The Villa

that spoke to the two of them, something that showed her he understood her as no one else had. Or could.
    Competitive, he supposed as he wandered into yet another shop. And so what?
    He climbed the stairs on the jammed Rialto bridge, where the stores were shoved cheek by jowl on that rise above the water. Eager shoppers elbowed and shoved their way through as if terrified the last souvenir would be snatched away before they could buy it.
    He bumped his way past the stalls offering leather goods, T-shirts and trinkets and tried to focus on the shop windows. Each one ran like rivers with gold, gems. A dazzle that confused the eye. Discouraged, annoyed, tired from the long hike, he nearly called it a night. He could wait, ask his Venice assistant for a recommendation.
    Then he turned, looked into one more window. And saw it.
    The ring was set with five stones, all in delicate heart shapes that made a quiet stream of color. Like her flowers, he thought. Five stones, he thought, stepping closer. One for each of them and each of their children. He imagined the blue was sapphire, the red ruby, the green emerald. The purple and the gold stones he wasn't as sure of. What did it matter? It was perfect.
    Thirty minutes later he walked out. He had the description of the ring—amethyst and citrine for the last two stones, he reminded himself—in his pocket. The ring was tucked in his pocket as well. He'd had it engraved with the date he'd bought it.
    He wanted her to know, always, that he'd found it on the evening he'd sat in Campo San Marco while the light went soft, talking to her.
    His steps were lighter than they had been as he left the bridge. He wandered the narrow streets now, giving himself the treat of an aimless walk. The crowds were thinning as night fell and turned the canals a glossy black. Now and then he could hear the echo of his own footsteps or the lap of water against a bridge.
    He decided not to go back to his apartment, but ducked under the awning of a sidewalk trattoria. If he went back, he'd work and spoil the pleasure, the anticipation of the evening. He ordered the turbot, a half carafe of the house white.
    He idled his way through the meal, smiling sentimentally at a couple obviously honeymooning, enjoying the little boy who escaped from his parents to charm the waiters. It was, he supposed, a typical reaction of a man in love that he'd find everyone and everything a simple delight.
    He lingered over coffee and thought of what he would say, how he would say it, when he offered the ring to Pilar.
    Most of the squares were empty as he headed back across the city. The shops were shut down and the sidewalk grifters had long since packed up their wares.
    Now and then he saw the little beam of light from a gondola carrying tourists down a side canal or heard a voice rise and carry over the water, but for the most part, he was—at last—alone in the city.
    Enjoying himself, he took his time, walked off the meal and let the stress of the day drain while he absorbed Venice after dark.
    He crossed another bridge, walked through the shadows of another twisting street. He glanced up when light poured out of a window above him, and smiled as a young woman began to draw in the wash that fluttered faintly in the breeze. Her hair was dark and tumbled around her shoulders. Her arms were long and slim, with a flash of gold at her wrist. She was singing, and the cheerful bell of her voice rang into the empty street.
    The moment etched itself on his brain.
    The dark-haired woman who was late bringing in the day's wash but singing nonetheless, the scent of her supper that wafted down. She caught his eye, laughed, a sound full of fun and flirtation.
    David stopped, turned, intending to call a greeting up to her. And doing so, likely saved his own life.
    He felt the pain, a sudden, horrendous fire in the shoulder. Heard, dimly, a kind of muffled explosion even as the woman's face blurred.
    Then he was falling, falling slowly and forever to the sounds of screams and running feet until he lay bleeding and unconscious on the cool cobbles of the Venetian street.
     
    He wasn't out for long. There was a moment when his world seemed washed with red, and through that dull mist voices rose and fell. The Italian slipped incomprehensibly through his numb brain.
    He felt heat more than pain, as if someone held him over the licking flames of a fire. And he thought, quite clearly: I've been shot.
    Someone tugged at him, stirred his