"Oh, right," her lips curve sweetly, adding a bit more pressure with her heel. "Let’s go."
We drift out with polite waves, onto the street. The city is a low, warm hum, vendors calling like soft little birds, scooters stitching the lanes, laundry hanging from balconies like exhausted saints. We slide into the market where tarps throw green shade over pyramids of tomatoes, olives slick as marbles, figs splitting themselves open just to be admired. The sea’s somewhere close; you can taste it in the wind.
I buy a thin gold charm bracelet from a cart, an arrow the size of my thumbnail. Slipping it on her wrist.
"What is this?" she asks.
"Proof I can be tasteful," I say. "Also, you aim true."
She eyes it, then me, then checks to make sure it's fastened to her satisfaction. A small smile plays around her lips, and I know I've pleased her even if she doesn’t saythank you.
We keep walking. My eyes are peeled on her and our surroundings. I don't remember the last time I've been out in public without a bodyguard, and it bothers me, but only because ofher. By all rights, she's a force to be reckoned with, and that's the only reason I'm not pulling her back to the hotel yet. But she's also still healing. I stiffen when I notice the way a shadow lingers too long, the way a man pretends to be interested in eggplants but never buys one. Oksana’s gaze flicks window to window, not on the glass, but on the reflection inside it.
"Two on the left," she murmurs, barely moving hermouth. "One with the hat. One pretending to look at a lamp."
"Got them," I whisper close to her ear, appearing like a doting husband, while scanning the reflections she pointed out. I glance down at us: her tight jeans, soft T-shirt, sneakers scuffed by actual living. Me? Blue suit, open collar, watch that could pay for someone’s semester abroad.
She looks from my clothes to my face and mutters in Russian, "Ty idiot."
"What?" I say, playing dumb, but even without being fluent in Russian, I pick up the meaning of her words.
She taps my lapel. "That suit."
I roll my eyes for show, but the hit lands. I thought about it yesterday, how money shines, how it teaches eyes to follow. I should have bought some clothes here yesterday. I sip my beer and smile at a fruit vendor like I’m part of the scenery.
"Let’s see if they’re ours," I say. I take her hand before she can protest and lift it like a man showing off a ring that doesn’t exist. "Newlyweds," I murmur. "Act like you like me."
She bares her teeth in a smile that would terrify demons. "I should get an Oscar for that."
We drift into a tourist shop that smells like lemon soap and postcard ink. I make a show of holding up a linen dress to her shoulders, tipping my head, pretending to seeif the color suits her. We move to the back, through a doorway into a second room full of baskets. Mirrors everywhere. I watch the hat. He dithers in the window across, pretending to text. Lamp Guy lags in the reflections, pretending to check prices. They’re patient, not stupid.
"Still with us," I say.
"Hmm," she answers, picking up a basket and weighing it like she could throw it through a window and salvage our afternoon. I buy a very touristy, bright shirt and a pair of jeans, and we exit hand-in-hand, laughing at nothing. At the corner, I angle us into a bakery. Metal racks. Glass case. The air is thick with sugar and butter and the faint, holy sting of espresso. I order two cannoli and clap a kiss on her cheek like I can’t help myself.
"Overacting," she says through her smile.
"Academy Award," I counter. I smear a dot of ricotta cream on her lip like a fool and lean in before she can wipe it, stealing a kiss that tastes like pistachio and trouble.
She goes stiff—offended—then soft for a flash, heat sparking under her skin. Her eyes close for half a heartbeat. When she opens them, the look could cut tile.
"Don’t do that again," she says.
"Lie better," I murmur. "You liked it."
Her laugh is a quiet, murderous thing. "I liked the cannoli."
"Hmm." I brush my thumb along her jaw as I step back, making sure the watchers see it. "Heavenly, then."
We exit into the light. The hat has moved. Lamp Guy didn’t buy a lamp. I thread our path into a clothing store, out through the alley exit, and cross the street mid-traffic; she matches me step for step. We cut through a stall of knockoff sunglasses, each of us trying on a pair while we watch the mirrors. I pick the cheapest plastic ones in the world and slide them on.
"Better," she says, approving my downgrade. "Now you only look like a mid-level idiot."
We pause by a fountain where old men play chess under palm trees. Children throw stale bread at pigeons; pigeons negotiate peace like diplomats. The sun is later now, long and gold. Our shadows touch first.
"They’re still there," she says softly.
"Good," I say, matching her tone. "Let them be patient. We’ll teach them boredom." I toss a coin into the fountain because every city expects a tithe. "At dusk, we watch the base. Daylight, we let our friends think we’re harmless."
