I stare at her, waiting for the punchline. When none comes, my mouth falls open. “You’re joking.”
“Not even a little.” Her eyes glitter with mischief.
“You can fly a plane?”
“Among other things,” she says with mock modesty. “Why, don’t you trust me?”
I let out a huff of laughter despite myself. “Not really. But I’m up for an adventure.” I pause, letting my gaze drift over her perfect features. “So let’s go.”
An hour later, I’m gripping the leather seat of Eva’s red Ferrari as she takes the winding mountain roads at speeds that would make a Formula One driver nervous. I can’t decide if I’m terrified or exhilarated.
“You know there are speed limits, right?”
Eva’s laughter is rich and unrestrained. “Not for me, there aren’t.”
Leon is waiting at the private airfield beside a small white plane, his frame rigid with disapproval. Even from a distance, I can see the tension in his shoulders.
“You’re really not telling me where you’re going?” he asks tightly as we approach, and then adds something in Russian.
Eva waves a dismissive hand. “Don’t fuss, Leon,” she replies in English. “I’m allowed to have a secret or two.”
He continues in Russian, even as he helps unload our luggage from the back of the car.
“Nothing will happen,” Eva insists with the kind of absolute confidence that only comes from having the power to make reality bend to your will. “And if it does, you’ll figure out how to find me. You always do.”
Leon’s scowl deepens, but he doesn’t argue further. He knows better than to push Eva when she’s made up her mind about something.
And as Eva pilots the plane into the sky with casual expertise, my stomach performs acrobatics that have nothing to do with the altitude. This feels like a metaphor for my entire time with her—the constant bubbly feeling in my stomach, the sudden ups and downs, the way she can make me feel like I’m flying one moment and falling the next.
“Hold on,” Eva says with a wicked grin, and suddenly we’re banking sharply to the left, the world tilting at an impossible angle outside the window.
I shriek, gripping my armrests so hard my knuckles go white. “Eva!”
She throws the plane into a series of loops and spirals that would probably be illegal in commercial airspace, laughing with pure delight as I alternate between screaming and laughing hysterically. I’ve never heard her laugh along with me like this—so free and unguarded, like she’s forgotten who she’s supposed to be and remembered who sheactuallyis underneath all the ice.
“You’re insane!” I gasp as we level out again, my heart pounding with equal parts terror and exhilaration.
“And you love it,” she says, glancing at me with sparkling eyes.
She’s right. Good or bad, sane or crazy, I really am up for anything with her.
Rome unfolds below us like a golden dream, ancient stones and terracotta roofs baking in the afternoon sun. Eva lands the plane with the same casual confidence she does everything else, as ifpiloting an aircraft is just another common skill, like ordering wine with perfect French pronunciation.
Within an hour, we’re strolling hand-in-hand through cobblestone streets that have existed since before America was even a concept. The weight of history presses down around us, but Eva moves through it all like she belongs here, like she’s walked these streets a thousand times before.
And I bet she has.
“This way,” she says, tugging me down a narrow alley that looks questionable at best.
“Are you sure we won’t get mugged?”
“Trust me.”
The alley opens into a tiny piazza where a hole-in-the-wall trattoria sits tucked between ancient buildings. The scent of garlic and basil drifts from the open kitchen, making my mouth water instantly.
“Best gnocchi in all of Italy,” Eva promises, guiding me to a small table outside.
She’s right. The pasta is like eating clouds made of cheese and butter, so perfect that I actually moan out loud. Eva watches me with amused fondness, like I’m the most entertaining thing she’s ever seen.
