Free Playing With Fire by Tess Gerritsen

you care about her—it should.”
    “Why do you think I’m doing this? It’s for
her.
”
    “Then walk away now, before you pull her into dangerous waters. She’s an innocent. She has no idea what’s about to happen.”
    “And you do?”
    “I know people. They tell me things.”
    He stared at her with sudden comprehension. “You’re one of those Blackshirts, aren’t you? Did they tell you to scare the Jew away? Make me scurry off and hide in the gutter like a rat?”
    “You don’t understand a thing, young man.”
    “Oh, I do. I understand all too well. But it won’t stop me.”
    As he walked away, he could feel her gaze burning into his back, hot as a poker. Rage propelled him at a furious pace out of Dorsoduro. Alda’s warning to stay away from Laura had precisely the opposite effect: He would never withdraw from the competition. No, he was committed to it, and to Laura. This was what Marco had raged on about all these months, that Jews should not yield an inch, that they should demand, even seize, their rights as loyal Italians. Why had he not been paying attention?
    Lying in bed, too agitated to sleep, he thought only of winning. What better way to fight back than to triumph at the competition? To demonstrate that by denying him enrollment at Ca’ Foscari, the college was depriving itself of the best that Italy had to offer? Yes, that was how to fight, not with impotent letters to the newspapers as Alberto had suggested, not with the marches and protests that Marco threatened. No, the best way was to work harder and soar higher than anyone else. Prove your worth, and respect will follow.
    He and Laura would have to shine so brightly onstage that no one would question they deserved the prize.
That’s how we fight. That’s how we win.

8
    Laura’s satin gown was so black that at first, all he could make out in the shadowy street was a faint shimmering. Then she emerged from the night and suddenly there she stood, lustrous in the glow of the streetlamp. Her blond hair was swept to one side in a waterfall of gold and a short velvet cape draped her shoulders. Her father, who carried her cello case, looked equally elegant in a black suit and bow tie, but Lorenzo could only stare at Laura, resplendent in satin.
    “Have you been waiting out here for us?” she asked.
    “There’s a huge crowd in the auditorium and almost every chair’s taken. My grandfather wanted you to know that he’s saving a seat for you, Professor. In the fourth row, on the left.”
    “Thank you, Lorenzo.” Professor Balboni looked him up and down and gave a nod of approval. “You’ll make a handsome pair onstage, you two. Now hurry inside. This cold air isn’t good for your instruments.” He handed his daughter the cello. “Remember, don’t rush the first measures. Don’t let your nerves set the rhythm.”
    “Yes, Papa, we’ll remember,” said Laura. “Now you’d better go find your seat.”
    Balboni gave his daughter a kiss. “Good luck, both of you!” he said and headed into the auditorium.
    For a moment, Laura and Lorenzo stood in silence under the streetlamp, staring at each other. “You’re beautiful tonight,” he said.
    “Only tonight?”
    “I meant—”
    Laughing, she touched two fingers to his lips. “Hush, I know what you meant. You’re beautiful tonight, too.”
    “Laura, even if we don’t win, even if everything goes wrong onstage, it doesn’t matter. These weeks we’ve had together—the music we’ve played—
that’s
what I’ll always remember.”
    “Why do you talk as if tonight is the end of something? It’s just the beginning. And we start by winning.”
    Just the beginning.
As they entered the stage door, he allowed himself to imagine a future with Laura. Other evenings when they’d walk into concert halls with their instruments in hand. Laura and Lorenzo performing in Rome! Paris! London! He pictured her in the years to come, her hair fading to silver, her face ripening with age,