—
Three years ago, the Americans had lauded Angelo for hiring the first-ever female investigator in Phoenix Seven. Proud of himself, he’d used the American euphemism “equal opportunity” and paraded her around as his special project, telling everyone he was taking her “under his wing.” But, for all his talk of mentorship and equality, her increasing competence clearly grated.
Until now, she’d been able to maneuver around Angelo’s fragility. But events last summer had disrupted the power dynamic.
That he had never viewed her as a serious investigator had been her protection. This was gone now.
She considered calling him back. But if she reasoned with him, if she protested, or fought, he would only dig in. To be effective, she would need to be repentant. At one time, she could have feigned this. But something had shifted and, desperate though she was to keep her job, she didn’t think she could force herself to kneel.
—
Nikki worked the punching bag and lifted weights until she was drenched, muscles burning, then scrubbed her kitchen.
Her stomach was too tight for food, so she drank espresso while shuffling through unopened mail.
Among the bills was an unmarked envelope. Inside, a stack of legal papers.
She skimmed the first page—an NDA.
A note was clipped on top—in Enzo’s handwriting:If you ever loved me, please sign.
She dropped it in the rubbish bin.
—
Her phone pinged. Another message from Audrey. A selfie. Close up. Pink freckled cheeks and bushy brows.
Nikki texted back:Never send anyone pictures of yourself. It isn’t safe. Show this message to your dad and tell him to talk to you about online safety.
Audrey texted:Can you come over?
No, Nikki typed, and set the phone down.
It buzzed again. She almost didn’t check it—but then saw that the message was from Sandro:I found your guy.
It took her a moment to remember what she’d asked him for. Then it hit: the man from Valerio’s photo.Great! Thanks so much. Who is he?
He wrote,Better discussed in person. Coffee?
—
The clouds had been threatening all morning, rain dripping in fits and starts. By the time Nikki reached Piazza San Domenico Maggiore, the sky cracked open, and people scrambled for cover. She ducked into Massimo’s café, joining the crowd pressing into the humid space.
The scent of espresso and damp clothes mingled with the acrid cigarette stink from the men smoking outside, sheltered beneath the awning. Competing conversations echoed in the small space, and the air thrummed with the beat of ambient music, the hiss of the steamer, coffee grounds slammed out, ceramic cups clinking.
Sandro had already arrived, and reserved a small table overlooking the piazza.
He stood as she approached, leaning in to kiss her cheeks.
It was an odd feeling to see him; a profound recognition and familiarity tempered by the strange newness. Sandro had been such an integral part of her childhood, Nikki couldn’t remember their firstencounter; she’d been only six or seven years old at the time. He and her brother Adriano had met during their first year at the Scuola Ufficiali Carabinieri in Rome—and Adriano had brought him home on weekend and holiday visits. She remembered youth in that handsome face, and eyes bright with possibility. There was a gravity to his features now; experience etched in the grooves around his mouth, sorrow in those eyes, and alert focus.
—
Adriano would be the same age now, she realized. The image came unbidden: her brother with a lived-in face, kindness in the lines of his laugh, and the bend of his body.
—
“You’re looking well,” Sandro said, after they ordered. “Tell me about yourself, Nina. Married? Any kids?”
