Behind his office desk, Dante LaGuardia studied the squirming man in the chair before him. Dante was an investigator, which mostly meant being a problem solver for people: searching for missing family members, vetting people for something important, ascertaining innocence or guilt in lovers or spouses who might be straying. He was trying to guess what the nervous man’s problem was.

“He’s going to kill me,” the stress in the man’s voice was palpable.

Well, that’s a new one, Dante thought. “Who?”

“Roberto Pazzi.”

Ouch. Pazzi was the most dangerous man in Florence, the major capo of local organized crime. If this fool had crossed Pazzi, it was a deadly problem indeed.

“Let’s start with your name.”

“You may call me Vincent,” the man said. He was sweating so profusely, Dante wanted to offer him a towel.

Dante raised an eyebrow. “Just that?”

“If you were with the police, you’d know my real name. I don’t use it.”

“Ah. A criminal.”

The man winced. “Not really. Well, not in the real sense. I hurt no one.”

Dante smiled. Of course not. “Then what do you do?”

The man flicked something from his trousers with a hand that shook visibly. “I take art works from the houses of very rich men, and then make sure the piece gets back to them unharmed. For a price.”

A thief and a blackmailer. Interesting. “Unusual trade you have. So you took something from Pazzi?”

“No, but from someone who was apparently distantly related to him. The man complained, and Pazzi feels like I have wronged his family.”

“A blood debt. Signore, I suggest you leave not only Florence this day, but Italy, the Continent, and the planet, if you can manage it.”

“He would find me.”

Dante said nothing. A clock ticked from the corner, as if counting off the remaining brief time in this man’s life.

The doomed man in the chair spoke. “I know it is dangerous, to deal with these people. But I can pay you very well. Get me out of this and I will make you rich.”

Well, that’s a start. “I’ll see what I can do. Meanwhile, don’t return to where you live. Ever.”

Dante sat with Captain Fiero at the café.

Fiero lit a cigarette and smiled. “What do you need?”

Dante set down his espresso. “Do you know of an art thief who goes by the name of Vincent?”

Fiero blew out smoke and laughed. “Oh, yes. He is good friends with our Chief of Police.”

“A thief so chummy with the law? Even for Florence …”

“Don’t judge. It’s not the usual corruption, more like this. Vincent is a skilled art thief, possibly the best in Europe, which means the world. But he doesn’t keep or sell the works. He contacts the Chief, who arranges a meeting with the owner of the piece. They agree on a price, money changes hands, and the work is later safely left where the owner reclaims it.”

“Art ransom. Clever.”

“Vincent himself is never even seen. The Chief who acts as intermediary is completely trusted, and the owners have so much money they don’t miss it. They hush it up, afraid of the embarrassment. And Vincent always leaves them a detailed file on how he cracked their security, so they can prevent another robbery. Some are even grateful to him for pointing out the flaws.”

“Nice plan, until he robs from the wrong person.”

Fiero’s brows knitted. “Who?”

“A relative of Roberto Pazzi.”

Fiero whistled and stubbed out his cigarette. “Then he is a dead man.”

Dante shrugged. “Most likely. If I buy you lunch, can you get me a copy of Pazzi’s file?” All transactions in Florence worked this way, connections and traded favors allowing all manner of business to take place.

Pazzi’s thick file had indicated he was also an art collector, so Dante was now sitting with Gina, an older woman who worked at the Uffizi museum. She smiled at the package he had brought her.

Dante shook his head. “I’m surprised a man like Pazzi is interested in art, given his trade.”