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"Tell me about this piece," I ask, bending over the viewing pane.
"Ah, that necklace once belonged to a Russian duchess," he says with pride. "It's said to carry a secret within its largest stone – the whispers of past lovers, perhaps."
I laugh softly, even though the knot of fear in my stomach continues to tighten. "Such a romantic notion."
"Isn't it?" Rafaele agrees, clearly enjoying the opportunity to share his collection with me. He brings me further down the aisle.
I can't help but glance at where my father is continuing his inspection, wondering when—or if—he’s going to do something stupid.
"Romola," Rafaele’s voice makes me jump. "Come, look at this piece. It's truly remarkable."
I walk over to join him, leaning in to look over the piece. "Extraordinary," I murmur, pretending to be captivated by the intricate emerald and ruby necklace with earrings to match. It’s set in gold and seems to be a solid piece, the kind where the gold is a jagged-edged mold that won’t move with the stones set in.
“Do you see yourself as the keeper of kingly treasures? He smiles, clearly pleased by my interest. "This piece has a captivating past. It once belonged to Catherine the Great. Can you imagine the stories it could tell if it could speak?" He chuckles softly, his eyes never leaving the gemstone.
"Really? That's incredible!" My genuine awe mixes with my desperation to keep Rafaele's attention on the conversation and away from my father. "How much did it cost you to acquire such a treasure?"
"Over thirty million euros," he admits with a wry grin. "I procured it in an auction at Sotheby's. The bidding was fierce, but I was determined to have it."
Again, I feel a little sad for this man who seems to suffer from a broken heart and is looking for gold and emeralds to heal it. Then I reminded myself that he was from the mafia. He doesn’t have a heart.
“What other pieces do you have? Of Kings and Queens?” We continue our walk down the row of display cabinets.
I steal a glance at my father, stiffening as I see Papà’s hand disappearing inside his coat pocket.
After what feels like a millisecond, his hand emerges empty. I dart my eyes around him, trying to see where the diamond might be. I am hyper-aware as every second seems to turn into eons, a bead of sweat slowly making its way down my temple.
Just then, I notice it in the palm of his other jacket, concealed behind the too-large sleeves of his coat. I release a breath I didn't realize I was holding as he slides up his sleeve with the diamond in his hand and jumps to his feet, relief flooding my veins. It's just my imagination, after all.
"Ah," my father finally says, his voice soft but firm. He turns to face Rafaele and holds out the Heart of Italy, shimmering brilliantly under the dim light. "I've completed my analysis."
Rafaele takes the precious gem from my father's hand with a confident smile. "Grazie, Agostino. Your thoroughness to ensure tonight’s success is commendable."
"Grazie Rafaele," my father replies with a smile that does not quite reach his eyes. "It's been a pleasure to see such a magnificent piece up close."
As I watch the exchange, a wave of relief washes over me. Everything is fine. The Heart of Italy is safe. My cheeks burn. How could I have doubted Papà? He would never do something so foolish.
Rafaele puts the diamond back in the box and locks it with his key before stringing it back onto the chain around his neck. Then, with a flourish, he turns towards us, both hands extended in our direction.
“Now, we have a masquerade to attend.”
As we exit the vault my eye catches the painting of the beautiful woman with the sorrowful eyes who lived and died in desolation. Rafaele sees her story as one of overcoming adversity. To me, she just seems like a tragic figure.
Chapter 14
Rafaele
The Bentley I bought, using a name that can never be linked back to me, glides to a stop outside Fiero Cremaschi's grand estate, the engine purring softly before going silent.
I look at Romola and Agostino in the rear-view mirror; both have their masks in place. “Remember,” I repeat what we’ve been rehearsing on the drive over, “first names only, and no mention of me.”
“What if someone asks us who we came with?” Agostino leans forward, his hand on the back of my seat.
“Just say you’re here with a friend of Tony’s.”
“Who the hell is Tony?” he asks.
“There’s always a Tony at these things,” the driver explains. “Tonight’s guest list shows three.”
