“I didn’t know it was an off-limits topic.” She stared at the numbers above the door, willing the elevator to hurry and reach the bottom floor.
“Fair enough. For one, despite your terrible taste in fashion, and your ongoing inability to find a good hairstylist, I do find particular happiness inthis.” He gestured with his hand back and forth between them.
“And what, pray tell, mightthisbe?” Aida’s heart rate accelerated.
“Oh, Aida...” His tone was a confusing mixture of condescension and charm.
The door broke the tension with an opening swoosh, and Aida hurried out, almost crashing into an older woman who was waiting for the elevator. She was smartly dressed and looked to be in her seventies. Her golden hair was streaked with white but held in an elegant upsweep. She greeted Mo, then stepped into the elevator. Mo winked at Aida. The doors closed and the two of them were gone.
Aida decided to make a rare midday trip to the bar, hoping a drink might calm her nerves and help her think. The hotel bar, named after the famous early-twentieth-century literary club, the Bloomsbury Group, was known for its ties to bohemianoccultist ideals. Unlike most London bars, which only had tables and no bar seating, this one was more like the familiar haunts Aida loved back in the States. It was usually a popular spot, so busy that finding a seat at the bar was nearly impossible. But it was a quiet Monday at 2:00 p.m., and the place was unusually empty, save for a robust Asian man with a very pink face nursing a glass of scotch at one end of the bar and, seated right in the middle, the mysterious Italian, a golden-brown cocktail in a martini glass in front of him.
Aida took a deep breath and crossed the threshold, past the myriad velvet armchairs and shelves full of antique books. “Is this seat taken?” It was cheeky, considering there were five empty spots on either side of the man that were free.
He turned from his drink to her, and Aida was relieved when a smile lit upon his face.
“Please,” he said, shifting a little to make climbing into the high chair easier.
“What are you drinking?” she asked after she was settled. She couldn’t remember the last time she had ever been so bold—had she ever? With Graham, he had been the one who made all the moves.
“The Siren Call. It’s very good.” He slid a card toward her, a tarot card of sorts, withCHARISMATICetched across the bottom. On it, a woman with a flaming crown held a fiery heart in one hand and was emptying a cup of blood into a river at her feet. A hyena stood nearby, laughing. Aida flipped the card over. It was seemingly part of an elaborate cocktail menu. The drink and its ingredients were listed on the back.
“‘Drink this to increase charisma and attract favorable attention,’” she read aloud.
“It seems that it worked.” The man smiled.
His English was perfect, but he had a definite Italian accent.
“Parli Italiano?”
His eyes widened. “Sì!”
“I thought so,” Aida said, continuing in Italian. “Where areyou from?” She signaled the bartender to bring her what the Italian was having.
“Bologna. But I live and work in France. I come here periodically for business.”
“I’m from the US, but I live and work in Italy now, and I too come here periodically for business.”
He grinned. “Luciano Leto.”
“Aida Reale.”
“Your parents are fans of Verdi?”
She laughed. “They were, very much so.” Occasionally, people asked her about the famous opera, but with the name becoming more common, it happened much more infrequently. “How do you like France?” Aida wanted to know what he did for a living, but it was a very American thing to ask that off the bat, and she didn’t want to appear rude.
“I love it. There is so much history, so much culture. I find myself very happy there. And you? What brought you to Rome?”
“A job. I’m a historian of sorts. But I’m also a novelist,” she said, realizing with a heavy heart that she couldn’t really tell this charming man what she did for a living.
“What kind of novels?” Luciano asked, intrigued.
“I write historical fiction set in Italy. It’s a blend of my love for history and storytelling.”
“That’s fascinating,” he said. Then he grinned. “There is also another coincidence. I’m a bit of a historian too. What is your specialty?”
“General Italian studies.”
“Ah, the same is true for me, general French history.”
