"THIS IS GORGEOUS," MARIA says. I ignore her, for the most part. It may not be her fault, but if I look at her face, I know I'll give her a right hook into outer space.

She's looking at the sculpture of David by Michaelangelo. It's a good choice, but I roll my eyes, just for the sake of it. The letter should be in the section with documents, around the 1800s period, and I tell Dominic so.

Once we find it, all four of us gather around as I read it.

My son, my dearest,

If you are seeing this now, I am dead. However, that is not what is important. You know that I love you, and you know that although we have struggled, I have always told you it will be worth it. That is because of this: if you look where no one has ever looked before, then you will be able to find what will give your family and your descendants wealth for generations. Please use this knowledge wisely. Please do not squander what I have given my life for.

You know that I love you.

Until we meet again,
Maurizio Colora

It's not as long a letter as I thought it would be, considering it was coming from a man who was ready to die. I'd have thought he'd have had more to say, but I finish anyways. Even though it's just a photographed version of the letter, I see the scrawl and loops of Maurizio's handwriting and fall into a somber mood. Did he realize how his life would end? Did he know the exact moment he decided to do it?

I shake away the clinging thoughts and think back. Look where no one has ever looked. That could be a million places, but it has to be somewhere Maurizio's son would know, would look. It can't be somewhere random, like Australia or Canada. It has to be somewhere it could be found, somewhere that his son would get the hint.

Where has no ever looked?

Once I've read the letter more than ten times, I set off down the halls of the museum, admiring art aimlessly and thinking about the clues.

And then it strikes.

Where no one has ever looked.

Maurizio stole from his friends those glittering Crown Jewels and he put them in a place he knew they wouldn't look. A place he knew they wouldn't find them.

Could it be . . . the very place he had stolen them from?

It made sense. If Yvette had been trailing him his whole life and had never found sight of the Jewels, then maybe Maurizio never had the Jewels on him. Maybe he smuggled the Jewels back into the tower they had stolen them from.

That day, no one could figure out how six people had stolen glittering, enormous Crown Jewels from the heart of the tower. How had they just walked right out? Well, maybe Maurizio had used that to his advantage. Maybe he had walked right back in.

Because who would ever look for the Jewels there?

Who would ever look for wealth where it had been stolen?

It was brilliant, it was insane, it was . . . it could very well be true.

Lit up with the glow of this realization, I bound through the museum. The beautiful paintings blur around me and I focus on looking for someone, anyone, whether it was Dominic or Maria or Angel.

A hand grabs my shoulder, and I spin around, waiting to tell one of them the news. But it isn't any one of the Falcones.

It is a Genovese. I know it was certainly as I had known before. The dark hair, the fine jacket, the Italian accent as he says, "Cadenza."

He's handsome. He is stunning. He looks like a Grecian prince, someone with steel abs and a chiseled jaw. I want to sculpt him―that is my first thought. I want to trace every inch of his body in clay and immortalize him in art.

This is when I notice what is in his hand.

There is a gun pointed at my stomach. I don't move.

"What do you want from me," I say quietly. No one around notices.

"A favor," says the Genovese. "Per favor."

"I won't do you any favors."

"When you get sick of Angel," he says softly, delicately, his tongue peeking out between his white teeth, "come find us. We can help you with what you want." He tucks a sliver of paper with a phone number on it into my hand. "Keep it to yourself, alright? It's just a little . . . option."

Then he holsters the gun and cuts through the crowd. The breath leaves me in a rush.

I don't want to ever call him, but I slip the strip of paper into my bra. I don't want to ever use it, but maybe I'll have to.

As I walk towards another hall, still shaken, my eyes land on the Mona Lisa. It's much bigger than I imagined. It's beautiful, though. Breathtaking.

I stop and stand there. I don't know for how long, but the space is miraculously empty. It's strange. I figured there would be hordes of tourists here, but then I remember an exhibition going on right now, with Van Gogh pieces.

"Cade," a voice calls out, but I don't turn around. It's Angel.

She is by herself, her black hair a halo around her head, her hazel eyes wild. She is breathless as she rushes next to me, one hand on mine. I try to tug away but she doesn't let me.

"What," I say. It's more of a growl.

"Last night," she says, her face flushed. "Last night . . . when you asked me . . . what I wanted . . . can you do it again?"

"No," I say, furious. "I gave you your chance. You didn't take it."

"I know. I know, I messed up. I screwed up. Please."

"I told you, Angel," I say, trying to swallow the lump in my throat. "I told it would be the last-"

"You," she says. I stop. "I want you. That's what I want."

I don't look at her. I keep my eyes trained on the Mona Lisa, that soft, barely-there smile.

"I want you," she repeats. "When I kissed Maria, I was hurt. I was upset. I had just shot that man, and you were looking at me like-like I was a monster. Like I was cold and heartless. I couldn't stand it. I shut down. Later, when Maria knocked on my door to borrow something, I got carried away. She wasn't looking at me like I was some ruthless psychopath. So I kissed her. But that's all I did. And no, it's not an excuse, but I want you to know it didn't go further. I went back to my room later. I apologized to her, too, told her my heart wasn't in it."

Angel waits for me to say something, anything, but I keep my mouth shut, my face burning.

"And yesterday, when you asked me . . . when you asked me what I wanted, I was afraid." Her voice is a whisper. "I was afraid of you. Of this. Of-of love. And I didn't answer, because I couldn't. But I am now. And I hope it's not too late, Cade."

It feels like an eternity before I muster the courage to answer. "It's not," I say, whisper-soft. It seems to snap a leash on her, because the next thing I know, Angel's lips are against mine, and we're kissing, we're kissing like insane. Like we're in love. Like she's a soldier and I've been waiting for her to come home from overseas.

We're kissing in front of the Mona Lisa. I hope the ghost of Leonardo da Vinci doesn't mind.

>>>

I'm warning you, this might seem like a happy ending, but it's not paradise just yet. Stay tuned, folks. The show must go on.

From the moon and back,
Sarai

PS. The next person to comment their favourite thing about a character will be dedicated in the next chapter!