Well, what was any girl to do when a handsome man said that to her, in her own bed, in her own house, on a moonlit night when the lagoon was bright and glassy-smooth?
He didn’t tell her a lot about himself, afterwards. Except that he was a danger to her, and he had to leave her—which she expected, really. But what he said then she didn’t expect.
“How can I leave you? I love you!”
—and she, fierce as a lion with a cub, swore she could help him, keep him safe from those enemies—she’d known they were enemies all along, no footpad ever bothered tying a rock to someone to sink him. But then he told her who those enemies were—the Milanese—and that he’d been working for them right up until the moment that they betrayed him. Almost, almost she took it all back, almost told him to leave. Almost.
But she hadn’t. And she’d hidden him until she was able to get him to someone who could offer him, for a price, a precarious bit of protection. Then a little more. And him, with his sneak’s ways and his angel’s face, clawed and fought his way up to being very valuable—alive—to enough people that it was no longer more profitable for him to be dead. For now, at least.
And that was why Maria Garavelli found herself rowing her boat along a back-canal in the dead of night, roused by a messenger; going, once again, to pick up her lover from wherever-he-was now; short on sleep, short on temper, and wondering if this time, despite passwords and safeguards, it wasn’t him, but an ambush. And lovesick idiot that she was, she’d have been sculling through canals of fire if she had to, to get to him.
The ache in her fists suddenly registered on her brain, and she eased up her grip on the oar. For some reason, that reminded her of Benito and his peculiar “peace offering.”
For a moment, Maria’s natural combativeness caused her to frown. But, within seconds, the frown cleared away and she uttered a soft little laugh.
That scamp!
Truth be told, she thought she was probably fond of Benito. Maybe.
And it was a lovely red, that scarf.