She shook her head. “In Asia.”

He seemed to consider her question in earnest. She allowed him the luxury of his thoughts and watched as snow trickled down one of the distant flanks.

“I believe I have,” he said.

She grinned at his assertion. “And what have you accomplished?”

“I met you.”

Flattery never worked with her. Men tried all the time. But with Ely it was different. “Besides that,” she said.

“I’ve learned that the past never dies.”

“Can you talk about it?”

The barking stopped and the weak patter of some far-off rivulet could be heard.

“Not now,” he said.

She wrapped her arm around him, brought him close, and said, “Whenever you’re ready.”

Her eyes moistened at the memory. Ely had been special in so many ways. His death came as a shock, similar to when she learned that her father died, or when her mother succumbed to a cancer nobody knew she’d harbored. Too much pain. Too many heartbreaks.

She spotted a pair of yellow lights heading her way, the boat plowing a course straight for Torcello. Two water taxis had already come and gone, shuttling patrons to and from the restaurant.

This could be another.

She’d meant what she’d said to Malone. Ely had been murdered. She possessed no proof. Just her gut. But that feeling had always served her well. Thorvaldsen, God bless him, had sensed she needed a resolution, which was why he’d sent, without argument, the cloth bag she cradled in a tight embrace, and the gun snuggled at her belt. She hated Irina Zovastina, and Viktor, and anyone else who’d driven her to this moment.

The boat slowed, its engine weakening.

The low-lying craft was similar to the one she and Malone had rented. Its course was straight for the canal entrance and, as the craft drew closer, in the amber light from its helm, she spotted not a nondescript taximan but Viktor.

Early.

Which was fine.

She wanted to handle this without Malone.

STEPHANIE EASED ACROSS SAN MARCO SQUARE, THE HIGH GOLDEN baubles of the basilica lit to the night. Chairs and tables stretched out from the arcades across the famous pavement in symmetrical rows. A couple of ensembles stringed away in blithe disharmony. The usual rabble of tourists, guides, vendors, beggars, and touts seemed diminished by the deteriorating weather.

She passed the celebrated bronze flagpoles and the impressive campanile, closed for the night. A smell of fish, pepper, and a hint of clove caught her attention. Somber pools of light illuminated the square in a golden hue. Pigeons, which dominated by day, were gone. Any other time the scene would be romantic.

But now she was on guard.

Ready.

MALONE SEARCHED THE CROWD FOR STEPHANIE AS THE BELLS high in the campanile pealed out ten P.M. A breeze blew in from the south and swirled the mist-muffled air. He was glad for his jacket, beneath which he concealed one of the guns Thorvaldsen had provided Cassiopeia.

The brightly lit basilica dominated one end of the old square, a museum the other, everything mellowed by years of glory and splendor. Visitors milled through the long arcades, many searching the shop windows for possible treasures. The trattorias, coffee shops, and gelato stands, shielded from the weather by the arcade, were all doing a brisk business.

He surveyed the piazza. Maybe six hundred feet long by three hundred wide. Bordered on three sides by a continuous row of artistic buildings that seemed to form one vast marble palace. Across the damp square, through bobbing umbrellas, he spotted Stephanie, who was walking briskly toward the south arcade.

He stood beneath the north arcade, which stretched to his right for what seemed like forever from the basilica, toward the museum at the far end.

Among the crowd, one man caught his attention.

He stood alone, dressed in an olive green overcoat, his hands stuffed into his coat pockets. Something about the way he stopped and started down the arcade, hesitating at each archway, his attention focused outward, caught Malone’s attention.

Malone decided to take advantage of his anonymity and head toward the problem. He kept one eye on Stephanie and the other on the man in the olive coat. It only took a moment for him to determine that the man was definitely interested in her.

Then he spied more trouble in a beige raincoat at the far end of the arcade, the other man’s attention also directed out into the piazza.

Two suitors.

Malone kept walking, taking in the voices, laughter, a fragrance of perfume, the click-clack of heels. The two men joined together, then abandoned their positions, turning left, hustling toward the south arcade, which Stephanie had now entered.

Malone veered left, out into the mist, and trotted across the square.

The two men advanced parallel to him, their images illuminated between each of the arches. The thin strain of one of the café orchestras masked all sound.

Malone slowed and wove his way through a maze of tables, empty thanks to the inclement weather. Beneath the covered arcade, Stephanie stood before a glass case studying the ice cream.

The two men rounded the corner a hundred feet away.

He stepped up beside her and said, “The chocolate chip is excellent.”

Surprise invaded her face. “Cotton, what in-”

“No time. We have company, behind me, coming this way.”

He saw her glance over his shoulder.

He turned.

Guns appeared.

He shoved Stephanie away from the counter and together they fled the arcade, back into the piazza.

He gripped his gun and readied himself for a fight.

But they were trapped. A football field-size open square spread out behind them. Nowhere to go.

“Cotton,” Stephanie said. “I have this under control.”

He stared at her, and hoped to heaven she was right.

VIKTOR INCHED THE BOAT THROUGH THE NARROW CANAL AND passed beneath a rickety arched bridge. He wasn’t planning on tying up at the waterway’s end, near the restaurant, he just wanted to make sure the village had cleared out for the night. He was glad for the wet weather, a typical Italian storm had blown in from the sea, rain coming off and on, more a nuisance than a distraction, but enough to provide them with great cover.

Rafael kept an eye out on the blackened banks. High tide had arrived two hours ago, which should make their eventual landing point that much more accessible. He’d spotted the location earlier. Adjacent to the basilica, where a sluggish canal cut a broad path across the breadth of the island. A concrete dock, near the basilica, would provide the stopping point.

Ahead, he spotted the village.

Dark and quiet.

No boats.

They’d just come from the warehouse Zovastina had directed him toward. True to her word, the Supreme Minister had planned ahead. Greek fire, guns, and ammunition were stored there. He wondered, though, about torching the museum. It seemed unnecessary, but Zovastina had made clear that nothing should remain.

“Looks okay,” Rafael said.

He agreed.

So he shifted the boat’s throttle into neutral, then reversed the engine.

CASSIOPEIA SMILED. SHE’D BEEN RIGHT. THEY WOULDN’T BE FOOLISH enough to dock at the village. They’d intentionally reconnoitered the other canal that ran beside the basilica as their destination.