Strictly speaking, locked doors would not keep the Prince out. But the existence and presence of the child had changed his calculus.

As he stood in the shadows, he thought back to the first time he’d met the Emersons. He’d been impressed with the wife’s virtues and decided not to kill her. Emerson, on the other hand, could be executed without misgivings. The fact that he’d procured stolen property meant a death sentence.

The Prince tried to persuade his feet to move in the direction of the door, but they wouldn’t.

He was stunned to discover he couldn’t kill Emerson in front of his child, even though the girl was an infant.

Something had happened to him. Something had changed.

Perhaps Jane had done it. She’d entered his life like a Trojan horse and brought mercy with her. He hated mercy, for it bespoke weakness.

What other explanation was there for his sudden change of heart? Just as he couldn’t bear the thought of killing the baby or her ill mother, now he seemed unable to take the few steps necessary to kill the baby’s father.

Emerson deserved it. He deserved death, if not for the sin of theft, then for the sin of pride, which still made his blood acrid and stark. And there was the small matter of William York . . .

The Prince would not tolerate weakness in himself. Neither would he pardon Gabriel Emerson.

As he dropped to the ground, he told himself he would spare the life of Emerson’s wife and child, concealing his identity through some other means. He would wait and kill Emerson after Cassita left the city, when he no longer feared to see revulsion in her green eyes.

Mercy be damned.

Chapter Eleven

Just before sunrise, Raven sat on her bed, clutching a pillow to her mid-section. The entirety of her apartment was bathed in electric light. The door and windows were locked, as were the shutters that covered her windows. An old plush moose she’d had since childhood sat next to her, as if it were a sentry.

She’d slept, but not for long. Fear and anxiety crowded her mind, haunting her dreams.

When she’d recovered from her shock the night before, she’d considered contacting the police. A glance across the piazza had changed her mind. She’d seen the man who lurked nearby, just as the intruder said.

She wasn’t sure who the man who sat outside her apartment was. It was possible he was the intruder’s accomplice. She wasn’t going to court his attention by inviting a police visit.

The intruder, whoever he was, seemed to know her, or at least he’d spent the day following her. He knew she worked at the Uffizi. He knew she’d been interviewed by the Carabinieri. He knew she’d visited the orphanage and the Franciscan mission.

Somehow he knew about her visit to the palazzo. Whether he’d seen her or simply been told she’d been there, she didn’t know. In either case, he must have raced to her apartment in a car or on a Vespa, gaining precious minutes in order to break into her apartment, cut off the electricity, and wait for her.

He’d exited her second-floor apartment through one of her bedroom windows. She assumed he’d entered the same way. Perhaps he was a rock climber—that would explain how he was able to scale the building and climb to the ground without injury.

She’d always kept the windows locked when she wasn’t home. In her distracted state that morning, she must have forgotten. She wouldn’t make that mistake again.

If she closed her eyes, she could hear the intruder’s voice. Although it was familiar, she couldn’t identify him. She could recall his scent, however.

A lot of good that will do. What would I say to the police? Arrest a suspect and let me sniff him?

She opened her eyes and looked over at the dresser. The sketch she’d completed the previous evening was missing, which meant he must have taken it. But why?

Her laptop and simple pieces of jewelry were left behind, as if he couldn’t be bothered to steal them.

The reason could be pedestrian. Perhaps he’d stolen the sketch so he could dust it for fingerprints. He’d find her prints of little use. Patrick had told her that morning the investigators hadn’t found any fingerprints in the exhibition hall.

Her cane was leaning against the wall, by her dresser. She didn’t remember it being there earlier in the evening, but it was possible she hadn’t noticed it. Why would the intruder move her cane?

In addition to these anomalies, he’d left gifts.

He’d placed a stack of money on her kitchen table. When she’d composed herself enough to count them, she discovered he’d left several thousand euros.

And he’d given her something else.

Raven lifted the crucifix from her chest. It appeared to be made of gold; the metal was thin and had been hammered from the underside in order to form the raised figure of Jesus. The design was primitive, the facial features of Christ barely distinguishable, which led her to believe the piece was pre-Renaissance and probably medieval.

Each point of the cross had two round loops on it, as if it had been made to affix to something. The gold chain on which it was suspended looked much newer than the crucifix, and it also appeared to be made of gold.

She knew a little about relics. She’d had a Catholic education at Barry University, as an undergraduate. And there was Father Kavanaugh, the priest who’d intervened to help her and Carolyn when they were in trouble. Her love and respect for him didn’t extend to his beliefs and she certainly didn’t think there was anything efficacious about a piece of metal, no matter what shape had been hammered into it.

She couldn’t imagine why the intruder would believe that a hunk of gold would protect her against “the others,” whoever they were.

It won’t hurt to wear the cross, just in case. Perhaps it works because the others fear it, not because it has magical powers.

But I’m not leaving Florence, not after I’ve worked so hard to build a life here. I don’t care what he says.

She pulled her quilt around her shoulders.

The intruder was frightening and strangely strong. His command to leave the city was unambiguous, but she didn’t know why the two-week mark was so important.

Maybe he has a source in the police force and knows what’s happening with the investigation.

He’d recognized Dottor Vitali’s name, although he seemed surprised to hear it. But it seemed to be the person of William York that he was most interested in. Raven found that puzzling.

And there was his speech. He’d called the Franciscans Ordo Fratrum Minorum, which, she’d discovered through the Internet, was their Latin title. And he’d warned her about going out after dark.