Traveling to Venice is usually a romantic dream come true, but for Abigail, it's anything but. After accepting an art-restoration internship at a Venetian museum, all she has on her mind are late-baroque paintings. For her, the romance of Venice can...
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Abigail
The whir of the engine died, replaced by the rhythmic sound of waves lapping against the boat. I braced myself against the wind, which had strengthened as the man steered the ship into the lagoon. Without the ancient buildings to block the weather, it felt desolate—chilling—as we bobbed up and down on the dark waters. Venice was a distant memory, the lights of the city dancing like spirits on the horizon. I shivered.
The stranger opposite me was silent.
I caught him texting on his phone, the blue glow illuminated his features. He had thick, dark hair, cut clean at the sides and styled at the top. His nose looked broken once or twice and left crooked. Strange. He looked like the type who could afford basic plastic surgery. Dark clothing gave him a sleek silhouette, as though he'd stepped from an important lunch meeting. While he was tan, his skin was slightly ashen.
His eyes darted to mine as he slipped his phone into his pocket. Meeting his gaze, I noticed his irises were odd—like burning amber. They sparked with animalistic intensity. For a split second, I considered jumping into the freezing waters. Flee from him. It was a strange instinct and one I pushed down. Instead, I opened my mouth, hoping the conversation would ease my nerves.
"Thank you for saving me back there. I thought those men were going to..." My mind wandered, thinking of the dead man in the square.
"You don't need to thank me," he said, his hands feeling around the bottom of the boat.
"Why aren't we moving? Did the engine die?"
"Not exactly" he replied. The man tugged on a rope and lifted the cement block tied at the end. He held the massive object like it was a feather, then let it tumble over the edge of the boat. It splashed into the water, then fell out of sight, the rope trailing after it. It halted as the anchor hit bottom.
"Are we not heading ashore?"
"Not until you answer a few questions."
The stranger didn't look at me but instead reached into his pocket. Silver glinted in his hand. At first, I thought it was his gun from the fight, but the object was too small. It wasn't until he flicked out a cigarette that I realized it was a vintage lighter. His black cigarette was hard to make out in the dark. As he lit it, I got a whiff of cloves and the acrid burn of tobacco. He took a drag and exhaled a cloud of smoke, which the wind blew straight into my face.
"Do you mind?" I coughed, waving a hand around my head, but he ignored my protests. Instead, he leaned in, an orange ember glowing between his fingers.
"Who are you and why are you hunted by the Mietitori?"
"By the what? I'm sorry, I'm not fluent in Italian."
"The two men who were chasing you. How did you come to be their target?"
"How is that any of your business?" The words spilled out before I could think. The truth was, I had no idea who this man was and why he'd cornered me in the middle of the Venetian lagoon. For all I knew, he was one of them...whatever they were.
