“Is this the only luggage you have?” Marco asked, taking her suitcase—now just an ordinary, innocent suitcase—by the handle.
“Yes,” she stammered after a second. She tucked the business card back into her passport. Was he really hoping she’d call him?
“You travel light,” Marco continued. “I need two suitcases just for an overnighter.” Taking her by the arm, he kept up a light banter about people in Toronto as he directed her through the terminal and toward the docks where their water taxi awaited.
Marco Moretti was a cousin on her father’s side. At thirty-eight, he had always been more of a big brother to her than a cousin. For a number of years, he’d worked as a developer for a company that designed antivirus software, and made a hobby of collecting art. On a whim, he’d developed a game called Happy Spiders, a parody of Angry Birds. No one was more surprised than he when it went viral and for a brief time became bigger than Angry Birds itself. Olivia didn’t know how much Marco had made in total, only that it was, in his words, “like winning a very, very big lottery.” It had allowed him to quit his job as a developer, turn his art-collecting hobby into a business, and open a gallery on Queen Street West in Toronto.
She was thrilled for him, and even more thrilled when he offered to pay her student loans and gave her a job in his new gallery. It was Marco, along with her artistic father, who’d given Olivia an appreciation for art, but while she had gone on to complete a master’s degree in art history, she knew jobs in her field were few and far between. Until Marco’s offer, she had been psyching herself up to start an admin job in the tax-accountancy firm her sister worked for. “You’ve saved me from a fate worse than death,” she’d told him happily.
She had been working in Marco’s gallery for a year when he teamed up with the world-renowned Silvio Milan. He’d been so proud when he’d hung the new sign over the gallery door: Silvio Milan—Venice, London, New York, and Toronto. Overnight, this partnership launched Marco into the international art scene on a level he could only dream of before—lunching with Damien Hirst in London one day and bidding on a Jackson Pollock in New York the next.
When they reached the water taxi docks, Marco introduced her to Dino, a burly, dark-haired man in his mid-forties with the face of someone who’d been out in the wind and salt air for a long time. “Dino is relatively new to Silvio Milan but not to boats—he’s a licensed captain and even sailed to Antarctica when he was still in the Albanian navy. So you’re perfectly safe with him. All you have to do is call, and it’ll be billed directly to the company.”
Olivia shook Dino’s hand and thanked him when he helped her into the boat with a big smile. He stashed her luggage in the boat’s cabin but suggested she sit outside. “If you get cold, you can move into the cabin, but the back of a water taxi is the best way to approach Venice.”
Marco was agreeing with him when his cellphone rang. “Damn it,” he said looking at the display. “I have to take this. I’ll be right back.”
Olivia watched him stride inside the cabin and then turned back to Dino, catching him looking her over intently. He quickly glanced away, apparently interested in the seagulls fighting over a discarded sandwich.
“Those are the biggest seagulls I’ve ever seen,” she said conversationally. She shouldn’t read too much into his stare. Of course he’d be curious about her.
“Yeah,” he said, his smile as friendly as when she shook his hand. “Meaner, too. They swoop down on the pigeons in San Marco and rip their hearts out right in front of the tourists.” He laughed. “I think they like to make the children cry. The seagulls also pick them up in their claws and drown them in the canal, dunking them in over and over until they’re dead. The pigeons that is, not the children—though that would be a sight, wouldn’t it? Here comes your cousin now. Remember, if you get cold, you can ride in the cabin.”
Marco sat beside her as Dino started the boat. “Is Dino a bit odd?” she asked quietly.
“No,” Marco returned, looking surprised at the question.
“Well, he just told me this awful story about seagulls killing pigeons, and seemed to be enjoying it.”
Marco’s laughter sounded relieved. “Oh, that’s just a Venetian thing. Venetians pretend to despise the pigeons, always saying they should all be shot or poisoned. Don’t pay any attention. And Dino is a great guy, really.”
“Okay,” she said, though she still thought there had been just a little too much glee in Dino’s story.
“Once Christmas is over, I’m afraid I won’t be able to do much sightseeing with you,” Marco said as they raced across the lagoon toward the city. “I’m off to Iceland after New Year’s.”
“Iceland?” Olivia asked, pulling up her collar to ward off the chill wind.
“Silvio is interested in the work of a collective there, and I’m going to be checking them out. I’m looking forward to it, but it will mean leaving you on your own. I won’t be able to show you the city—or protect you from the amorous Silvio. He’s been asking a lot of questions about you, and I know he’s going to take one look at those violet eyes of yours and go straight for the kill. I don’t want to sound like your big brother, but be careful he doesn’t break your heart.”
“I know, I know,” Olivia said. While she’d inherited her father’s olive Italian complexion and dark hair, she had her mother’s unusual violet eyes, which Marco claimed put the most perfect amethyst to shame.
This wasn’t the first time Marco had warned her about Silvio’s penchant for attractive women, but she was pretty sure that, even without the warning, she wouldn’t be falling for Silvio. She wasn’t in a relationship, but she wasn’t pining for one either. By twenty-nine, she’d had her share of boyfriends, a couple of them serious, a couple not. The relationships had ended or fizzled out with varying degrees of stress and tears, and she’d been pretty content living on her own, working with Marco, enjoying the company of friends, and, of course, spending as much time as she could with her father in his final months.
Really, she was happy just to be in Venice. And if she was tempted to jump into anyone’s bed, it would be that cop back there with those smoldering movie-star looks and eyes you could drown in. Crikey, she thought. If I read that in a romance novel, I would groan. It sounds so hokey.
Marco snapped her out of her reverie by pointing out the island of Murano, where the glassblowing industry was located. “They started blowing glass here in the thirteenth century. They needed their own island because of the constant threat of fire.”
Olivia knew this as she’d been reading extensively about the history of Murano glass for this job. She also knew that the glassblowers had been sworn to secrecy by the Venetian government. Any glassblower who gave away the secrets of his art was executed.
Soon they were past Murano with its brick chimneys and approaching Venice itself. “You’re getting a bit of the scenic tour,” Marco said. They cruised along what he referred to as the “back” of the city, passing the stops where the water buses, called vaporetti, loaded passengers. They sped by the cemetery island where generations of Venetians were buried, around the eastern tip of the city, and into the mouth of the Grand Canal.
The view was breathtaking. No pictures in a book could prepare her for this magical city that seemed to float on water, the architecture a marvelous mix of East and West. Dino slowed down and skillfully navigated his way through the waters, choppy now from the other boat traffic: vaporetti, other water taxis, and gondolas ferrying picture-snapping tourists. They passed the iconic Bridge of Sighs, which so many wretched prisoners had crossed on the way to their executions. Then came the Ducal Palace and the magnificent basilica of San Marco, its domes silhouetted against the sky. Olivia was tempted to take out her own camera but refrained. Just enjoy it, she told herself. You have six months to take photos.
Suddenly, she felt like crying again. And it wasn’t just because she was tired or missed her father. These were tears of gratitude.
“Hey, what’s wrong, kiddo?” Marco asked.
“Nothing. I’m just so happy to be here,” she said, putting her arms around her cousin. “Thank you so much for giving me this opportunity.”
“You make it sound like charity,” he said, hugging her back. “I hired you because you’re smart and knowledgeable and have fabulous taste. Actually,” he said, as he ruffled her already breeze-tousled hair, “you’re just plain fabulous.”
“I won’t let you down, I promise.”
“I know that already. But have fun too.”
Just past San Marco, Dino crossed the canal and docked in front of the enormous circular church that Olivia knew from her guidebook was the basilica of Santa Maria della Salute, built to commemorate the end of a terrible plague that killed half the city. “This isn’t the closest stop to your apartment,” Marco said as he helped Olivia from the boat, “but since you traveled so light, I thought you’d enjoy the walk.”
“Absolutely,” she agreed. “I can’t believe I’m here. I’m going to pinch myself and wake up any moment.” A dream might explain what had happened at the airport, not to mention that gorgeous cop. But then she did have a real business card with his name on it in her bag.
A flock of pigeons rose from the square, and Olivia, recalling Dino’s story of the pigeon-killing gulls, turned around to see him watching them from the still-docked boat. He smiled widely and raised his hand to her. She waved back. If Marco said Dino was a great guy, then that was good enough for her. She was probably just tired.
An old woman sat begging in the open door of the church, and it was all Olivia could do not to climb the steps and have a peek. There’ll be time for that later, she told herself, following Marco over a wooden bridge. She paused at the top to watch a gondolier piloting his boat. It disappeared under the bridge beneath them before reappearing on the other side. It was like finding herself in another century.
“There are no cars or bicycles,” Marco said, “so the canals are also very functional. Everything is done by boat. There are moving boats, work boats, garbage boats, even ambulance and fire boats.”
On the other side of the bridge, they went through a short tunnel, which Marco explained was a sottoportego, since it went under the central room, called a portego, of the building above it. They emerged into a pleasant little square, which Marco explained was called a campo, meaning “field,” from the days when all the squares of the city were unpaved. “Only San Marco earned the title of piazza.”
They passed the high brick wall of a garden belonging to a palazzo that many believed to be haunted. Beside that was the Guggenheim Museum, home of the Peggy Guggenheim Collection. “A must-see for all lovers of modern art,” Marco said. “It might even convert the non-lovers too.”
With a quiet canal on their left, they continued past art galleries, cafés, and shops that sold varying qualities of Murano glass. “Not all glass that claims to be from Murano is genuine,” said Marco. “Some comes from China, but you’ll be able to spot it soon enough.”
“It’s a good thing you’re with me,” Olivia said as they entered another campo. “I’m already hopelessly lost.”
“You’re going to get lost a lot at first,” Marco said. “It’s a very small city, but getting around is like trying to find your way in a maze. To tell the truth, I still get lost. But we’re almost there.”
He stopped at the foot of a bridge and beckoned her to look up at a palazzo on the other side of the canal. “See those two balconies on the top floor? Home.” He smiled at her. “Even I have only one balcony overlooking a canal—you have two.”
They crossed over the bridge and walked down a street, where Marco unlocked an ornate wooden door. Olivia was surprised to find herself in a delightful courtyard, surrounded by stuccoed three-story buildings. The wisteria adorning the walls was dormant, but she knew in spring it would be a riot of purple blooms. “What’s that tree?” she asked, pointing to a tall, spindly evergreen laced with white Christmas lights.
“It’s called a monkey puzzle tree,” Marco said with a grin. “I have no idea why. Did I mention that you’re on the second floor, which in Toronto is the third floor?”
“I’m glad you have the suitcase.”
“Sure you don’t want to take it? It’ll be good practice,” he joked.
The climb was worth it. In fact, she would’ve climbed ten more flights to have this apartment: high-ceilinged rooms, gleaming terrazzo floors of different colors of marble, elaborate Murano glass chandeliers.
She opened the French doors and stepped onto one of the narrow balconies hanging over the street. If she looked to her left, she could see a bridge arching over the canal, and beyond that a sliver of the Grand Canal with a bell tower listing in the background.
She surveyed the rest of the apartment. The art on the white plastered walls was original, the furniture spare but elegant. The kitchen, with a view of the courtyard, was a perfect balance of modern convenience and Old World charm. The bathroom was white marble from the floor to the sink to the deep bathtub. Like the main room, the bedroom had French doors and a small balcony. Piled with soft pillows, the bed was luxurious and inviting. A tall carved wardrobe graced one wall, and there were fresh flowers on the nightstand.
“I was going to get a Christmas tree,” Marco said, “but I thought that was something we should do together.”
“Thanks. I’d like that. And I really love this apartment—it’s so beautiful.”
“What did you expect from Silvio Milan?” Marco said with a smile. “Luxury is our middle name.” He parked her suitcase in the bedroom and handed over the keys. “I’m going to leave you for a few hours. I have some errands to run, and I’m sure you could use a nap. You’ll find something to eat in the fridge, and I made extra sure there was a corkscrew so you could open your first bottle of wine. I’ll be back for you at five, and I’ll take you to the office to meet Silvio. We’re having drinks at the office and then going out for dinner. It’ll be a late night, so be sure to get some rest.”
“I will.”
“And one more thing,” Marco said, his hand on the door. “Wear something smashing to go with those eyes of yours.”
Olivia laughed. “What about all those ‘be careful’ lectures? You know, I’m starting to think you might have a ‘thing’ yourself for Silvio Milan.”
“Wouldn’t matter if I did. He’s a ladies’ man, through and through. But how about that cop you were talking to back there?”
Olivia laughed again, feeling her cheeks burn a bit just at the mention of him. “I don’t know much about him,” she said, “but I’d pretty much swear on my father’s ashes that you’d stand even less of a chance with Alessandro Rossi than with Silvio Milan.”
“Alessandro Rossi, eh?” he said, raising an eyebrow at her. “Last time I asked, you said he was ‘no one.’ Oh well. È la vita—that’s life. Or at least my life. How come women are always complaining that all the good-looking men are gay? It’s not my experience at all.” He gave her kisses on both cheeks and promised to return at the appointed time.
Once alone in what was to be her home for the next six months, Olivia spent the first few minutes putting things away. She needed to go shopping soon. Other than the lingerie and the black dress she was going to wear tonight (classy but short of smashing), she’d brought very little. “Why would you buy clothes now?” Ellen, the art student taking care of the gallery in her absence, had asked. “You’re going to Italy! Spend your money there.”
She placed the wind-up teeth on the bedside table, marveling at how something so silly could cause so much trouble, and took out the business card: Alessandro Rossi, Buon Natale, and his number.
The card had made her so happy in the airport, yet now when she looked at it, she wasn’t so sure. He seemed nice, but she knew nothing about him. He could be a cheating husband with a wife and two children. Surely no man that good-looking could still be single, and weren’t Italians known for that kind of thing? But then, no man could be that nice and cheat on his wife.
Anyway, how could any opinion she had of him be accurate after such a short meeting? He’d been pretty brusque with her until she started to cry—and then, she supposed, anyone with a heart not made of stone would have been somewhat sympathetic. No doubt he’d given her this on impulse and was now kicking himself, already coming up with an excuse if she called.
She turned over the card. Guardia di Finanza, it read, with a crest, an address, a phone number, and his name again. It all looked very official. Well, even if she was going to call, she couldn’t do it yet—wouldn’t that seem too eager?
She could ask Marco’s opinion, but there wasn’t much point as she could guarantee he’d say “go for it,” a strategy that didn’t seem to work particularly well for him. When it came to love, Marco was the unluckiest person she’d ever known.
Besides, what made her think it was personal at all? Other than the Buon Natale and the smile with which he’d given it to her, it was just a business card. He probably handed his card out to everyone, just in case they needed to get in touch with him again. Though everything seemed to have been settled pretty neatly in her case. Shrugging, she tucked the business card under the chattering teeth.
She took a long hot shower and wrapped herself in a thick white bathrobe with silvio milan embroidered on the lapel. She had known her new apartment was to be furnished by the company, but she was still surprised by the luxurious attention to detail. But then, like Marco had said, what else did she expect from Silvio Milan?
Feeling very fortunate, she went to the kitchen and opened the fridge. She surveyed the fresh fruit and cheese, doubtful she’d be able to eat it all before it went bad. There was a bottle of Prosecco and another of Valpolicella. She decided not to open either, settling instead on a glass of Cinzano to toast her new home. She poured it over ice cubes and went into the main room to the French windows.
Not wanting to go onto the balcony in her bathrobe, she drew back the white lace curtain and looked out. Running from the Grand Canal to the Giudecca Canal, her own little canal, the Rio de San Vio, flanked by low brick walls, was narrow and straight. She admired the terra-cotta-colored palazzos with dark green shutters across from her, their doors opening right onto the stone-paved streets that ran alongside the canal.
She glanced to the left with its view of the bridge and was about to let the curtain drop back into place when a movement caught her eye. A tall figure in a long black robe and a black hat with a white feather plume had materialized seemingly out of nowhere and stood in the middle of the bridge. Its back was to her, and despite the stillness of the day, the robe undulated around the figure as if caught by a gentle breeze.
At first Olivia watched with no other emotion than curiosity. Why would someone be dressed for Carnival at Christmas?
But when it turned and looked directly at her window, she felt herself go cold. Like some sort of great evil bird, the figure’s face was obscured by a white mask with a large beak-like protuberance. Dark eyeholes hid the wearer’s eyes, making the gaze seem extra intense.
Instinctively she stepped back, her hand shaking slightly as she clutched the curtain. Still the shrouded figure watched her. Olivia was sure there was no coincidence in this meeting. She could feel a dark purpose in its presence and sensed herself caught helpless in its spell.
As she stood there, mesmerized, the apparition conjured a red rose from the fold of its robe. It held it up in a white-gloved hand, as if in offering. Then, with deliberate slowness, it began to pull out the petals, holding each one out to her before letting it drift to the water below.