Grrrr. Enzio knew me too well.
Fine. I’ll take Marco.
Atta, girl. I’ll send over the client file.
Atta girl?
You know I dislike electronic pats on the head.
I’m not a puppy.
Ah, but mypiccola cucciola, I do believe you are.
Huh.
Were all men determined to push me over the edge today?
No one called me apiccola cucciola—a tiny puppy. Did the man know me at all?
Of course, that didn’t stop me from instantly opening the file Enzio sent over, perusing it . . . basically any excuse to not have to think about ghosts for an hour or two.
The file outlined a basic child custody case. I knew that Enzio dealt with investigating ugly stuff too—drugs, abuse, violence—though he drew the line when something involved organized crime. And given that we lived in Italy, that meant he pulled back often. Thankfully, Florence wasn’t a hotbed for the mafia like Naples or Sicily, but we still had our fair share.
As Enzio continually said—you never came out a winner when you tangled with theCosa Nostra.
I wanted to start my own PI business, but it just wasn’t in the cards. The family company, D’Angelo Enterprises, relied too heavily on my research skills to authenticate and verify art and antiques. Don’t get me wrong. I enjoyed chasing the provenance of obscure French china or unknown Sicilian painters or helping ghosts find their body again—
“Siri, stop. Go back,” Jack repeated.
“Lord Knight arrived in Florence—”
“Siri, go back further.”
“Born into the English aristocracy . . .”
Of course, my research went more smoothly when my research subject helped, too.
I slammed my hands down on my desk.
This. Had. To. Stop.
Now.
The hawk called outside my window again.
Change.
Jack’s obsession over his lost past wasn’t helping us get answers. He needed a change, a nudge to get him out of his emotional downward spiral.
Idefinitelyneeded a change.
Pushing away, I rolled across the smooth tile floor in my office chair, popped off it before slamming into the wall and marched down the hall as quickly as my petite bones could go.
“Jack!”
His head snapped to attention, eyes meeting mine. He stood beside the large kitchen island, his iPad propped up on the counter. The bank of windows to the right of the room washed him in a flood of light.
Ghost Jack never changed. I suspected I could go years without seeing him and he would look exactly the same—close to six-feet tall, broad-shouldered, tan breeches, tasseled boots, blue satin waistcoat, white shirt unbuttoned at the neck, blue eyes, tousled auburn hair and the beginning of stubble. His entire person only about fifty-percent there, rendering him transparent.
