“Prophetic.” Cec nods approvingly.
Anders chimes in. “She’s right, you know.”
“Shut up, Anders,” Cec and I say at the time.
Bes, however, chooses to keep his silence. Whether I’ve given him something to think about, or he’s finally getting some rest after being on the run for the past few days, I’m not sure. He deserves both.
“You’re right, Miss Hawkins,” he says finally. “Gino had ample opportunity to betray us, although there’s just as much of a chance that the man I spoke to at the restaurant betrayed us instead, since he was the one who provided me with the password. But that doesn’t excuse the decision I made to stop there. Even if I trusted Gino explicitly, there were too many people around for us to have been truly safe.”
I’m surprised but glad to hear it.
I sigh, biting the bullet. “And I’m sorry for jumping down your throat. There was a better way to say what I said. I tend not to think before opening my mouth to speak.”
“That’s an understatement,” Cec mumbles.
Bes ignores his cousin. “Apology accepted. And reciprocated. I should have trusted your gut; I’ve made the mistake of underestimating you far too many times.”
My cheeks grow warm. “Yes, you have.”
“Wonderful!” Cec claps his hands. “We’re all friends again—I was worried. For a moment there, I thought I was going to have to choose between you.” He leans into me and whispers loudly. “Don’t tell Bes, but I would’ve picked you.”
I slap him on the arm, smothering a grin.
Not long after, we leave behind the outskirts of Milan and climb into the mountains that gently materialized in the distance. Soon, the tall, striking crags of the Italian Alps engulf us in their otherworldly peaks. At their base, emerald-draped slopes smooth down into rolling hills lathered in multihued wildflowers and thick, shimmering trees. Farms large and small dot the countryside between each town, where cows and goats and pigs roam to their heart’s content.
A part of me expected the trees and plants to be completely different here; the way people talk about this place, it became a wonderland in my mind. Barring the olive tree farms, though, they look nearly identical to the ones we have back home.
The one thing Michigandoesn’thave is mountains.
In fact, nothing in the States compares to this. The peaks here boast sharp, vertical faces carved out of gray sheet rock, as if they’ve risen straight out of the prehistoric age into our modern world.
I can’t help being wholly struck in awe by them.
“The Italian Alps,” I breathe, pressing my face against the window for a better view. They’re more beautiful than I imagined.
“Call them the Dolomites,” Bes suggests. “Only outsiders call them the Italian Alps.”
My brow furrows.That’s exactly what I am: an outsider.I see his point, though. Better to know the local vernacular so I don’t stick out like a sore thumb. Besides, Dolomites sound much more impressive.
I’ve seen mountains before, of course, during my countless expeditions. There’s something about the Dolomites, though… I feel as if we’ve stepped into a place of hidden magic.
We pass a small lake, and then a larger one, the water so still and clear I can see all the way to the bottom, even as we whizz by. The lakes at home are sometimes so murky that you can’t even recognize your hand in front of your face, if you dare open your eyes underwater at all.
I figure we must be getting close to Arturo’s safehouse once we pull off the main road. Vegetable gardens, fruit trees, and flower boxes grace the yards of the modest stone homes we pass. Few cars populate the road, so those tending to them follow us with curious looks.
Eventually, darkening storefronts of dress shops and apothecaries and the like slowly replace the homes, inviting us into the heart of a small village.
When Anders takes his foot off the gas and downshifts, I sit up.Finally, we must be getting close.
A moment later, a high stone wall crawling with vines appears off to the left between the buildings. More stone emerges in the distance behind the wall, and I lean near Cec to get a good look out his window.
Ancient castle spires pierce the clear blue sky. An Italian flag flies proudly from the top of the only visible lookout tower.
I sit back, confusion and suspicion settling into my thoughts.This can’t be it.Someone careful like Arturo wouldn’t live somewhere near a tourist trap like acastle. It must be on the other side of town, away from the city center.
Either that, or this is one of the lies Bes and Cec told me.
“Where are we?” I wonder.
