Inside the Doria Crypt
Markus excelled in his element. By late afternoon, leveraging his connections in the high-end art and antiquities world, he secured a "private, preliminary viewing" of the Doria Family Crypt within the Abbey. He framed it as a professional courtesy, evaluating the site for a potential international exhibition on maritime history.
Elias and Lena waited on a secluded path near the Abbey's boat dock.
"A private tour on two hours' notice? That's impressive, Markus," Elias commented when his friend finally emerged, adjusting his bespoke blazer.
Markus wiped a bead of sweat from his brow. "It's all about name-dropping the right Venetian princes and complaining about the humidity. But I got in, and I know what they took."
They found a quiet corner behind a cluster of olive trees.
"The crypt is a masterpiece," Markus began, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "But the inventory is flawed. The centerpiece, the Relic of Saint Fruttuoso—a small, highly ornate, bronze reliquary box said to hold a bone fragment—it's gone."
"Gone? Or replaced?" Elias pressed.
"Replaced," Markus confirmed, spitting out the word like a bad wine. "The box is still there, resting on the altar, but the piece is a cheap, modern cast. The weight is wrong, the patina is entirely false, and the hinge pin is stainless steel, not medieval wrought iron. It's an insulting fake. The real one, the one that left the metallic stain on the cliff face, would be solid bronze, worth millions to a certain collector, and even more to the Church."
"When was the swap made?" Lena asked.
"Hard to say, but the Abbot told me the box hasn't been moved for security evaluation in over a year. And the Carabinieri barely check the path. This was recent, quiet, and highly specific. The thieves knew exactly what they were taking and where to enter."
"The garden wall," Elias murmured. "It backs right up to the cliff where I saw the metallic run-off. They scaled the cliff, cut through the outer wall of the garden, accessed the mausoleum from a secondary, unsecured door, swapped the box, and then lowered the real, heavy bronze reliquary down the cliff to a waiting boat."
The rigging cord was the crucial missing link. They needed the boat, and the person who owned it.
The Marine Salvage Connection
It was Lena's turn. Using her contacts from her time running high-end charity auctions in Monaco—a world that often brushed against dubious fortunes—she reached out to a known fixer in the maritime world, an ex-naval officer named Vincenzo.
Vincenzo ran a legitimate salvage operation out of the port of La Spezia, but he specialized in "retrieving" things that powerful people had "misplaced" at sea. Lena met him in a dimly lit café, showing him a picture of the unique nylon cord Elias had found.
"This is not fishing line," Vincenzo grunted, circling the cord with a thick, calloused finger. "This is German-grade Dyneema. Specialized. Strong enough to lift a small car. Used on private luxury speedboats for quick, heavy lifts—like retrieving a lost anchor, or, say, lowering a very heavy, valuable antique from a cliff face."
"Did you hear of a job near San Fruttuoso a few days ago?" Lena asked directly.
Vincenzo slowly stirred his espresso, his eyes scanning the café. "The sea keeps its own secrets, Dottoressa. But I heard chatter about a specific vessel. A sleek, fast thing. Registered to a shell company in Malta. They call the owner 'Il Fantasma'—The Phantom."
"Il Fantasma?" Elias, listening on a secure line outside, raised an eyebrow.
"He's a ghost," Vincenzo explained. "An unseen middleman for the high-end illicit antiquities market. He doesn't steal; he moves. His boat is unmistakable: a custom, black racing yacht, silent, fast, and equipped with a small, retractable crane lift designed to handle delicate cargo."
Vincenzo gave them the yacht's name—The Stygian—and the last confirmed port filing: Genoa, two days ago, headed south.
The Race to the South
Elias quickly connected the dots. The theft was too clean, the replacement too professional. This wasn't local tomb raiding; this was a commission from a high-level collector. And if The Stygian was heading south, it meant one thing: the Relic was about to leave Italy.
"Genoa is where we lose the trail," Elias announced, pacing. "If they board a transport ship there, the reliquary is gone forever. We have to catch The Stygian before it reaches the main port."
"How?" Markus asked. "We don't have a boat, Elias, and we certainly don't have a fast, silent, black racing yacht."
"We don't need to be fast," Elias countered, checking a map on his phone. "We need to be predictable. A high-value exchange is always done in a place with three things: seclusion, deep water, and a quick escape route. Look at the coastline south of here."
His finger landed on a small, rugged peninsula: the Portofino Marine Reserve.
"The Bay of Paraggi," Elias pointed out. "A secluded cove, perfect for a boat-to-boat transfer. It's close to Genoa for the buyer, and it's surrounded by high-end villas where a high-level transaction wouldn't seem out of place."
"We can't just drive up there," Lena said. "We'll be seen. These people are operating in the open, protected by their money."
Elias looked at the Abbey one last time. "Then we'll beat them at their own game. Markus, you need to use your contacts and create a distraction—something big, loud, and aesthetically demanding. Something that draws the eye of the local security away from the sea."
Markus grinned, catching the spirit of the plan. "A protest? A flash mob? I can arrange a spontaneous, high-volume performance art installation."
"Perfect," Elias said. "Now, Lena, I need you to find me a reputable, quiet tour boat rental. One that doesn't ask questions about late-night trips to remote coves."
The Shadow on the Water
By sunset, they were in a modest, diesel-powered charter boat, chugging slowly out of a small, nearby port. Markus had already dispatched his "artistic forces"—a group of student activists protesting the lack of public funding for the arts—to a main square near Portofino, creating a noisy, very visible shield for their real work.
As darkness fell, they cut the engine outside the Bay of Paraggi. Elias used a pair of night vision binoculars.
"There it is," he whispered.
Anchored silently in the center of the dark cove was the black, sleek form of The Stygian. It was barely visible, a predator in the dark water. And anchored fifty meters away, a little closer to shore, was another, smaller vessel—a simple, slow, fishing trawler.
"That trawler doesn't fit the 'high-level buyer' profile," Lena observed, peering through a monocular.
"Exactly," Elias replied. "The buyer isn't here yet. That trawler is the spotter. It's there to watch for coast guard, police, or anyone who doesn't belong."
Elias looked at the high, dark hills around the cove. He knew the transfer wouldn't happen on the water. It would happen on land, in one of the grand, secluded villas overlooking the bay. The buyer would be driven there, the reliquary brought to them, and the money exchanged in a controlled environment.
"We take out the spotter," Elias decided. "We can't stop the yacht, but we can blind it."
Before Lena could argue, Elias had stripped down to a pair of black shorts.
"I'm just going for another swim, Lena. Stay quiet, keep the engine ready. Markus, be ready to call in a fake emergency if I'm not back in ten minutes."
He secured a small, waterproof packet to his wrist—a bundle of zip ties and a powerful, miniature magnetic GPS tracker. Then, he slipped silently into the cold, deep water, leaving the warmth of the boat and the comforting sound of his friends' anxious breathing behind.
He was a shadow again, swimming toward a mystery centuries old, protected by a modern, silent thief. The real test, he knew, was not getting to the trawler—it was figuring out where the reliquary would land on shore.