Santo shakes his head. "You weren't Signore Volante's wife then, Signora."
"True." I purse my lips. "Is there any way I can convince you to call me Katya?"
"No."
"Ekaterina."
"No, Signora."
"Signora Katya?" I try.
His mouth twitches. "If Signore Volante doesn't object."
I leave it at that. Santo is operating within the limits set by my husband. It's up to me to persuade Gabriele to ease up on the formality, just a little.
"So, shoes next?" Anna asks. "And a purse."
"Maybe after lunch. I'm a little hungry."
"Oh, thank the lord." Anna exaggerates a sigh of relief. "I was starting to think with your supermodel figure you might have an aversion to food."
"No." I frown slightly at that. I'm thin, but not unhealthily so. "I eat, believe me."
Santo leans forward. "If I might suggest Babington's, Signora."
"Babington's?" The name is familiar.
"Yes, Signora. It's right there on the Piazza di Spagna." He points across the square ahead of us. "It was founded in 1893 by two English ladies."
Surprised by his knowledge, I turn to him. "You know the city well?"
"Of course. Signore Volante mentioned you were interested in our history. I happen to know a thing or two."
And here I was thinking he was just a wall of muscle with a moderately pretty face.
We walk across the square to what turns out to be the most charming little tea room. Santo positions two guards outside the door and another at a table just inside. He takes the table adjacent to the one he seats Anna and me at. With his back to the wall, he keeps an eye on the door and the window both.
I can't help thinking the security detail makes me more conspicuous than I'd be without it. My bodyguard back home was more discreet but of course there was no active threat until I ran from Boris Orlov.
I peruse the menu, finding several items I'd like. It takes a minute to narrow it down.
"I'll have the club sandwich," I decide.
Anna hums to herself. "I might go for the Italian salad."
"Really?" I don't miss her lack of enthusiasm. "What do you actually want to eat?"
She sighs. "The truffle burger, but it's too much."
"It's twenty euros," I say, being deliberately obtuse. "Does my husband not pay yours enough?"
"No, I mean it's too much food." Anna glances up at me. "Ah, you're joking."
"Yes. Order what you like. If it's too much, maybe Santo will split it with you."
He nods from the table next to us and waves the waitress over. She takes our order and hurries off.
While we wait for our food, we chat about inconsequential things. Both Anna and Santo recommend their favorite restaurants, making me increasingly excited to explore the food scene here. When our meals arrive, Santo happily accepts half of Anna's burger, even though he's ordered one of his own.
