Page 82 of My Favorite Kidnapper

“Ah,” he said in heavily accented English. “American?”

“Canadian.”

“Very good.” He indicated the small shop. “I own. You look, and I help.”

“Thank you.”

I browsed the shelves and walls. There was so much to see. So many different things from what I would find back home, yet a few things so similar it made me smile. A display caught my eye, and I approached an arrangement of what I thought were small swords, only to realize they were ornate old letter openers. Some were simple, some overelaborate. All interesting. One caught my eye, the brass of the blade dull in the light, but gleaming with a sharp edge. It had an intricate handle, and I moved closer to see it.

“You like?”

I nodded. “May I look at it?”

“Of course.”

He slid it from the display, holding it out to me, the sharp edge pointed his way. “Very fine piece.”

I took it carefully, looking it over. I knew nothing about antiques or letter openers. What caught my attention was the glass on the handle. It reminded me of the enameled glass I had seen in Dante’s gallery. Red, green, and gold, with a circular golden piece of glass in the middle that reminded me of Dante’s eyes. It was unique and different. Heavy in my hand. I could see him at his desk, slicing open mail with it. The blade was embossed and attractive. The gentleman showed me the small brass stand that came with it, the blade sliding in and the glass on display.

I had no idea if it was real. Or worth anything. But Dante told me to buy what I liked. And I liked this.

“I’ll take it, please.” I wanted to give it to Dante. I would get money from my own bank account to pay for it, so he wasn’t really gifting it to himself. I hoped he would like it.

The owner wrapped it, and I used Dante’s card to buy it, carefully tucking the receipt into my wallet so I could repay him the money. I slipped the small bag into my larger one with the clothes I had bought. The owner lifted my hand, kissing my knuckles, and made me laugh. I had no idea what he said, but his smile was wide and his eyes danced.

I left the shop and looked left and right. I was on a corner, and before I could decide, I was swept in the direction of the crowd. It was lunchtime now, and the streets bustled. I kept going, not paying attention to where I was until I noticed the streets were a little quieter and the shops not as well tended. I looked around, feeling nervous. I spotted a sign ahead of a shop with large windows, and I hastened toward it. It appeared to be another gallery of sorts, and I slipped inside, hoping the staff spoke English and could give me directions on how to get back to Dante’s.

I shook my head. I should have mentioned to Dante I was hopeless with directions and prone to getting lost.

The gallery was dim, not well lit and welcoming like Dante’s. I could hear voices in the back, and I wandered around, peering at the displays. The pieces were different from this morning. A lot of them newer. Not as nice. I peeked at a price tag. Expensive, though, I thought. Some items were locked away, obviously the most desirable. I saw a younger couple exclaiming over a vase, and I moved closer, listening to the staff member speaking to them in disjointed English, assuring them of the worthwhile investment and the rarity of the piece they were evaluating. It looked like a regular vase to me, but again, I knew nothing about antiques. Yet none of the pieces took my breath away the way Dante’s had. Even pieces I wasn’t as enamored with, I could see the beauty. Few of the pieces here replicated that sensation.

I wandered deeper into the narrow building. I was off the street, yet my nerves still felt taut. I reached into my pocket for my phone, deciding to simply call Dante and admit I was lost, when a voice spoke up.

“Well, if the lamb didn’t wander into the lion’s den.”

I spun on my heel and met the remote eyes of Ramon Winters.

He smiled at my shock, his expression cold and calculating. He stepped closer.

“Hello, my dear.”

* * *

I reared back. “What-what are you doing here?”

“This is my gallery. One of many.”

“Gallery?” I questioned, thinking of the elegance and warmth of Dante’s.

He shrugged. “To tourists, it is. They can take home a great work of art from Italy and boast to their friends.”

I was like a parrot. “A great work of art?” I said, sarcasm evident in my voice.

He didn’t look upset over my reaction. “To each his own.” His expression turned darker. “I have four of these galleries in the city. More elsewhere. I make a large amount of money with them.”

“And you don’t care that you fleece tourists?”

“Fleece?”