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"Sicily. Everyone else is in Chicago. Why are you the one still over here playing—" I wave a hand at the windshield, at Italy, at the entire concept, "Roman holiday with no holiday?"

He looks at me for a long second. "I run the Italian side."

"Run."

"Run."

"That's it? Run? You're going to give me a verb and call it an answer?"

His mouth curves. "I'm in charge of everything the family does on this side of the Atlantic. Business. Relationships. Problems."

"Family interests," I repeat. "Wow. That cleared everything up. Thank you. I feel deeply informed."

"Bella."

"No, seriously, I love this. 'I run the Italian operation.' Such specificity. Such transparency. Truly, the diplomatic corps lost a star when you decided to go into—" I tilt my head. "Whatever the fuck this is."

He turns toward me fully, knees angled, shoulder against the seat, his whole body now pointed in my direction.

"You don't need to know more than that."

Fine.

Noted.

The man has a spare key to every room in my head and won't even let me see the front door of his.

I turn to the front. "Luca."

His green eyes flick to the mirror. He doesn't speak.

"Where are you from?"

"Calabria," he says. "Originally." His accent is low and rough.

"Originally," I echo. "And then?"

"Napoli."

"And now?"

His eyes return to the road. "Now I drive."

I let out something close to a laugh.

"Oh my God, you two are the same person. Did they print you off the same brochure? Tall, Italian, vague.”

I think I see one corner of Luca's mouth move. Barely. A flicker, then gone again, which is apparently all the proof I'm getting that he is human.

Valentino's leg shifts against mine.

"How long have you worked for him?" I ask Luca, nodding toward Valentino without looking at him.

"Long time."

"Do you like it? Naples?"

A long pause. Long enough that I start to think he isn't going to answer. "I don't live there," he says.