The rest of us follow Bes’s lead, then pull our things out of the trunk. I decided on the last leg of our sea voyagenotto consolidate everything into my pack; it was too much of a hassle and I might need the room at some point. And, though my suitcase holds no real sentiment, it’s something familiar in an unfamiliar place.
Gripping my luggage, I swing my bag over both shoulders and stand back. My nose ticks at the stench of old gasoline and the fish-oil stink of brake fluid.
I still have no idea where they’re taking me, but they did claim Arturo lives here. And if he does, then at least I’ll get some answers—and hopefully some literature on the amulet.
I’m willing to put up with a lot if it means I get to solve this mystery.
We head across the gravel in silence for what appears to be the only other way out of this place: a narrow threshold lit with more burning torches leading to a disappearing spiral of tall stairs.
“What he means is,” Cec starts, gripping his cane lightly and traversing the uneven ground with ease, “we’d draw more attention to ourselves if we didn’t own multiples of the same car.”
He assumes my confusion correctly by continuing. “When Mussolini took over, he wanted a cheap car made for the everyday citizen. So, he had Fiat build a car under 5000 Lire—the people’s car, he calls it.”
I consider this while Anders starts up the stairs. “Sounds like a propaganda tactic.”
Bes weighs in beside me. “It was, and it worked. They’re practically all you see on the roads these days.” He points behind him. “We keep a few Alfa Romeos, even an old Lancia, stashed away. And, until Mussolini is ousted from his place of power, they have to stay that way. Otherwise, we’d be too conspicuous.”
I take a tentative step behind Anders. “Speaking of which: now you’ve smuggled me into your secret lair—which, again, is absolutely not a house like you initially inferred—can you at least tell me if this anti-fascism organization you all play a part in has a name?”
When neither Bes nor Cec answers, I glance back at them. Cec has his hand braced against the wall for balance, though he’s doing better than expected and isn’t using his cane. He must know this place well enough.Or, he’s pretending.I decide not to berate him. He’s not who I want to hear the answer from anyway.
Bes is already watching me when my attention shifts to his, dark eyes guarded. His lips part at my expression, his brow pinching; I can see now it truly has pained him not being able to tell me the truth.
I wish he’d just give in.
Anders cuts in. “Arturo will brief you.”
Bes’s mouth snaps shut.
Dammit.
I whip around to find Anders not acknowledging me. He simply continues up the stairs as if he isn’t withholding vital information. Is the infamous Arturo even here? Am I walkinginto a trap? Who knows. Bes and Cec might not mean me harm, but their organization could. Their uncle, especially, falls under scrutiny, no matter how much Nonna trusts him.
“Fine,” I say through clenched teeth, climbing each stair with some concerted effort; these stairs are much higher than the ones in the States. “Then can you at least tell me why none of your secret locations use electricity?”
Anders pauses on the steps and so I stop too, glancing up at his serious expression. “Arturo said you were perceptive.”
“Not abnormally so,” I admit. “I just think you all have incredibly low standards.”
Bes chuckles unexpectedly below me, and I smile to myself. He must remember me saying the same thing to Cec when he praised me in the car after having just escaped from Ingrid.
Anders goes on to explain after all: “Bringing electricity into the underbelly of an abandoned castle would attract too much suspicion. We’d have to lay lines, which would give us away.”
That certainly makes sense for a castle in a remote town, but what about the club? It was in the middle of a busy port, where it would be easy to hide something like that. I decide not to argue the point, because I can’t find the will to care all that much about something so insignificant in the grander scheme of things.
The cold air here sticks to my skin and smells faintly of stagnant water as we reach the top of the stairs. My chest heaves from the journey, my thighs burning.I’m not as in shape as I thought.I lean against the wall and concentrate on catching my breath, blaming it on the lack of drinking water since we left the boat.
Cec pats me on the back. “A tad out of shape there, Hawkins?”
I huff and push off the wall. “It’s the altitude, you jerk. Where I’m from, we might as well be at sea level.”
Bes cuts in. “It’s only about a sixty meter difference.”
I open and close my mouth a couple times before finding the right words.
“I don’t even want to know how you know that without looking it up.”
Bes grasps the back of his neck, avoiding my gaze. “Then it’s unfortunate you’re about to find out.”
