“You’re a writer. You write good dialogue—your teenagers sound like teenagers.”

“I know I’m a writer—and thanks—but I haven’t plotted this part out.”

“No, you tell her you’re a writer, which is true. She can verify that. You’re acquainted with Miranda Swanson, also true, who’s the granddaughter of Jonas Martin—and remains friendly with Giovanni Bastone. All true. You’re researching the family histories, particularly the Martin/Bastone connection and the wager, for a potential book. Not true, but plausible.”

“That’s pretty good plotting on the fly.” She dipped into the serving bowl again. “Maybe I will write a book about all this, eventually, so I can go in that direction. I am researching. Okay, that’s good. The truth, and the possible truth.”

She typed in a response. “And ending it with: ‘Are you, or any member of your family, willing to talk to me?’” She hit send.

“So now . . .” She dug more enthusiastically into the mac and cheese. “We wait and see.”

“We can do better than that. What’s your schedule like?”

“My schedule? I’m here until Monday afternoon, then I have two days before I start a job in Brooklyn, then—”

“Two days might not do it. Can you get someone to cover you in Brooklyn?”

“I could, but—”

“Cover Brooklyn,” he said. “Let’s go to Tuscany.”

She just stared at him. “You sure know how to class up the mac and cheese.”

“We’ll leave Monday, as soon as you’re clear. That’s enough time to pinpoint the Bastone villa—and with some luck get an invitation to visit. No luck, we’ll figure something else out.”

“Just . . .” She wagged her hands in the air. “Go to Tuscany?”

“You like to travel.”

“I do, but—”

“I need to take the next step, and that’s verifying the Nécessaire. I can’t go without you, Lila. I won’t leave you on your own until this is over. You don’t like those terms, but that’s what they are. So consider it doing me a favor.”

Now, brooding a little, she poked at the orange pasta. “You’ve got some moves, Ashton.”

“Guilty, but you want to go. You want in. You don’t want to be here while I’m tugging the Italian threads.”

There was a cat, and a dog, and an aquarium of saltwater fish—and a garden—in Brooklyn. She’d been looking forward to her two-week stay.

But weighing it against Tuscany, another piece of the puzzle, and Ashton . . .

“I have to cover Brooklyn, to the satisfaction of my clients.”

“Agreed.”

“Let me see what I can do.”

Lila checked on Earl Grey, who rode happily in her straw bag, before she walked into Julie’s gallery. She spotted a couple of tourists—browsers, not buyers, by her gauge—and one of the staff talking earnestly to a sharp-faced couple over a sculpture of a woman weeping into her hands.

She wondered why anyone would want something that unhappy in their space, but art spoke to whom it spoke.

She found Julie—as discussed in morning texts—in the back room carefully preparing a painting for shipment.

“Another big score, one I promised I’d prep for shipping personally.” Julie blew a stray curl out of her eyes. “Great bag. When did you get that?”

“Yesterday. Why are you barefoot?”

“Oh, I caught my heel in a grate walking to work—I know better. It cracked, so it’s wobbly. I’ll get it to the shoemaker this afternoon.”

Lila just opened her bag, dug out her little pack of sandpaper and her super-glue. “I’ll fix it.” She picked up the shoe—a very nice peep-toe Jimmy Choo—and got to work.

“The bag,” she continued as she carefully sanded the two bases. “I went to the Hamptons, to a cocktail party, and needed something to carry Earl Grey.”

“You took the dog to a cocktail party in the Hamptons?”

“Yes. This would be better with actual shoe glue, but . . .” Lila gave the newly glued heel a tug. “That should hold. So. Here’s a quick update. I need advice.”

She ran Julie through the progress of the day before edging out of the way while her friend unrolled reams of bubble wrap.

“Only you would’ve thought of Facebook to track down objets d’art, and murderers.”

“She hasn’t answered my last message, so all of that might be a bust. But whether she does or doesn’t, Ash wants to go to Tuscany—next week. He wants me to go with him.”

“He wants to take you to Italy?”

“It’s not a romantic getaway, Julie, which I couldn’t even consider when I have jobs booked.”

“Excuse me, it may not be a getaway, but a trip to Italy—to Tuscany—is swarming with romance.” Aiming a stern look, Julie fisted her hands on her hips. “Tell me you’re going.”

“That’s the advice I’m after—and don’t just jump on it. I can get someone to cover my next job. It’ll take a bite out of my budget, but she’s really good, and the clients will be fine with it. I want to go because . . . so many reasons. I have to tell him, one way or the other. I’m going over there next. I had to all but push him out the door this morning to Vinnie’s funeral, and swear I’d take a cab over there this afternoon.”

“That’s a reasonable precaution.”

“Which I’d catch no less than ten blocks away from where I’m working. I’m starting to feel like Jason Bourne.”

She pushed at her hair. “Julie, what am I getting into?”

“I think you’re safe with Ash, but it’s dangerous. If you’re at all nervous or unsure about—”

“Not that part. I can’t walk away from that part.” No, she thought, walking away from that wasn’t an option. “I’ve been in it since I looked out the damn window that night. I mean with Ash. What am I getting into?”

“I think it’s pretty clear. You’re involved, romantically, and looking for problems.”

“I’m not looking for them. Exactly. I like to anticipate, to be prepared. If you’re not prepared for the variables, they can bite you in the ass.”