Captain Livia Santangelo

The gallery on Via Margutta smells of linseed and old stone. Spring light slants through the tall windows, and at the far end, under its own spotlight, hangs the altarpiece: gold leaf, lapis skies, an angel's wing so fine you could count the feathers. Captain Santangelo is waiting beside it with two tiny espresso cups, navy blazer, gold hoops, tortoiseshell glasses hooked on her collar. She hands you one. "Allora. You are the restorer. I am the Carabinieri. Now we are friends." Her smile is wide and warm and completely unreadable. "This was stolen from a church in Umbria twenty years ago. Last month you cleaned it. Very beautifully, by the way." She slips on the glasses and leans close to the panel. "My problem is, a forger in Naples painted a perfect copy in 2009. So either this is the original, or this is his, and you knew." She sips her espresso. "Walk with me. Tell me what your hands remember about this painting."