Page 17

Finding Indy and Fiero proved more difficult than I had anticipated. Usually, I avoided Venice. Too many tourists, too many gondolas, too many winding streets to get lost in.

After getting turned around at least a half dozen times, I finally found the right canal. Unfortunately, there were at least a dozen bars on the street with off-season crowds spilling outside, sitting on the edge of the quay, legs dangling above in the greenish water.

Once again, I felt out of place—like I had the other night at the bar. And it wasn’t just because of my dark mood or my disheveled appearance. It was this vague sense of existing outside of reality, an invisible specter, an errant ghost peeking through the window at all that happiness. All that life.

I couldn’t dwell on that though because I had a job to do: make sure Indy was safe from fuckboy Fiero. As I made my way through the osterias and bacari lining the canal, I was in full reconnaissance mode, hyper focused on locating my target.

The last bacaro turned out to be the spot I was looking for. I pushed past the young couples standing with drinks in the doorway and squinted into the dimly lit interior. It looked like the inside of a Renaissance church with its wooden arches and dark timber beams. Candles illuminated each small table. It was like stepping through time—a shadowy time when you apparently had to locate the person you were looking for by smell or touch not sight.

I squinted into the dimness. Like that night at the bar, it was her hair that caught my attention. In the light of the candles, it framed her face in gold and fire and burnished copper and made her creamy skin glow. She looked like a painting, like da Vinci himself could have painted her in this scene—all shadows and light.

She wore a black dress with a deep-V neckline and a delicate gold locket around her neck. Her lips were maneater red and her hair hung in waves over one shoulder. I’d never seen her look so . . . womanly. It stopped me in my tracks, and I stood there, unable to do anything but stare at her.

That is until the hulking shadow seated across from her let out an obnoxious laugh. Fiero was in black, his thick curly hair flopping over his forehead, dimples flashing, telling some story—no doubt featuring himself in starring role. Indy smiled politely and relief washed through me to see that she wasn’t completely taken in by him.

I marched over to the counter and ordered a beer, never taking my eyes off them. Then I made my way over to the table, arriving just in time to hear Fiero’s cheesy pickup lines.

“You have such a luscious mouth when you smile, bellissima.” He traced over her slim fingers.

I cleared my throat aggressively and Indy’s startled eyes met mine.

“Mind if I join you?” I held up my Peroni. Without waiting for a response, I slid a chair over from a neighboring table and settled down. Next to me, Fiero flexed his jaw.

“We were kind having a moment, my friend,” he grit out.

“Were you? Mind if I steal a cichetti?” I didn’t wait for his answer, just plucked one of the tiny tapas sandwiches from his plate. “Yum, with truffle? Not bad.”

They both stared at me while I polished off a morsel then dabbed at my mouth with a napkin. “Please, don’t let me interrupt you, Frankie. What were you saying?”

He glared at me. “What a coincidence to run into you here, Jazz Hands. On the prowl tonight?”

I shrugged. “Nah, just taking in the sights. Haven’t been to Venice in a while. I tend to avoid it.”

“Yeah, you tend to avoid a lot of things,” mumbled Indy.

Though the words stung, I tried to keep it lighthearted when I replied, “You’re right, Indy. See? You do know me well.”

Her eyes were so full of indignation they almost seemed to glow. That was a new trick.

“Indy?” asked Frankie.

“That’s my nickname for her,” I clarified, stealing an olive from a tiny plate. “Fun fact: When Diana was born, they made a mistake on her birth certificate. Instead of Jane, they typed Jones. Diana Jones. Isn’t that perfect?

Frankie, who wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, frowned. “I don’t get it.”

I sighed. “Like Indiana Jones. Except she’s Diana Jones. Or Indy, if you like.”

“No, not Indy,” she interrupted, setting her spritz down hard on the table. “Please, don’t call me that, Frankie.”

“Okay.” Frankie shrugged and took a swig of his beer. I didn’t dare look at Indy, but I was pretty sure she had lasers coming out of her eyes. Still, I couldn’t resist needling her. It had always been one of my favorite pastimes.

“Indy—I’m sorry—Diana, have you told Frankie about your documentary?”

Indy’s face flushed and she averted her gaze . . . ah, so there was something there that she didn’t want to talk about. I recognized the flush that started on her neck, the way her mouth twisted slightly to the side. She took a sip of her spritz and then shot me another murderous glare. “No, Levi, I didn’t have the opportunity yet.”

“Well, then, I’ll just brag a little for you. You see, Frankie, Diana’s dream was to be a celebrated archaeologist. The number of hours of PBS and National Geographic she made me sit through when we were younger!” I shook my head fondly. “And there was this one show in particular, Raiders of the Lost Earth with this British guy—what was his name Regis, something or other.”

“Reginald Harris,” she mumbled.