by Brenda Drake
Why didn’t I ask for the window seat?
Being in the middle sucks. I lean forward over the suitcase to prevent them crushing my shoulders. I’m feeling a little claustrophobic, which can be triggering. Not wanting to have a panic attack in the middle of hectic traffic, I concentrate on other things.
The inside of the Fiat is decked out. It has pink pleather seats with white trim, rhinestones decorating the dashboard and stick shift, and a shag carpet. If you could smell expensive, it would reek of it.
At least Cain’s not back here. He’s in the passenger seat, staring out the window, not saying a word.
“So how’ve you been, Cain?” Sid weaves the pink Fiat effortlessly around cars as we speed along the roadway.
Cain doesn’t answer.
But Sid tries again. “Did you ever buy that drum set?”
Not a peep out of Cain.
“You know, the one we found in that shop in that village.” Sid purses his pink-glossed lips as he thinks. “I got it. Greenwich, right?”
When he still doesn’t answer him, Sid glances in the rearview mirror at me and shrugs, his smile exposing perfectly aligned white teeth.
I match his shrug and lift a smile back at him.
He slides the Fiat between two cars and flicks on the blinker. “Hun-ney. I just love the chaos of Rome’s traffic. Do you feel the energy?”
“To your right,” Cain mutters.
Sid glances over his shoulder. “What about it?”
Cain returns to looking out the window. “Blind spot.”
Sid slows down, and a gray smart car flies by, barely missing us.
A scowl scrunches those perfect eyebrows of his. “Next time maybe you can give me a better warning. Like some urgency in your voice.”
I lean against Marek when Sid takes a sharp turn. The warmth of his shoulder against mine causes all my nerve endings to ignite.
Shona scoots forward and wraps her arms around the front seat, resting her hands on Sid’s chest. “So what have you been up to?”
“Same as usual.” He honks the horn at a slow driver. “Partying. And more partying. However, I did go to the Philippines to see my people. Where I did some more partying.”
His people? That’s a strange way of putting it. Usually someone says they went home to visit family or friends. Maybe he doesn’t have any family. Or friends other than Shona.
“My family died ages ago,” he says as if he can read my thoughts. “I’m an orphan.”
I shift uneasily on the pleather cushion, and it makes an unpleasant noise. No one says anything. Not even a joke. If Dalton were here, he wouldn’t hold back. He’d embarrass me until I was the color of these pink seats.
We come to an abrupt stop that makes all of us jerk forward and knock back.
“We’re here,” Sid sort of sings out as if he didn’t just give everyone whiplash, slamming on the brakes.
Shona opens the door. “You still can’t brake right.”
“Girl, I got you here, didn’t I?” He leaves the Fiat running and meets us at the trunk.
The boutique hotel Shona insisted we stay at is expensive-looking. It’s the kind you see in movies. The ones with vine-covered stucco, romantic balconies, and potted flowers. With small cars and brightly colored Vespas weaving in and out of traffic on the road in front of it, and with street cafés and baked bread and coffee beans scenting the air around them.
Cain takes out his small and Shona’s large suitcases from the back compartment. Marek grabs mine before I can.
He places it on the asphalt. “Here you go.”
My eyes linger on his face until I realize what I’m doing and quickly turn away and grab the handle. But I don’t latch onto plastic. Marek’s hand is still there. A yelp leaves my lips, and I stumble back slightly.
“You okay?” Marek grasps my elbow to steady me, and I’m not okay. Warmth rises to my cheeks, my pulse is out of control, and I’m not sure if he realizes how touching him affects me.
But Sid does, because he gives me a knowing smile and follows it with a wink.
Grasping the handle of my bag, I tug it up the curb, getting some distance from the whole situation. I just want to be somewhere alone. Heal my embarrassment. Avoid Marek until this little incident is forgotten.
“Stay and eat dinner with us,” Shona directs to Sid, pulling the attention away from me. Thankfully.
“Can’t.” Sid slams the trunk door shut. “It’s a full moon tonight, and a beautiful boy is waiting for me.”
“Boo,” she says, her bottom lip protruding.
He hops into the driver’s seat, and before he shuts the door, he says, “See you tomorrow.”
The Fiat speeds off into the traffic, and I’m relieved to step into the lobby of the hotel and get to our room.
…
I didn’t sleep well, not with Shona snoring and hogging the blankets. The good part: Shona and Cain are sleeping in. If we weren’t chasing some list or fearing Cain will snap and hurt us, our time in Rome would be perfect.
I’m starting to figure Shona out. She’s a trust-fund baby with her own high-rise apartment. Daddy got it for her when she turned eighteen. Only goes to NYU for something to do. Barely makes her scheduled classes. We’d have separate rooms if this hotel weren’t full.
But for all the money she has, Shona is lonely. Daddy Dearest is absent a lot. Her mom died of cancer a few years ago. All she has is Cain. That’s why she won’t break up with him.
Marek and I sneak out and find a café with thick espresso and sweetbreads. He sips from his cup, gently holding the little handle between his fingers. It’s as if he thinks the porcelain will break in his hand. With his dark, wavy hair and longish, straight nose, he can easily pass as a local. He could be Italian. We never talked about our ethnicities.
“So, what do you think?” he asks, programming the handheld GPS he bought for almost two hundred euros. “A few names on the list live here. Want to go check them out?”
Shona thinks we’re only in Rome to search for Mr. Conte’s clue in the Sistine Chapel. But Marek and I decide to check out some names on the list without her and her evil boyfriend. We don’t want to scare anyone off from giving us information.
“Sounds like a good plan. How far are the addresses?” I take a huge bite of my stuffed pastry.
“One’s nearby. The other is a bit of a ride. We’ll take the bus. You have some custard at the corner of your mouth.” He points at the spot on his own lips. “Just there.”
I lick the custard away with my tongue.
“You’re going to make the servers run into each other if you keep doing that.”
“Doing what?” I swipe my tongue across my lip again.
“That,” he says, a smile teasing the corners of his mouth.
My cheeks heat, and I snatch up the linen napkin at the side of my plate and wipe my mouth. I pick up my tiny cup, drink down a good portion of espresso, and cough it out when I see them.
“Are you okay?” He shoots a look over his shoulder to see what startled me.
“It’s—it’s them. Bjorn and that woman from the train…and they’re with that Uber driver.”
He turns in his chair to get a better look.
“What are they doing here?” I say. “Here. In Rome.”
“They’re definitely following us. We need to go.” He raises his hand and flags our server. The man looks over, and Marek pretends to write in the air.
My eyes trail the perfect-gened trio. I recall the other two’s names. Uber driver is Horus, and the matchmaker is Inanna. They dart in and out of shops so quickly it’s obvious they’re looking for something or someone. Or us.
The pastry and espresso swirl in my stomach, and I hold my hands to keep them from trembling.
It’s as if my rational side is arguing with my intuit
ion. Maybe it is a coincidence that they’re in Italy. Stanger coincidences happen all the time. But all three of them? Together? When we just met them separately back home? No. Not a chance.
“We need a plan,” I say.
“I know. You got one?”
“Other than running? No.”
Several minutes go by before the server comes back with the check.
“Do you see that bus heading this way?” Marek asks and drops some euros on the table.
“Yes.”
“When it passes, we duck out of here.” His eyes stay on the bus.
I nod. “Okay.”
The bus approaches and stops. People unload onto the walkway, some crossing the street. With a slight jerk and a metal growl, the bus moves forward.
Almost here.
I grasp the side of the table, readying myself to move fast.
Passersby come in and out of my view of Inanna. Her hair in the sunlight looks like slick tar cascading down her back. Some people rush along with determination, knowing where they’re going. Others shuffle by, their gazes going side to side and up. They’re definitely tourists taking in the sites.
Almost here.
The clapping of water echoes in the square. In the middle of the piazza across the street from us, there’s a fountain. Horus watches the water shoot up from a muscular merman atop four dolphin tails. I bite my bottom lip, worrying he will see us.
I push myself away from the table. The bus cuts off my stare on Horus.
Here.
Marek and I jump to our feet and sprint for the alley just past the café. We stop, and Marek peers around the corner.
“They didn’t see us,” he says.
I hold my side, panting. The alley is a dead end. “Now where?”
“Try the doors.” He darts to the first one on the left, and I go to the right.
“Mine’s locked.” I dart for another one. It doesn’t budge. “Maybe next time we need to make an escape, we don’t run into a dead-end alley.”
Marek turns from the door he just tried and rubs his eyes. He’s probably suffering jetlag just like me. “Why didn’t I think of that?” he says, matching my sarcasm, then answering his own question: “Well, it could be because I was enjoying myself in a café for tourists and didn’t think I’d have to run from stalkers.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to blame you,” I say. “I’m just scared. Why are they following us? And all the way to Rome.”
“I know. I’m a little freaked out, too.” He forces a smile. “Come on. Let’s hide behind the dumpster before they see us.”
We drop down behind it, and Marek edges out from the side to get a better view of the street. The stench of decaying trash is overwhelming. My stomach rolls now, and I may hurl the pastries and espresso right there in the alley. I swallow hard and mentally tell my uneasy belly to settle down.
“Why don’t we get on the bus?” I ask.
“The door is on the side they’re on,” he says, stretching out farther to get a better look.
“Do you see them?”
“No,” he murmurs. “Now I get why my grandfather was always drilling me to case places before going inside. Know the exits, he’d say. I thought it was for natural disasters or terrorist attacks, but he was preparing me for something like this.”
Getting to know Marek is like unraveling a ball of twine. He lets a little out at a time, and I wonder if I’ll ever reach the core. “Did he teach you what to do if you’re trapped?”
“Stay out of sight and look for an opportunity to run for it.” He glances at me. “Then get in a crowd until there’s an opening to ditch the person chasing you.”
That plan doesn’t sit well with me. “Is there an option B or something? Maybe we could just wait here until they’re gone.”
Marek shakes his head. “No. Somehow, they know we’re here. Why would they travel all this way and give up? They’ll search until they find us. We have to make a run for it.”
My heart slams so hard against my ribs it rattles my spine. Pain sears my palm from my nails digging into the flesh. It hurts, so I loosen my tight fists. From my position between Marek and the wall, I can’t see the street.
“Get ready,” Marek warns.
“I am.”
The adrenaline rushing through my body has me alert and anxious. I take a deep breath and release it slowly through my nose. My mind’s all over the place, processing everything that’s happened the last few days.
It seems forever ago that Adam Conte handed me his satchel, but it was just a couple of weeks. And here I am in Rome, probably considered an illegal runaway. And I’m hiding behind a dumpster, not knowing why three unnaturally gorgeous people are following me—I slide a look at Marek—following us. I’m not sure what they want, but it has something to do with Adam Conte’s bag.
“They want the clues,” I mutter.
Marek turns his attention to me. “What did you say?”
“I think those three are after the clues.”
“I think you’re right.” He dips his head and stares at the ground for a quick moment before returning his eyes to the entrance to the alley. In one swift movement, he ducks back beside me. “They just passed. Follow me. When the coast is clear, we’ll make a break for it. Ready?”
I nod. “Yes. Ready.”
We stick to the wall all the way down to the end. Marek peeks around the corner, looking left then right. It’s a pedestrian street. Cars aren’t allowed on it. The tall buildings house shops and cafés. Flocks of people approach the alley. Marek grabs my hand, and we step out and into the crowd.
He doesn’t let go as we rush down the cobblestone sidewalk. My hand lingering in his feels natural, warm. I keep checking over my shoulder, expecting our three pursuers to show up. Every loud noise—a honk, a yell, a car backfiring—shakes me to the bones. My breath burns going in. We barely make it onto the bus before it takes off.
Marek drops my hand so we can single-file our way to two empty seats together. The memory of his touch lingers on my skin. It’s warm briefly before it slowly cools, leaving me wanting to feel his touch again.
We transfer to another bus, and it drops us and a few business people off in a residential area of Rome. The GPS takes us to a narrow street with worn cobblestones and vehicles lining both sides. There’s barely room in the middle of the road for a car to use. The building has four stories. Its beige stucco is chipped in places, and the elaborate wood trim surrounding its windows and doors needs a coat of paint.
Marek takes out the list and rereads the information. “This is the right building. It’s apartment three-a. Antonia Rossi.”
“Antonia Rossi,” a woman carrying a sack of produce says. She’s about seventy, her hair not completely gray. She says something in Italian, and the only word I catch is “deceduto,” which doesn’t sound good.
Marek and I look at each other at once—he wrinkles his eyebrows, and I shrug my shoulders.
“Sorry. I’m so sorry,” a woman in her thirties with short hair wearing a crisp suit rushes up to us, struggling with an armful of bags. Her eyes are bright, and her smile is brighter. By the sound of her voice, she’s American. “I thought our appointment was at ten.”
“We’re not here for an appointment,” I say.
She gives me a once-over. “You’re not here to see the apartment?”
“No,” Marek says. “We’re looking for Antonia Rossi.”
That bright smile turns into a straight line. “You’re looking for Antonia?”
“Yes,” I say. “Do you know her?”
“I did.”
“Did?”
She places her grocery bags by the door and tugs her keys out of her pants pocket. “She passed away a few months ago. I’m her wife. Was there something you needed?”
I want to ask how she d
ied, but that would be insensitive.
“She’s her cousin from America,” Marek blurts out.
I give him a look that says it was a dumb play. Someone’s wife would know a person’s relatives. I force a smile and search my brain, which is now completely blank, for something—anything—to say.
“She only has one relative,” the woman says as I start to back away. “Analiese?”
Chapter Twelve
I’m surprised Antonia’s wife, Wren, invited us in. We’re strangers, after all. Boxes populate most of the floor of the apartment. The steaming mug of cocoa in my hands is warm and comforting after a morning of playing cat and mouse with our stalkers. I’m sitting next to Marek on a sofa so small there isn’t a gap between us.
The place smells like she’s just cleaned the apartment. Probably for her appointment. There’s ticking somewhere, and I search the room for what’s making the noise. A box the size of a coffin lies open on the floor by the open window. I can barely make out the face of a grandfather clock.
I feel for Wren. I’ve been where she is now. It’s hard packing up the memories of a lost life. Not the deceased loved one’s lost life, but yours. The life you knew with them in it.
Pushing the thought away, I take another sip of cocoa. I’m trying to play it cool. Acting as if it doesn’t freak me out that Wren knew my name. But the cocoa sloshing back and forth inside my mug is a dead giveaway that it does.
A woman outside yells something in Italian, breaking the silence of the apartment. A second or so later, a young boy answers her.
Wren sits down on a chair across from Marek and me with a mug of her own. “Sorry, I haven’t much to offer. The lemon cookies are tasty, if a bit stale. Just dunk it in the cocoa. Softens it up some.”
I’d better get this going. We need to be back before sleeping beauty and her troll wake up and find we’re not at the hotel. Though I don’t know why I care. Shona’s not the boss of this operation. “How long were you and Antonia married?”
“A little over a year.” She sips her cocoa. Her eyes turn glossy, and she looks away for a second. She returns her gaze to me. “When’s the last time you saw her?”