* * *
I takea shower to get the grime of travel off me, and Finch claims he’s going to join me, despite the shower being too small for the both of us. But his sleep schedule, already disrupted by all those late nights at Kismet, can’t take the jet lag on top. He passes out on the bed. Literally passes out—one moment he’s chatting about how we can walk down to see the Colosseum, and then he stops mid-sentence. I glance over my shoulder from where I’m putting a new SIM card into my phone that I bought on the way out of the airport, and see my husband’s adorable face mashed into the pillow, mouth open. After a second he gives a little snuffly snore.
I resist the urge to snap a photo of him like that. He’d never forgive me.
Instead, I log into the hotel Wi-Fi and check the throwaway email account I’ll be using while here. There are no emails except the welcome message, but when I check the drafts folder, there are several informative updates from Vitali. I settle on the bed gently next to Finch, making sure I have a glimpse of the Colosseum out the window, and read over Vitali’s emails.
It’s not a perfect start to the vacation—to our third honeymoon, even—but with Finch beside me and a wonder of the world before me, what else could I possibly need?
I just wish I could shake off this nagging sense of unease.
Chapter Forty-One
LUCA
Snoring Beauty awakes a few hours later, complaining of a dry throat and a stiff neck. “Go shower,” I say, stroking my fingers through his hair on the pillow where he’s still lying, “and then we’ll go out for dinner.”
He stretches, yawns, and shuffles off to the bathroom. I’ve unpacked and I’ve answered all the emails from Vitali, saving my replies to draft as well—still no word from Róisín, according to him—so I amuse myself with Italian television until Finch is dressed and ready to go.
There’s an elevator, but we take the stairs instead, and then we’re out on the streets of Rome, two anonymous Americans in a city where no one is trying to kill either of us.
Not immediately, anyway.
“Where do you want to go?” I ask Finch, slinging an arm across his shoulders.
“There’s a restaurant area a few streets away,” he says, gesturing. “We could walk over there, find a place.”
“Perfect.”
The nightlife in this part of Rome is almost as busy as New York, but somehow without the same sense of urgency—and definitely more sky. In Manhattan I’m so accustomed to being towered over by buildings that the more open skyline takes a little getting used to.
I wonder, as we’re seated at an outside table at the restaurant we chose, who over the millennia has passed over exactly the same spot I’m sitting in now. Julius Caesar, maybe. Augustus. Marcus Aurelius. All around us the air is filled with chatter and laughter, the smell of red wine and garlic as table staff pass by, and when I catch Finch’s eye he’s smiling softly at me.
I reach over to take his hand. “Ciao, bellissimo.”
“Don’t flirt too hard with me,” he says with a grin. “I’m a married man, and my husband tends to get jealous.”
“With a prize like you? I can’t blame him.”
We quit making gooey eyes at each other when the server comes out with our meals, and for the rest of our time there, we talk only idly of unimportant things and simply bask in each other’s company.
“I wish I’d come here long ago,” I say after dessert, looking around the street. It’s even busier now than when we arrived. The string lights decorating the large umbrellas overhead are reflecting off the yellowed stones of the building opposite, lending the whole street a warm glow that matches my mood. “But no—I don’t wish that,” I add. “Because I didn’t haveyoulong ago, and I do believe you’re the one making it so magical here, baby bird.”
“Roma has her charms, no doubt, but mine are superior,” Finch agrees, with that plain-speaking arrogance that I so love about him.
It’s not like he’swrong, either.
“Come on,” I say, standing to stretch out my legs. “I want to walk around as much as possible, get rid of any jet lag.” I put out my hand to help Finch up, and out of habit, I glance up and down the street. In New York I stay at heightened alert much of the time. I can’t just turn it off, even on vacation.
I catch a glimpse of a figure rounding a corner into an alleyway, and something about the scene makes me pay sharper attention.
“What’s wrong?” Finch asks softly.
I watch the corner a moment more. I’m probably seeing things; between the jet lag and the stress and the paranoia everyone accuses me of, it wouldn’t be surprising. But I trust my own judgment enough to keep one eye on the street even as I smile at Finch and say, “Nothing at all,uccellino. Let’s go.”
No one reappears. As we pass by the alley, I glance up it.
Empty.
