The Raven (The Florentine #1)(26)
Whoever the man was, he sounded young, but his fluid Italian was decidedly old-fashioned.
She moved slowly, placing a tentative hand on the chair and pulling herself up. She slid onto the seat.
“I don’t have any money.”
“A better question is whether you have any sense.” He moved behind her.
She twisted, following the sound of his voice. “Who are you? What do you want?”
“I’m asking the questions. What were you doing at the Palazzo Riccardi?”
Raven’s stomach dropped. Perhaps he’d followed her or perhaps he’d seen her at the palazzo. In either case he must be fleet of foot or he’d driven in order to arrive before her.
She wondered why he was hiding his appearance.
“You’ve been a stupid, stupid girl. Don’t magnify your stupidity by trying my patience.” His tone grew menacing.
She drew a deep breath, forcing the tension out of her voice. “It was a mistake. I shouldn’t have gone there.”
“What were you looking for?”
“Someone who works at the palazzo. I thought I’d stop by.”
“At night? After hours?” the man said, pressing.
She forced a laugh, which sounded more like a strangled cough.
“Silly, right? It was a mistake.”
“Who were you looking for?”
She hesitated and the man brought his face to within inches of hers. She could smell him—a scent of citrus and the woods. It was not unpleasant.
“William York.”
If the intruder recognized the name or was surprised by it, he gave no indication.
“That’s an odd name for an Italian.” The man’s tone grew conversational. “Is he a friend of yours?”
“No. I’ve never met him.”
“Then why were you looking for him?”
“No reason.”
A heavy hand rested on her shoulder. “That is not an acceptable answer.”
The hand flexed minutely and Raven clamped her mouth shut to keep from screaming.
A myriad of old anxieties and fears swirled in her mind. She was terrified that the intruder was going to rape or kill her once he’d secured the information he sought.
She thought about her younger sister, Carolyn, and not being able to tell her one last time that she loved her.
The hand flexed again.
“Um, I work at the Uffizi and—”
“I know that,” the intruder said, interrupting.
“You know that?” she repeated.
“I know a great many things. Continue.”
She shifted in the darkness, wondering why, all of a sudden, his voice seemed familiar. He wasn’t Agent Savola or Ispettor Batelli, she was sure. But somewhere in the recesses of her memory, she knew she’d heard his voice before. She couldn’t remember when.
“While I was at work I heard that this man, William York, was associated with the Palazzo Riccardi. That’s all I heard.”
The hand lifted from her shoulder.
Raven strained her ears, listening for any movement.
The man leaned over her, bringing his nose to her neck. She jumped at the contact, for his nose, like his hand, was cool.
The intruder inhaled slowly and deeply. Raven angled away from him, desperately trying to tamp down the nausea that was climbing the back of her throat.
He grunted and stepped back, as if he’d smelled something revolting.
“I can tell when you’re lying. What else did you hear?”
“Uh, that Mr. York donated money to the Uffizi in order to be invited to the opening of a special exhibit a couple of years ago.”
“Who said this?”
When she didn’t respond, a single finger made contact with her neck, sliding down her throat.
Raven cringed.
“Someone named Emerson. I didn’t see who he was talking to.”
He brought his lips to her ear. “Try again.”
“Emerson was talking to Dottor Vitali.”
At this, the man straightened. “Vitali? Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Did you mention this conversation to anyone? A friend or the Carabinieri?”
“No.”
The intruder was silent.
Raven waited for him to do something.
But he did nothing. He didn’t move. He didn’t sigh. She couldn’t even hear him breathe.
She fidgeted, tapping her feet against the floor. She wondered if she could use the chair as a weapon, swinging it in the direction of his head and giving herself enough time to make it to the door. No doubt he’d be faster than her, and if she missed, he’d respond in kind.
She tapped her feet more quickly, wondering if she dared make a move.
Then the intruder’s voice sounded near her ear. “You went to an orphanage and a mission today. Why?”
Raven froze.
“You followed me?”
“Answer my question. And tell the truth.”
“I volunteer at the orphanage after work sometimes. A friend of mine, a homeless man, is missing. I went to the Franciscan mission to see if he was there. But he wasn’t.”
“A homeless man?”
“He’s the one who sits by the Ponte Santa Trinita, on the other side of the river. He’s disabled, like me.”