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illicit art. And in that year, David, the quiet boy from a Detroit suburb who grew up to be an art history prodigy, ceased to exist.
    He was now and would for the rest of his years be known as the Raven.
    ROBERTO KEPT HIS EYES on the rows of cash in the briefcase, took a deep breath and nodded. “What do you need me to do?” he asked.
    The Raven smiled, slid his hands into his pants pockets and walked toward the door leading out the rear of the shuttered restaurant. “For the time being, don’t leave the city,” he said, without turning to face the thief. “You will, at some point soon, be contacted by one of my associates. Follow his instructions from that moment on.”
    “I wouldn’t worry,” Roberto said. “I always hold up my end of the deal.”
    The Raven turned back. “I never worry about people like you,” he said. “If you fail me or you betray me, someone will replace you that very day.”
    He turned, flipped the latch on an old wooden door, swung it open and stepped out into the darkness of the Florentine night.

CHAPTER
5
    K ATE WESTCOTT WOULD ALWAYS REMEMBER THE MOMENT .
    She sat in a corner of a crowded gym, her T-shirt drenched, her brown hair clinging to her face, fresh from an hour-long treadmill workout. She held a thin envelope in her hands and stared at the stenciled Italian writing on the front. The letter had arrived in her office mailbox two days before, and she had yet to muster the courage to open it. She had been fretting over its arrival for weeks, as nervous on this late afternoon as she was three months earlier, when she dropped off the thick FedEx package filled with all the information her Michelangelo Fellowship required. She felt her odds were favorable. She had the proper academic credentials. She had completed a wide variety of high-level internships, starting as far back as junior high school. She spoke three foreign languages, including Italian. She had glowing letters of recommendation from some of the most prominent scholars in the field. And she was now halfway through her second year as an adjunct art history professor at a northeastern liberal arts college, giving her the type of work experience that helped round out a high-tier academic résumé. Still, she knew there were only six Michelangelo scholar positions open each year, and 1,200 equally qualified candidates from the United States alone had submitted their applications.
    “It’s not going to open by itself,” a man said.
    Kate turned her head, crumpling the letter as she did, and looked up at Sandy Walker, a first-year English professor she had befriended and helped as he navigated the school’s bureaucracy. Sandy was tall, rail thin, with a thick head of curly blond hair that always seemed windblown. Hewas a decent teacher, but lacked both the passion for his chosen profession and the ambition to go further in the field. At twenty-five, he was already a man set in his ways, counting down the hours to the final bell, when he would be free to pursue the leisure activities that seemed to occupy the bulk of his time.
    “It would make it so much easier if it could,” Kate said.
    “C’mon,” he said, “crack it open, read the good news and then we can go out and celebrate. We’ll hit Alfie’s for fresh clams and as many beers as they can pour. My treat.”
    “Why don’t you go ahead,” she said, “and maybe I’ll meet up with you later, good news or bad.”
    “The fellowship’s a slam dunk for you, Kate,” Sandy said. “You earned it. But you also need to allow yourself to enjoy it. And I don’t know if you can get it together enough to let that happen.”
    “And getting drunk in a clam bar would prove you wrong?”
    “It would be a start,” he said. “And you wouldn’t be getting drunk alone. I’ll be with you every step of the way. Scout’s honor.”
    “I had something else in mind,” Kate said.
    “Care to share it?”
    “I’d rather not,” she said.
    “I’m at a loss here,