Reuben skirted the waltzes and dances, leading Helen through the French doors to a small, uncrowded veranda outside. It overlooked a manicured courtyard of box hedges and fragrant fruit trees of several kinds. There were other people milling about on seats by the unlit fireplace, but they soon left.

Reuben needed a moment with Helen, to assess her emotions. Remembering their Athens rooftop conversation, he wanted to be sure she had held it together.

Their unexpected meeting with her maternal grandfather, and the subsequent hour-long interrogation to extract as much information as possible for Papa Palmeiro to beat up the criminals who had stolen his daughter—or whom he had thought was his daughter—had ruined any hope of Reuben and Helen waltzing the night away.

The gravity of an abducted mother made every moment gray and funereal.

And the gravity of a life of crime made life itself an unbearable weight around one’s neck.

Reuben recalled what Palmeiro had told them earlier this evening.

You’ll see your treasure if you make it to the end.

Or it will be the end of you before you make it.

Either way, it’s not worth the stress.

Reuben understood now what his own father had gone through all those years of chasing shadows down cobblestone paths in forgotten medieval and renaissance cities of old.

Relics.

Only relics.

There were other things more worthy of his pursuit. Like a beautiful smile on a pretty face.

Reuben ran a thumb across Helen’s jawline. He felt the smoothness of her skin. He wasn’t sure why he did that. The fact that Helen hadn’t flinched to pulled away encouraged him to leave his thumb on her chin.

She looked at him, as if waiting to see what he was going to do.

Reuben thought that the cloud would part and the moon would shine and he would see her more clearly.

Instead, a bolt of thunder cracked in the distance, and rain fell like sheets in the courtyard.

Helen laughed.

“What? You read my mind?” Reuben asked.

“No need. It’s written on your face.”

“What is?”

“A moment you wanted. Lost.”

“That so?”

In the rain, Reuben heard a door closed. He leaned toward Helen. “Someone’s coming. Play along.”

His nose nuzzled her hair. He ran his fingers across the base of her neck.

She lifted her face toward him.

Is she expecting something?

Am I able to deliver?

Reuben kissed her softly on her forehead. Then her cheek.

And lips.

Helen pressed against him. She didn’t say a word.

He smiled as their lips met again.

“We seem to be…”

“Seem to be what?” A voice boomed in Reuben’s ears.

Startled, he stepped back. The night was darker than he could see clearly in. Someone was standing there watching them. If he had a flashlight…

The man stepped forward.

“Uncle Javier?” Reuben drew a deep breath. “I thought you were dead.”

“That’s the idea.”

“But…”

“I don’t even care for boating.”

“Who fell overboard?”

“A volunteer, obviously.”

Helen reached for Reuben’s hand. Held it tightly. Her palm felt sweaty.

“You’re showing yourself in public after so many years,” Reuben said. “Does Palmeiro know you’re here?”

“You can ask him later when he comes around. In the morning, I think, after the sleeping pills wear off.” Javier shrugged. “Even a ninety-three year old man cannot resist a woman offering him a drink.”

“Why are you here, Uncle Javier?” Reuben asked.

“Thank you for still calling me uncle.”

“I shouldn’t after what you stole from my father.”

“We were supposed to share Raphael and Picasso.” Uncle Javier threw up his hands. “Enough talk about the dead. I saw you chatting with Palmeiro. I want to reconcile.”

“It may never be possible now that Father is dead.” Reuben tried to excuse himself and Helen, but Uncle Javier didn’t move out of the way.

Several tall and too-muscular men surrounded Reuben and Helen.

“Take a walk with them.” Uncle Javier pointed to the courtyard. “We’ll stay in Venice tonight.”

Somewhere beyond that was a carpark—a parking lot.

“In the rain?” Reuben asked.

“What’s a little bit of rain?”

And thunder crackled again.