Page 47 of Us in Ruins

Margot cleared her throat. “We need two pairs of knee-high stockings in alabaster white, monogrammed with AOA.”

Fernanda donned a sparkling smile. “Fabulous! This way!”

She came around the counter and guided them through the storeroom. Van glanced at Margot, disbelief written all over his face, and Margot could only hope she didn’t actually end up with two pairs of socks out of this. Fernanda led them through a sheer gauze tapestry at the back of the shop to a cozy hallway made of exposed stones. A door was on either side—one labeled, one not.

“Enzo!” Fernanda said, hitting the side of her hand against the unmarked door three times. She didn’t stick around for someone to open it. Offering Margot and Van a salute with the hand holding her bouquet, she neatly vanished between the racks of negligees.

“I can’t believe that worked,” Van said. His face slowly returned to its usual shade, his eyebrows finding their typical irritated furrow. “Do girls even like that sort of thing?”

“Flowers?” Margot asked. “Yeah, usually.”

Van made a sort of unimpressed snort. “Why? They just die.”

“It’s thoughtful,” she said. “Who doesn’t like to be thought about?”

Van’s feet scuffed the ground as they waited. “What else do they like?”

Margot shrugged, trying desperately to look nonchalant despite the way her pulse skipped very chalantfully. “You know, picnics, little gifts, handwritten letters. Romantic gestures.”

“Sto arrivando!” called a voice from behind the thick door.

It swung open, and Margot jumped back to avoid getting smacked.

Whoever Margot had expected to round the corner, it wasn’t a boy Van’s height and about his age—eighteen-ish, not a-hundred-something. His skin had the bronze glow of someone who spent their afternoons in the sun, but his hair was so black, it almost looked blue. The boy wore a black hoodie, stamped on the front with a globe, tilted on its axis, with a ribbon encircling it, and he crossed his arms over his chest.

Was Margot imagining it, or did Van tense next to her? Almost protective.

A string of Italian words ran out of Enzo’s mouth. Knowing him, Van probably understood them perfectly, but Margot could only blink like she was trying to solve a complicated math problem.

“Americans,” Enzo said, finally, as if it explained everything. “Let me ask again: If you want to know love, how will you look for him?”

This was where Suki’s instructions had ended. Every day, the bouncer had a new riddle. Get the answer right, and it was instant access to the world’s most exclusive gallery of antiques. Wrong? They’d be on the curb quicker than Margot could say marinara.

“Um...” Margot faltered. She really should have taken one of Dr. Hunt’s classes last year. Every intelligent thought she’d ever had suddenly decided to take a sabbatical.

Beside her, Van said, “You don’t.”

Margot whipped toward him, hands clammy. They only had one shot at this. He hadn’t even considered consulting her?

At her antagonizing stare, he shifted his weight between his feet. “He said look for him. Not it. I can only assume that references Cupid, the Roman god of love. He’d been betrothed to Psyche but hid in the darkness each night because he didn’t want to be loved because of his appearance or his reputation. He didn’t want to be seen—only known.”

Something unnameable twinged in Margot’s chest.

Van refocused on Enzo. “So, how do you look for love? You don’t. Love comes to you.”

There was about a trillion percent chance that door was getting slammed straight in their faces. Margot winced in anticipation, her chances withering like a week-old grocery store bouquet.

It didn’t come. Instead, Enzo sidestepped and pushed the door open wide. “Benvenuto.”

16

La Galleria Bianchi was the stuffed manicotti of antique markets.

Dust clogged the air, thick and musty. Booth after booth had been weighed down with relics. Heaps of trinkets and curios were piled on glass display cases like the ones Margot saw in a Dillard’s perfume department, and they reached high above her head. Crates teetered in lopsided stacks. The treasures they held, Margot could only guess.

A few faces glanced up at them as they entered. Sellers, Margot realized. A man wearing a jeweler loupe frowned when she caught his eye. Something a lot like fear twisted in her gut—when Suki said underground market, had she actually meant black market?

Margot stretched onto her tiptoes, but she couldn’t see the end of the stalls. This market must have taken up the whole storefront next door to the lingerie shop, hidden from curious eyes. Banners of triangular flags looped across the ceiling, alternating colors with the logo stamped on Enzo’s hoodie. Had Margot seen that logo before?

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