna sighs. “Do you come back to Milano?”
God, I wish. “I’ll do everything I can to get back here. When I do, my first stop’ll be to see you. And you’re going to give me a full tour of your gallery. That’s not optional.”
She smiles up at me. “Maybe I have more than one gallery then.”
She’ll do fine.
This time it’s a seven-stars-out-of-five kiss that’s over way too soon. We break apart just far enough to hold onto each other’s hands and take one long, last look.
“Let me know how you’re doing,” I say.
She nods. “Arrivederci, Rick.”
I swallow hard and let her go. “Arrivederci, bella.”