“The best I’ve ever seen. Whoever created it understood Caravaggio better than most scholars. They didn’t just copy his work; they thought like him. Painted like him. But they couldn’t replicate the chaos that made him brilliant.”
Tony watches me while I talk. Not the street. Not the passing pedestrians. Just me.
“What happened to it?” he asks.
“The collector withdrew it from auction. It’s probably sitting in a vault somewhere. Why do you want to know about this?”
“Because when you talk about art, you come alive. Your whole face changes. It’s the only time you look completely unguarded.”
Before I can respond, something cold splashes my face.
Rain. Coming down in sheets without any warning.
Within seconds, we’re both soaked. Tony grabs the photos and shoves them inside his jacket. I rescue my tea, though it’s already diluted by rainwater.
“Kuznetsov?” I shout over the downpour.
“Not coming in this weather. We should go.”
But I’m looking at him—at us—sitting here drenched like idiots. Water drips from Tony’s hair into his eyes. My blouse is plastered to my skin. We probably look ridiculous.
And suddenly, I’m laughing.
Real, genuine laughter that comes from somewhere deep in my chest bursts out of me, and I can’t contain it.
Tony grins. “What’s so funny?”
“Us. This. All of it.” I gesture at the rain, at our soaked clothes, at the abandoned café around us. “We’re supposed to be professionals conducting surveillance, and instead we’re sitting here drowning.”
He starts laughing too.
“Come on.” Tony stands and grabs my hand. “Before we catch pneumonia.”
He pulls me into a nearby doorway. The overhang provides some shelter, but we’re already completely wet. My hair hangs in dark ropes down my back. Tony’s shirt clings to his chest, showing every muscle.
“Well, that was productive,” he mumbles as he wrings water from his sleeve.
“Boris is going to love this.” I lean against the door, catching my breath. The laughter feels good. Like releasing something I’ve been holding too tight for too long.
When was the last time I laughed like that? Really laughed without thinking about who was watching or what it meant?
“We should call for a car,” Tony suggests, pulling out his phone.
“Or we could walk.”
“Walk? It’s pouring.”
“We’re already wet. What difference does it make?” I step out from under the overhang into the rain. “Besides, when’s the last time you just walked in the rain?”
Tony pockets his phone and joins me on the sidewalk.
“You’re insane,” he states.
“Probably.”
We walk through the downpour, not hurrying, just making our way through the city while everyone else huddles under awnings or runs for shelter. It feels freeing somehow. Like we’re the only two people who aren’t afraid of getting a little wet.
“Tell me the rest of the story,” Tony prompts. “About the Caravaggio forgery.”
