The Raven (The Florentine #1)(2)

But her eyes were beautiful, large and deep and almost an absinthe green. Alas, no one ever took the time to notice her eyes, hidden as they were behind oversized black frames. Not that Raven would have been comfortable with the attention. She wore the glasses in order to distance herself from people, switching them for reading glasses that actually aided her eyesight, when necessary.

As she approached the Ponte Santa Trinita from the Lungarno degli Acciaiuoli, she cursed the fact that she hadn’t brought an umbrella. The rain was enough to clear the streets and bridge of pedestrians, but not enough to soak her. She elected not to seek shelter and simply continued, limping as she did everything else—with dogged determination.

She watched as a trio of rough-looking men approached the bridge ahead of her from Via de’ Tornabuoni. They were not deterred by the rain, their speech loud and raucous, their steps unsteady. The sight of drunks in the city center was not unusual, but Raven’s pace slowed. She knew too well the unpredictability of a drunk.

She clutched her old, worn knapsack more tightly as she continued toward the bridge. It was at that moment she saw Angelo.

Angelo was a homeless man who spent his days and nights begging for coins. Raven passed him on her way to and from the Uffizi. She always stopped to greet him and give him money or some food. She felt a kinship with him since they both walked with a cane. Angelo was developmentally disabled, which only increased her compassion.

As she walked, her gaze traveled from Angelo to the drunks and back again. A terrible feeling of dread passed over her.

“Good evening, friends!” Angelo’s Italian pierced the rainy darkness. “A few coins, please.”

The cheerful hope in his voice caused Raven’s stomach to churn. She knew the cruel fate of hope when it was misdirected.

She began limping faster, her eyes fixed on her friend, willing herself not to trip and fall. She was almost to the bridge when she saw Angelo lifting his hands and crying out.

The largest man was urinating on him. Angelo tried to move away, but the man followed. The other men cheered.

Raven was not shocked.

Angelo was homeless, dirty, crippled, and slow. Each of these features would kindle any latent cruelty in the Florentine men.

She felt shouts of protest bubble up in her throat. But she didn’t open her mouth.

She should intervene. She knew it. Evil flourished when good people walked by and said nothing.

Raven kept walking.

She was tired after a long day of work and an evening at Gina’s. She was eager to return to her small, quiet flat on the Piazza Santo Spirito. All the same, she was conscious of Angelo’s cries and the laughter and cursing of the men.

The largest man finished urinating with a flourish, returning himself to the confines of his jeans. Without warning, he lifted a booted foot and kicked Angelo in the ribs. He cried out in pain, slumping to the ground.

Raven stopped.

The other men joined in, kicking and cursing Angelo without regard to his screams. Blood poured from his mouth as he writhed on the sidewalk.

“Stop!” The loud cry, in Italian, filled her ears. In an instant, she felt joy at the fact that someone, anyone, had come to Angelo’s rescue.

But her joy turned to horror when the men stopped and stared in her direction.

“Stop,” she repeated, in a much quieter tone.

The men exchanged glances and the largest one said something derisive to his companions. He stalked in her direction.

As he approached, Raven could see he was broad shouldered and tall, his head shaven, his eyes dark. She resisted the urge to retreat.

“Go.” The man waved at her dismissively.

Raven’s green eyes darted behind him, to where Angelo was lying, curled into a ball.

“Let me help him. He’s bleeding.”

The bald man looked over his shoulder to his companions. As if in defiance, one of them kicked Angelo in the stomach. Her friend’s cries filled her ears until finally and horribly, he fell silent.

With a predatory smile, the bald man turned back to her. He pointed in the direction from which she’d approached.

“Run.”

Raven contemplated an attempt to reach Angelo’s side, but decided against it. There was no possibility of crossing the bridge to get home, either. The bald man blocked her path.

She began to back away, her gait unsteady.

The man followed. He flailed his arms and dragged his right leg in an exaggerated impersonation of her walk. One of his companions shouted something about Quasimodo.

Resisting the urge to tell the men that they were the true monsters, she turned around, struggling to move quickly. The sounds of hurried footsteps echoed in her ears. The man’s companions had left Angelo and were pursuing her.

She heard one of them remark on how ugly she was—too ugly to f*ck.

The others laughed.

One of them observed that she could be f*cked from behind. Then they wouldn’t have to see her face.

Raven hobbled more quickly, searching in vain for a single pedestrian. The banks of the Arno appeared deserted.

“Not so fast!” One man’s sarcasm was treated with laughter as they walked behind her.

“Come, play with us,” another shouted.

“She acts like she wants it.”

Raven increased her pace, but they soon caught up with her, circling like wolves around an injured deer.

“Now what?” the shortest of the three men asked, eyeing the others.