The Raven (The Florentine 1)
Page 44Still the police car followed, now joined by a second one.
With a burst of speed, the motorcycle crossed one of the large vehicular bridges that spanned the Arno before darting up the winding road that led to the Piazzale Michelangelo. Trees and houses flew past them as they raced around the curves.
Raven felt sick, but the driver would not slow.
They raced past the piazzale and around a tight curve, losing the police cars for a moment. The motorcyclist shot into a hidden driveway and climbed another hill, putting them out of sight.
The sounds of sirens grew close and then far away, as the police cars sped past the driveway and continued along the main road.
Raven tried very hard not to throw up, swallowing down urge after urge to heave.
The driver slowed the motorcycle to a moderately quick speed, making several turns before stopping in front of a tall metal gate. He pushed a few buttons and the gate opened.
He entered the gate, which closed behind them, and drove along a paved driveway that led past trees and what appeared to be an orchard.
They came to a stop in front of a freestanding triple-bay garage.
Raven was clutching the driver so tightly, she couldn’t let go. He had to pry her fingers from his jacket.
“Inside. Now.” He jerked his head toward the large and palatial villa visible via the floodlights that illuminated the garden and driveway. “Ambrogio will attend to you.”
The driver helped Raven from the motorcycle and removed her helmet.
“Her right arm and shoulder are injured. See to it.” He addressed a man who hovered nearby.
The motorcyclist turned his back on her and rolled his machine into the garage.
“Signorina, please.” The man, who Raven inferred was Ambrogio, gestured toward a stone path that led through the garden and to the back door.
Chapter Twenty-one
Ambrogio said not a word as Raven’s vomit splashed on his legs and feet. He merely placed an arm around her waist, supporting her.
She heaved until she could do so no more.
“I’m sorry,” she rasped, wiping her mouth shakily with the back of her hand.
“Signorina, come inside.” His tone was calm, too calm, as if the sight of blood on her skin and the vomit was not only unsurprising, but expected.
Raven gazed at him curiously.
He was about her height, with gray hair and dark eyes. He looked as if he were in his sixties and was carefully dressed in a well-cut dark suit. Raven found something troubling about his demeanor, but she could not articulate what.
She tore her eyes from his impassive expression and looked toward the garage. “My friend Bruno is hurt. He may be dead. I have to go to him.”
“Everything will be attended to.” Ambrogio deftly turned her to face the villa.
“I don’t have my cell phone. Or my wallet. My knapsack is in the alley, where Bruno is.”
“This way, please.”
Raven turned toward the garage, hoping to catch sight of the intruder. “But—”
“It would be best if you came into the house.” Ambrogio interrupted her with a tone that held a warning.
With one last, vain glance, Raven allowed herself to be led on shaky legs to the back door.
But it was the artwork that captured her attention.
The walls were painted a deep red and hung with oil paintings that varied in size and composition, all encased in glass.
Raven gaped at the sight and muttered a few stunned oaths.
She’d spent years studying Renaissance art and art restoration. The collection on display was of works from that period she had never seen. Paintings by Raphael, Botticelli, Caravaggio—and something that looked surprisingly like a Michelangelo—stared at her from their ornate frames.
She lifted a trembling finger and pointed to a medium-sized painting on the far wall.
“Is that—? It can’t be. Is it?” she stuttered.
“Michelangelo, yes. Adam and Eve before the Fall.” A gray-haired woman, wearing a smart navy sheath dress and jacket, strode across the floor.
“But Michelangelo is thought to have completed only one painting and it’s in the Uffizi. An uncompleted work that may be his is in the National Gallery in London.”
The woman ignored Raven’s protest. “I’m Lucia.”
“Raven,” she murmured, crossing the floor so she could get a better look at the alleged Michelangelo.
“I thought your name was Jane. Jane Wood.” Lucia followed her with a frown.
Raven kept her eyes fixed on the painting. She looked at it from the side, trying to discern the brushstrokes.
“The intruder calls me Jane, but my name is Raven.”
The couple seemed taken aback by her remarks but commented no further.
Lucia gestured to the staircase. “Your room is upstairs.”
“This painting,” Raven managed to say, fixated as she was, “where did it come from?”
“It’s part of Lord William’s extensive collection. But the best pieces are in there.”
The woman nodded toward a closed set of double doors to the left of the staircase.
Raven reluctantly tore her gaze away from the painting and stared at the closed doors.
She shook her head, as if to clear her mind.
“You said Lord William?” she whispered. “William York?”
“Of course.” Once again, Lucia seemed puzzled.
“The intruder is William York?”
“I don’t know anything about an intruder. The gentleman who owns this estate is Lord William York. He brought you here.” Lucia took a step closer, examining Raven intently. “I will send for a doctor.”
“No, I’m fine. I was just a little—motion sick.” She wiped her mouth self-consciously. “Can you tell me if Lord William recently acquired something in the style of Botticelli? Such as a set of illustrations?”
“You were bleeding.” Lucia ignored Raven’s question, pointing at the dried blood on her shoulder and dress.
“No, it’s Bruno’s. My friend.” Raven fought back tears. “I’m worried he’s dead. I need to see him.”