Chapter 22 - Shadows over the Grand Canal
The damp chill of Venice rose from the dark water of the Grand Canal as their water taxi cut through the heavy midnight fog. They pulled up to the weathered stone steps of Palazzo d'Avila, a centuries-old estate belonging to an antique dealer who had served as Vittorio Romano’s private fence in southern Europe.
Sebastian stepped onto the slick marble landing first, his hand outstretched to steady Norah as she stepped out of the boat. Beneath his bespoke overcoat, his shoulder holster was unbuttoned, his senses operating on raw combat instinct.
"Stay behind me, Norah," he murmured, his thumb brushing the hilt of his weapon.
"I have my own tools, Sebastian," she replied, patting the small leather kit concealed beneath her long cashmere trench coat.
The heavy oak doors of the palazzo were cracked open an inch. A faint sliver of amber light leaked onto the cobblestones. Sebastian kicked the door open with controlled violence, raising his suppressed handgun in a sweeping arc.
The grand foyer was vast, smelling of decaying tapestries, old books, and fresh copper.
In the center of the room, slumped over an antique walnut table, was a man in his late seventies. His silver hair was stained crimson from a single, clean gunshot wound to the temple.
"Matteo d'Avila," Sebastian said grimly, scanning the shadows before checking the man’s cooling pulse. "Dead less than thirty minutes. The killer was waiting for our flight to touch down."
Norah walked past the pool of blood, her attention drawn to the table. Surrounding the dead man were scattered blueprints, antique jewelry loupes, and an open safe embedded in the wall behind a shattered oil painting.
The safe was empty, except for a single velvet pouch tossed onto the floor.
Norah picked up the pouch and tipped its contents onto the palm of her black leather glove. A ring tumbled out. It was forged from oxidized black platinum, holding a flawless marquise-cut ruby that pulsed with the deep, bloody hue of a pigeon-blood gemstone.
"The Ring of the Doge," Norah whispered, recognizing the ancient setting from historical records. "This belonged to the secret treasuries of the Venetian Republic."
"Turn it over," Sebastian ordered, his eyes darting toward the arched doorways of the upper balcony.
Norah turned the ring over. On the inside band, freshly engraved in microscopic cursive, was a message:
*A daughter pays for the father's silence.*
"My father didn't burn those ledgers to protect me," Norah said, her voice shaking with quiet fury as pieces of her fractured childhood clicked together. "He stole from Vittorio. And he stole from the Corsinis. He didn't just hide behind his bench; he was playing both sides against the middle."
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Suddenly, the unmistakable sound of a bolt sliding into battery echoed from the balcony above.
"Down!" Sebastian roared, wrapping his arm around Norah’s waist and tackling her behind a heavy marble pillar just as automatic gunfire shredded the antique table where they had been standing seconds before.
