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G ood morning,” Gianluca whispered, kissing her behind the ear, and Julia turned over, waking up drowsily.

He was sitting on the bed, his hair damp from a shower and fully dressed in another cool scarf, a thin black sweater, and jeans.

The bedroom was light, and she could hear traffic noise outside.

“Good morning.” Julia pulled up the coverlet. She realized she felt awkward, facing him the next morning. Or maybe facing herself. She couldn’t believe she’d slept with him. She could smell the spice of his aftershave, and she liked it, which made her feel worse.

“I’m sorry, I have to get to work. You can stay here today, if you want.” Gianluca smiled, moving a strand of hair from her face. “I can come home for lunch or sneak out early.”

“No, I’ve got to get home. I should call the police.”

“Okay, stay as long as you like, then. The key is under the mat. Slip it under the door on your way out. Call me when you get home, will you?” Gianluca rose and headed for the door. “I’ll come out tonight, okay?”

“Okay,” Julia answered, though she wasn’t sure.

“Great! Ciao, ciao! ” Gianluca blew her a kiss, then closed the bedroom door.

Half an hour later, Julia was back in the Ferrari heading home, her thoughts bollixed up. She kept thinking of Gianluca, the way he touched her, his whispered Italian, even their laughter and tears. But regret and guilt seeped between her thoughts like cracks that admitted darkness, not light.

She reached the highway, going against rush-hour traffic heading into Florence. She’d called Marshal Torti, leaving a message. She was beginning to feel edgy and paranoid again, the aftershocks of blue hoodies coming out of the darkness.

Fears that she was being followed crept back, and Julia took a mental picture of the cars around her, her fingers clenching the wheel. Finally, she reached the single-lane road that wound past Croce and headed home.

Julia pulled into the driveway, dismayed to see Franco’s car in front of the villa. She didn’t relish him witnessing her walk of shame, but whatever. She cut the ignition and got out of the car.

“Julia, good morning!” Franco emerged, grinning, from his car, in his trim dark suit. “Wait, is that a Ferrari ?”

“It was Rossi’s.”

“My God! How does it drive?”

“Great.” Julia walked over. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m bursting with news and I thought it would be best in person.”

Arg. “How long have you been waiting?”

“About fifteen minutes. I knocked but no one answered.” Franco shrugged, and Julia wondered if Anna Mattia was in the vineyard with Piero.

“What’s your news?”

“Well, there’s been so much interest in your property, and an amazing offer came in last night.” Franco spread his palms. “I feel as if this is the one, and it’s not a teardown.”

“Franco, I told you, please don’t solicit any more offers.”

“I’m not! Offers are coming in on their own, now that the word is out.”

“But I’m keeping the villa.”

“Don’t you want to hear the offer?” Franco raised a palm.

“It’s for one million, nine hundred euro, cash.

It’s lower because they wish to restore the villa.

The wife is an artist who works in mosaics, and the husband teaches poetry at Sapienza and is preparing for retirement. They have family money, too.”

“I’m not ready to sell yet.”

“But they’re flexible on the settlement date. You could stay three months, if you want, maybe longer.” Franco made praying hands. “Please, can we sit down and talk about it?”

“No, thank you. I’m researching my birth family, and things have been going on.”

“Like what? It’s a miracle that we got this offer and—”

“Come inside, you’ll see what I mean.” Julia went to the front door and unlocked it with Franco on her heels. She led him into the living room, where the door to the tunnel stood partway ajar. Anna Mattia had cleaned up the plaster chunks and debris.

Franco frowned, scanning the mess. “What happened ?”

Julia told him, omitting the Caterina part, but Franco only shrugged, regaining his sales mojo.

“So, it’s an underground tunnel and a room. Many villas have them.”

“This is a crime scene .”

“Did the police say that?”

“No, but—”

“So, a tunnel is a selling point to a couple like this. They want authenticity.”

“Franco, enough, I don’t want to sell yet. I have to find Anna Mattia.” Julia left the living room and entered the kitchen, but it was empty. Anna Mattia wasn’t there and oddly, on the table lay Piero’s gun, a box of bullets, and a small white note.

Julia crossed to the table and picked up the note. It was in English, written in Anna Mattia’s jittery cursive:

Sorry we go Abruzzo. The villa have evil spirit. You are crazy like Signora.

“Oh no,” Julia said, hurt. She remembered how spooked Anna Mattia had been by the underground cell. “I can’t believe this. They left ?”

Franco read the note over her shoulder. “Good riddance. I’ll ask around in town and get you some help. The villa does not have an evil spirit. If it did, I’d raise the asking. There are buyers who love haunted houses, for the novelty.”

Julia ignored him, eyeing the note. “But I liked Anna Mattia and Piero. I’m going to miss them.

They were lovely to me.” She felt a pang, then realized with a start that maybe they’d found something outside that had made them want to leave, like human bones.

She set down the note and headed for the back door. “Hold on a sec.”

“What?” Franco followed her, joining Julia as she stepped outside and surveyed the vineyard, her hands on her hips.

There were no new holes, no dirt mounded anywhere.

It looked as if Piero hadn’t even filled in the hole he’d been digging to the tunnel.

His shovel lay on the ground, and Bianco was sleeping nearby.

Julia still couldn’t believe they were gone. They must have decided to go immediately after she’d left for Florence. She realized she was the only one on the property now. She wondered if that was why Piero left her his gun.

She turned to Franco. “Do you know how to shoot?”

Back in the kitchen, Franco showed her how to load cartridges into Piero’s gun, explained how it worked, and handed it to her. “Never point it at anyone, even if it’s unloaded.”

“Okay.” Julia accepted the gun, which was heavier than she’d thought. Or maybe a lethal weapon had a gravity of its own. “Do you have a gun?”

“I have a hunting rifle, but my father has a gun. People in the country keep them to shoot rats and wild boar. You want to go outside and practice?”

“Yes, but I don’t want to kill anything.”

“Of course not, but practice is very important. You should make time every day.” Franco arranged the gun in her hands. “Hold it like this while you walk. Point at the ground, not your foot.”

“Got it.” Julia headed for the door, armed for the first time in her life. They went outside and walked down to the vineyard together. Bianco raised his head as they approached, blinking against the sun. He started to get up, looking around, and she wondered if he was looking for Piero.

“Hey, Bianco!” Julia called, and Bianco got up more slowly than usual, wagging his tail.

“I love dogs. We have a German shepherd, Yuki.”

Julia kept an eye on Bianco, who seemed to be struggling to walk. “Something’s the matter.”

“Maybe it’s nothing. Older dogs are stiff when they wake up. It takes Yuki time to get going, too.”

“I don’t know, this looks bad.” Julia watched Bianco take a few faltering steps. “Hold this, please.” She handed Franco the gun and hurried to Bianco, who staggered toward her, hanging his head. She reached him, knelt down, and patted him. “You okay, buddy?”

Bianco panted, wobbling on his feet.

Franco arrived, frowning. “Our old dog did this after he had a stroke. I think you should take him to the vet. We use the emergency vet in Greve.”

“Okay, I will.”

“Let me call ahead.” Franco slid his phone from his pocket. “They’re very good.”

“Thank you.” Julia petted Bianco while Franco made the call, spoke in Italian to the vet, then hung up.

“They can take him now. I’ll help you carry him to the car.”