TWO
Florence, Italy
July 2016
Two weeks later
Chiara D’Angelo
An honest person knows when they have hit their limit—that point where a change needs to happen or someone will get hurt.
I hit mine about 10:43 on a Thursday morning in July.
If anyone could drive me right up to the edge of insanity, it was Jack Knight-Snow.
A female electronic voice drifted down the hallway from the great room, wafting into my home office.
“Born into the English aristocracy on the eve of the French Revolution, John Knight-Snow, Lord Knight, displayed an early love of antiquities and archeology. His father, Richard Knight-Snow, had conducted some minor excavations in Florence while on his Grand Tour. Unfortunately, his father died in 1812 in London, leaving his excavations incomplete. His son, John Knight-Snow, was determined to complete his father’s legacy—”
“Pardon, Siri. Pause, please.” Jack’s posh aristocratic accents silenced the woman’s voice. “Siri, start over.”
Dutifully, Siri started reading his Wikipedia page.
Again.
For the twenty-sixth time.
“Born into the English aristocracy on the eve of the French Revolution, John Knight-Snow, Lord Knight . . .”
Gritting my teeth, I told myself to ignore Siri’s monotone digital voice. It didn’t matter that Jack was supposed to be reading through an archive on esoteric texts about the afterlife instead of obsessing over his own history. It didn’t matter that I was reading through another article about the occult and ghosts and getting nowhere. It didn’t matter that Jack and I were supposed to be working together but clearly weren’t.
Jack is a big boy. He can make his own decisions.
I repeated this over and over to myself with only moderate success. Siri continued to float down the hall.
I contemplated moving myself downstairs to Nonna’s apartment for the day. She would be glad of my company. She had just turned eighty this past year and I worried about her.
I lifted my head, staring out the open window—green shutters pushed open wide, the six-foot-tall panes bouncing light through the room. My home office faced the quiet courtyard behind our palazzo, not the busy Florentine street in front. The sounds of muted traffic and the low rumble of tourists drifted in from a distance.
The call of a hawk cut through the background hum. Leaning forward, I caught the arching wings of the bird as it banked across tiled rooftops.
The hawk’s cries spoke of change.
Unbidden, Jack’s words from a couple weeks ago stabbed through me: You only step out with men who are emotionally immature and are unlikely to want a more permanent relationship.
That wasn’t true. I refused to believe it. Jack was just lashing out as he struggled to find a place for himself here in the twenty-first century. Adjusting to life as a ghost had to be difficult. And our inability to find answers obviously discouraged him.
But avoiding the research altogether wasn’t helping either.
Shaking my head, I turned back to my article on the occult, valiantly attempting to ignore the digital voice droning on—
“With the end of the Napoleonic Wars making travel safe again, Lord Knight arrived in Florence in 1816. He rapidly discovered a series of Etruscan tombs dedicated to the goddess Hinthial and the oracle, Tages . . .”
Even without all the repetition, I knew the words of Jack’s biography by heart.
I had written them, after all.
Tennyson, the youngest of my older triplet brothers, often accused me of being a walking Wikipedia page.
Dante, my oldest triplet brother, regularly called me a ficcanaso—a pokes-nose. Someone who sticks their nose where it doesn’t belong.
Branwell, the blunt middle triplet, labeled me a buttinsky.
Personally, I preferred the term intrepid investigator. It was much perkier and conjured up images of Nancy Drew or Scooby-Doo and those meddling kids.
No matter the label, I clearly liked being part of things. Why else would I have volunteered to help Jack get his body back?
Aside from having a masochistic streak a mile wide?
Though, had I known beforehand the emotional toll helping Jack would extract, I would have been tempted to keep my mouth shut. I wanted to help Jack—I really, truly did—but it was exhausting. All my goodwill and initial excitement had morphed into frustration as Jack became more and more bratty and morose, obsessing on every little thing.
Like, for example, his Wikipedia page.
I texted Enzio Patrucchi—friend, father-figure, private investigator and mentor in all things covert.
Got anything for me? I need to get out of here before I do something I regret.
Three dots and then Enzio’s reply:
That Jack guy again?
Yep. I have about hit my limit. Who knew I had one?
Uhhhh . . . are you sure you want me to answer that?
You’re hilarious.
But seriously, give me something to do.
Enzio knew that Branwell’s girlfriend’s uncle, Jack, was staying with me while we worked on a project together.
Well . . . Branwell’s girlfriend’s sort of uncle. When Jack disappeared in 1818, his younger brother had inherited the title Lord Knight and continued the family line. Lucy Snow, Branwell’s girlfriend, was the great-great-whatever granddaughter of Jack’s brother.
Enzio did not know that Jack was a ghost, a bona fide Regency lord, oppressively arrogant and completely obnoxious.
Okay, so maybe I was projecting somewhat with that last point, but we were both obnoxious in different ways.
My obnoxiousness was sorta endearing.
Jack’s was not.
Let’s face it. Obnoxiousness is tied to size. The bigger you are, the more likely others will view over-the-top behavior as irritating.
Case in point. At a scant five-foot-one and a hundred and ten pounds soaking wet, I was unfortunately adorable. People viewed my feistiness like a rambunctious kitten—cute and lovable.
But add an extra ten inches, seventy pounds of weight and a Y chromosome and all that obnoxiousness somehow morphed into overbearing jackass.
Or should I just say Jack?
Siri continued to drift down the hall:
“In late 1816, Lord Knight uncovered Etruscan inscriptions which hinted at a buried treasure guarded by the goddess Hinthial. While some scholars postulate that the treasure was more metaphorical than literal, Lord Knight was convinced the treasure actually existed. Between 1816 and 1818, he excavated multiple sites in Tuscany, tirelessly working to find more evidence of Hinthial’s treasure—”
“Siri, go back.” Jack’s smooth baritone voice.
“Born into the English aristocracy . . .”
I closed my eyes and slowly counted to ten. Either Jack was struggling to adjust, or he was simply determined to drive me mad.
Bing, bing.
Enzio.
I do need some surveillance done with a custody case I’m working on. I know how you get about kids.
This was true. I adored kids. My brothers would say that’s because I still was one, literally and figuratively.
Brothers can be mean.
Enzio continued.
But if I give you the custody assignment, will you take backup? You know I hate it when you don’t take back-up.
So, maybe Enzio took the whole father-figure thing too seriously. Bearded, rotund and quick with a smile, Enzio was a sonic-boom of a man. But with four grown daughters of his own, he did tend to cluck and fuss over me. I called him Father Goose.
Would I take back-up? I paused, twisting my mouth, before responding.
Sure
Lie.
Try again.
Grrrr. Enzio knew me too well.
Fine. I’ll take Marco.
Atta, girl. I’ll send over the client file.
Atta girl?
You know I dislike electronic pats on the head.
I’m not a puppy.
Ah, but my piccola cucciola, I do believe you are.
Huh.
Were all men determined to push me over the edge today?
No one called me a piccola cucciola—a tiny puppy. Did the man know me at all?
Of course, that didn’t stop me from instantly opening the file Enzio sent over, perusing it . . . basically any excuse to not have to think about ghosts for an hour or two.
The file outlined a basic child custody case. I knew that Enzio dealt with investigating ugly stuff too—drugs, abuse, violence—though he drew the line when something involved organized crime. And given that we lived in Italy, that meant he pulled back often. Thankfully, Florence wasn’t a hotbed for the mafia like Naples or Sicily, but we still had our fair share.
As Enzio continually said—you never came out a winner when you tangled with the Cosa Nostra.
I wanted to start my own PI business, but it just wasn’t in the cards. The family company, D’Angelo Enterprises, relied too heavily on my research skills to authenticate and verify art and antiques. Don’t get me wrong. I enjoyed chasing the provenance of obscure French china or unknown Sicilian painters or helping ghosts find their body again—
“Siri, stop. Go back,” Jack repeated.
“ Lord Knight arrived in Florence—”
“Siri, go back further.”
“Born into the English aristocracy . . .”
Of course, my research went more smoothly when my research subject helped, too.
I slammed my hands down on my desk.
This. Had. To. Stop.
Now.
The hawk called outside my window again.
Change.
Jack’s obsession over his lost past wasn’t helping us get answers. He needed a change, a nudge to get him out of his emotional downward spiral.
I definitely needed a change.
Pushing away, I rolled across the smooth tile floor in my office chair, popped off it before slamming into the wall and marched down the hall as quickly as my petite bones could go.
“Jack!”
His head snapped to attention, eyes meeting mine. He stood beside the large kitchen island, his iPad propped up on the counter. The bank of windows to the right of the room washed him in a flood of light.
Ghost Jack never changed. I suspected I could go years without seeing him and he would look exactly the same—close to six-feet tall, broad-shouldered, tan breeches, tasseled boots, blue satin waistcoat, white shirt unbuttoned at the neck, blue eyes, tousled auburn hair and the beginning of stubble. His entire person only about fifty-percent there, rendering him transparent.
“Chiara.” His deep rumbling voice rolled over me. As usual, my knees went a little weak at the sound of my name on his lips: kee-ARH-uh, the ‘r’ sound barely there in his uppity aristocratic accent.
Jack held my gaze, his blue eyes peering into me. Like he could see deep into my soul and found it sadly lacking—a barren wasteland of fast food containers and Bachelorette reruns. That the observation was marginally true only made it sting more.
His intense, too-seeing looks were decidedly unsettling.
This was the problem. I found myself unfortunately attracted to Jack, if a person could be attracted to a semi-ghost.
Hmmm, maybe I did have a few issues.
But who could blame me? Jack had this whole brooding, sexy British lord thing going on. Like me, he was opinionated and bossy which meant he could handle what I could dish. This was both a pro and a con.
Occasionally, Jack and I were peas in a pod and perfectly in sync. Most of the time, however, we were gasoline poured over a blow torch.
“ . . . Lord Knight was convinced the treasure actually existed . . .”
I stifled a groan. “Jack, this Siri thing has got to stop.”
Siri instantly shut up.
Hallelujah. At least someone listened to me.
“Is there a problem?” Jack raised a condescending eyebrow.
“Jack.” I popped a hand up to my hip. “Reading your own Wikipedia page over and over is emotionally unhealthy. Besides, it’s obnoxious for the rest of us to have to listen to.”
“Siri,” he said, not taking his eyes off me, “turn down volume.”
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. “That’s not precisely the problem here. I thought you were researching that archive on the afterlife. Why are you focused on your biographical history instead?”
“I like to remain informed as to what the world thinks of me.” Jack folded his arms across his chest.
And this was the man who had said to me, ‘Can’t handle the thought of building a truly adult relationship?’
I wasn’t the one who needed lessons on adulting here.
“Jack, we’re all concerned about you,” I said the words carefully, keeping my tone flat and not screechy like I felt. “We’ve been concentrating on trying to find answers for your ghost-like state, but I think the constant focus is hurting more than it’s helping. It’s like picking at a scab over and over, never allowing it to heal. Maybe it’s time to take a step back from our research.”
Jack paused, giving me his best Lord Knight stare.
I had a love/hate relationship with that stare—I hated that I kinda loved it. It was snooty with an edge of dry sardonic humor, and it challenged every womanly impulse in my body to kiss it off his face.
Not that I would do that, of course, even if it were possible. But the urge was there.
“Would you prefer me to continue my exploration of modern names?” he asked.
I bit my lip, unsure how to reply. It was a decent threat.
Jack had gone through this whole phase where he mocked contemporary celebrity names.
Example: Brittany Spears.
It had been days of, ‘Pardon Siri, but who are the Spears of Brittany?’ and ‘Are Brittany Spears similar to Celtic weaponry from northern France?’
“I have yet to understand why Ryan cares so much about goslings,” Jack continued. “Does he have a fetish for young poultry?”
See?!
Honestly.
Though . . . speaking of birds . . . a flock of sparrows swooped across the bank of windows, sprawling outward and then rebounding back, as if all tethered to an invisible string.
Metamorphosis. Change. Transformation.
Obviously, I take birds and their omens seriously—their arrival, their calls and flight patterns . . . all these things have meaning for those willing to learn and observe.
So, let me clarify.
We Italians are a superstitious lot. We never reach across another’s arms when shaking hands in a group. We eat plenty of lentils on New Year’s Eve for good luck. And we always throw a pinch of salt over the shoulder to shoo away the malocchio—the evil eye—when salting pasta water.
I definitely considered myself Italian. And, more to the point, I really liked researching bird omens and what they meant.
I pinched the bridge of my nose.
Change. We all definitely needed change.
“This isn’t working, Jack. You living here.” I motioned at the space between us.
Jack flinched.
Okay, so maybe that was putting it a little too bluntly—my verbal filters obviously were faulty—but that didn’t stop it from being true.
I continued, working to take my tone from bossy to coaxing. “I know that it’s frustrating we’re not finding any solutions to your ghostliness. I get you are grieving and adjusting. But I also sense that you’re just coasting, waiting for something to change. Sometimes, you have to force the change. Make something of yourself.”
Jack choked back a bitter laugh. “Make something of myself? I’m a damned ghost, Chiara, in case you had not noticed.” He swept a hand down his transparent chest. “What do you propose I do?”
“Well, as I have heard close to thirty times already today, you were Lord Knight, a celebrated archaeologist with loads of money.” I gave him my best go get ‘em smile. It might have had a sarcastic edge, but whatever. Jack was deliberately pushing my buttons. “I’m sure you have ideas. You went to ‘Lord School,’ didn’t you?”
“Lord School? You mean the bully-ridden hazing that was Eton circa 1802?”
Ooooookay. “My point is . . . you’re here now. No matter what happens in your future, one thing is crystal clear—your past is utterly gone.”
“Thank you for the reminder.” His voice dripped sarcasm.
Ugh. So was now the time to mention that my interpersonal skills obviously needed work? Things just jumped out of my mouth before being thoroughly vetted.
Case in point.
I dug in deeper. “It doesn’t mean it’s not true. We all care about you and we’ve been talking—”
“We?”
“Claire and I. Well . . . and Tennyson, too.” I paused. “And maybe Mom. Lucy had some good ideas, but Nonna said that—”
Jack’s gaze turned glacial.
I shook my head. “The point, Jack, is that we’re concerned about you. It’s looking like you’ll be a ghost for a while yet. We want you to feel like you belong here, that you can do more than simply exist. Use all those fancy lording skills”—I waved a hand indicating his entire person—“and carve a place for yourself in this new world.”
Silence.
Jack moved his hands to his hips, head hanging, as if he didn’t trust himself to speak without shouting.
I kinda wanted him to lose his temper. Rant. Rave. I bet it would be spectacular. But in true British fashion, Jack pursed his lips, stiffened his spine and stayed silent until he reigned in his emotions.
“You’ve been talking about me? Behind my back?” he asked, voice taut.
“It’s not like that, Jack. More like an intervention. Tennyson suggested maybe you should move in with him,” I replied. “He likes the idea of you hanging out with him.”
Jack laughed. Caustic. Angry. “Of course. Why not pass me along to another member of the family. Jack Knight-Snow—the unwanted family pet.”
I winced. It wasn’t quite like that but . . .
“I’m not physical, in case you missed that point,” he continued. “I can’t do anything to help Tennyson—”
“I know, but even Tennyson thinks that having you there would be an enormous emotional support. Tenn is super lonely. We all know that. He can’t feel your emotions, so that makes you the perfect person to keep him company.”
My triplet brothers shared a powerful gift of Second Sight—a paranormal ability that had cursed each first-born male in my family line for hundreds of years, giving them the ability to see, hear and sense emotions in both the past and the future. The D’Angelo women, like myself, had never been involved with the gift. We were simply the helpless witnesses to the plight of our men.
However, the gift or curse or whatever had fractured at the birth of my triplet brothers, changing and morphing into something new.
Dante and Branwell could see and hear scenes from the past. Tennyson’s gift enabled him to feel others’ future emotions.
Tennyson was unable to stem the powerful flow of feelings constantly bombarding him. Consequently, he sequestered himself away in the family villa outside Volterra—Villa Maledetti—deep in the Tuscan countryside and away from people and their overwhelming emotions. Anything to quiet the stream of noise before it became too much.
In fact, generation after generation of D’Angelo men had taken their own lives when they could no longer handle the constant barrage of emotions.
Sofia’s brother, Lorenzo D’Angelo, had been one of them.
Cesare D’Angelo, my father, had been another.
Images punched through my mind.
Dad laughing as he swung me up to his shoulders, his dark Italian eyes sparking with humor. “C’mon, mia passerotta, let’s go find some gelato before your brothers catch us.”
Brutally, I shoved them down.
Nope. Not thinking about Cesare today. Not gonna dive into the whirlpool of those memories and the morass of all my ‘daddy issues.’
Dad chose to end his life and leave us. A fate that Tennyson struggled to avoid.
Jack could help. He could be Tennyson’s . . . what?
Guardian? Warden? Observer?
Pet ghost?
“Look, Jack,” I said. “Both you and Tenn would benefit from a project, something to occupy yourselves. Maybe you guys could—I don’t know—go excavate something together. Hasn’t Siri been talking all morning about the treasure you were looking for?”
Jack’s head snapped up. “What did you say?”
“Treasure, Jack. Did you ever find the treasure?” Sure I had written his Wikipedia page but that didn’t mean I knew everything about him. Jack was still very much a mystery.
He paused and then nodded slowly. “Perhaps.”
Okay.
“So . . . what happened to it?”
“What did happen to it?” Jack asked no one in particular, gaze unfocused. “It was lost off the coast of Sardegna.”
“Wait, what? You lost treasure off the coast of Sardegna? How did I not know this? What happened?”
Jack pursed his brow. “I excavated a horde of Etruscan gold and jewels.”
“That’s huge, Jack!” My eyes were surely too wide. “And you’re just now telling me?”
Did the man not know me at all?
“Unfortunately, there is not much to tell. I kept the find secret, as thievery was rampant at the time. Instead, I sent the artifacts to London for safekeeping. But the ship sank off the coast of Sardegna.”
“Wow.” A host of follow-up questions poured through my mind. I brutally forced myself from running down the rabbit-hole.
Spending more time with Jack wasn’t what either of us needed.
“If this horde is still lost, why don’t you and Tennyson track it down? It will give you something to do and perhaps help you work through the emotional issues you’re facing.”
“Perhaps.” He snorted, eyes focusing intently on me. “What about you, Chiara?”
“What about me?”
“If I face my issues, will you face yours?”
“Excuse me?”
“I think it’s time you considered finally growing up. How old will you be this year?” he asked.
My gaze narrowed to tight slits.
“Perhaps even date—” Jack mock-gasped. “—a man?”
My eyes nearly popped out of my head. No way he just said that! I was trying to help him.
Jackass. For reals.
Fine. Jack wanted a fight? He would get a fight.
“I do date men!”
“No.” His voice infuriatingly calm and snobby. “You date manlike children.”
“Don’t make me hate you,” I hissed.
Hurt briefly flashed across his face, instantly replaced by grim resignation. “I think the ship has already sailed on that one, my dear.”
“You did not just ‘my dear’ me—”
“Love bird, then?”
“Do you have a death wish?”
He swept a hand down his body again. “Guilty as charged.”
Sparks and gasoline, folks.
“And you still haven’t answered my question,” he continued.
I stomped my foot. “I do date adults!”
Naturally, Jack’s iPad took that as permission to spring to life.
“Looking up adult. A person of mature responsibility and behavior,” Siri intoned.
Jack laughed. “Even Siri is agreeing with me now. You date man-children.”
“Takes one to know one.”
Yeah. It was a terrible comeback. Right up there with I know you are, but what am I? The verbal equivalent of tapping out.
I seriously needed better communication filters.
Turning, I walked back down the hall. “I’m calling Tennyson,” I said over my shoulder. “I think he has time to come get you this afternoon.”
Jack didn’t say anything for a moment. Instead, he raked me up and down, those arms crossed over his transparent chest again.
“Running away?” he finally asked.
“Not a chance.”
He clicked his tongue. “Someday, Chiara D’Angelo, you’re going to decide to grow up.”
I bit back my instinctual response. Yeah, well, you too, buddy.
You. Too.