“Third,” I correct him. “Sailing around the islands was one. Vegas was another.”
“Perhaps this could be our firstpleasanthoneymoon,” he amends.
“You can’t get shot this time,” I warn him.
“I have definitely had enough bullets to last a lifetime.”
“We could visit Cee and Frank and Marcy!” I exclaim. They’re living in the north of Italy these days. “We could go to Firenze—Milano—Venezia, of course—”
“Our first priority is Rome,” Luca says. “Or rather, the Vatican. But…Iwouldlike to see Rome.”
Of course he would, with his bent for all that ancient philosophy bullshit. “We can go everywhere and do everything. As long as we see Róisín as soon as we can.”
Luca smiles at my enthusiasm, but I can tell he still thinks this whole thing could be a waste of time. That’s okay.
I can be hopeful enough for the both of us.
Chapter Forty
LUCA
It’s a shock to disembark in Rome after a long flight and hear so much Italian around me. It’s not that I was expecting English—it’s just odd to hear somuchItalian, when I’m used to snatches here and there, to sentences started in English and finished in Italian, or a pidgin combination of the languages.
Finch, who has traveled the globe several times over, seems unperturbed. But as far as shocks go, it’s been even more startling to see Finch with his natural hair color. He dyed it back to a medium-brown before we left, and although he’s gorgeous no matter what hue his hair is, I’m finding it hard to get used to.
Secretly, I hope he might dye it pink again one day, although he seems pretty fixed on gold.
“We’re never flying coach again,” Finch grumbles after we get through customs. Our fake passports worked beautifully—Vitali specials.
“We’re undercover,” I point out quietly. “We could hardly live it up in first-class the whole way and then disappear into the crowd.”
His only answer is a loud, body-shaking yawn that makes passersby sidestep him. Although it’s only nine a.m. back in New York, mornings are not Finch’s preferred time of day. He didn’t sleep on the plane and the nine-hour flight has exhausted him. I did like the way he held my hand tight on take-off and landing. I’ve been on a few more planes since our first honeymoon, and I’m certainly notafraidof flying, but I still don’t like leaving my fate in someone else’s hands.
I’m more excited to be in Italy than I’d ever admit to. Excitement in general is not an emotion I feel often, and not usually outside of private times with Finch. I’ve never traveled outside the States, and I never felt much need to, Manhattan being the center of the universe anyway, but now that I’m here, even just in the airport, I can feel a whole new world opening up before me.
I do feel a little naked without any weapons on me. Vitali has set up a contact for me if I need anything, and I might just take him up on it. But not on our first day here.
I put my arm around Finch’s shoulders as we head to the exit, bags in tow. “Come on, baby bird, this is supposed to be our third honeymoon. Can’t you be alittleexcited? We’re inRome. The Eternal City.”
“Please don’t break into song or something,” he sighs, but then he leans into me. “Fuck it, honey; sing your heart out if you want. You’re right, we’re supposed to be enjoying ourselves. I’m just a little worried that we haven’t heard back from Róisín yet.”
“We will,” I assure him, although I have no confidence at all that Róisín will get our message in the first place, let alone respond, let alone agree to meet. But it’s a reminder that our time in Italy is not primarily meant for pleasure. And I have Morelli business I want to undertake,ifI can make contact with La Contessa. I’ve set Vitali working on that particular problem, while Tara Donovan reaches out to Róisín.
In the meantime, all Finch and I can do is wait, and enjoy Rome.
* * *
We takea taxi to our hotel—a rundown little place with the smallest double bed I’ve ever seen, but with a view of the Colosseum when I stick my head out of the window and strain hard to the right. To the left is a busy Roman street, and down below, a newsstand on the other side of the road. As I watch, a man who has been waiting on the corner ambles up to buy a paper. I wonder if the newsstand has paper maps of the area. I don’t want to use my phone to get around Rome while we’re here. The lower-tech we keep things, the less likelihood we’ll be tracked—byanyone.
I pull the window closed to keep the cooler air inside the room, and see Finch staring around himself with a twist to his lips. “What a dump,” he says.
“You booked it,” I point out to Finch. Vitali gave us a list of approved hotels for Finch to pick from, so he only has himself to blame.
It’s a tiny room, made up mostly of bed, and the bed isn’t all that big to start with. There’s a TV, which looks like a first-generation flatscreen, mounted on the wall opposite the bed, and through a thin door there’s a bathroom with a shower, toilet and sink crowding into each other. A large air-conditioning unit overhead rattles and shakes when I turn it on. The weather report I checked before departure told me it was still warm in Rome during the days, though New York has been cooling off, and the air in this small room feels unpleasantly close.
Finch laughs, good-humored despite his distaste for the accommodation. “You know what? I fucking love it. Let’s pretend we’re broke, honey. That we scrimped and saved to fly coach to Rome and stay in this shitty hotel room. That way the only thing that really matters is—”
“—each other.” The room is so small I can cross to him in two steps, which I do, and then kiss him passionately and thoroughly until he’s melting in my arms. “And as you damn well know, angel, youarethe most important thing to me.”
