Page 74 of Skotos
Will
We hiked the better part of a mile before reaching a small hilltop town with a bell tower and three taxis clustered like vultures outside a crumbling stone café. Thomas negotiated the fare with the one driver who spoke broken English while I kept an eye on the road behind us.
We didn’t appear to have a shadow.
Not yet.
We reached the hotel just after sunset. The moment the cab pulled to the curb, I spotted them—two men loitering across the street, their trench coats far too clean, their interest far too fixed on the revolving doors of our hotel.
We didn’t look at them, just grabbed our bags, tipped the driver, and headed inside.
The lobby felt quiet—tooquiet—the kind of sterile hush that made footsteps echo off the marble floors a little too loudly.
Once inside our room, I locked the door and drew the curtains. We moved silently, instinctively falling into our old pattern. I opened the closet, pulled out a pad of paper, and scribbled, “Check for bugs.”
Thomas nodded and mouthed, “Bathroom.”
I moved that way, scanning carefully. It didn’t take long. Behind the molding above the vanity was a small black microphone. I gave Thomas a wave to get his attention, then pointed to the device.
He returned the gesture, pointing to the light fixture that hung over the bed, then made a circular motion with his hand. I stood on the bed and carefully unscrewed the dome—another bug glinted back at me. I picked it out of its nest and dropped it silently into my coat pocket.
Thomas tapped the nightstand and held up a second mic he’d pulled from the drawer’s underside.
Three. We’d found three bugs. How many had we missed?
We reconvened at the desk.
I scrawled, “We have to assume everything here is compromised.”
Thomas took the pen and added, “Let’s take a walk.”
I nodded.
Then, below his message, I wrote one more line, “They’re watching, but they don’t know who they’redealing with.”
Thomas cracked a faint smile, his eyes hard with resolve. He leaned forward, pressed his lips to mine, and held the back of my head for a moment I wished could’ve led to more—or lasted forever—either would’ve been just fine.
But we both knew what needed to happen next.
Ten minutes later, we slid into the back of a cab and gave the driver a simple request: “A tour of the city, please. The major sites. Colosseum, Pantheon . . . and the Vatican.”
The driver, a man in his sixties with a tan cap, thick mustache, and fingers stained the yellow of too many cigarettes, gave a nod and a warm grin. “You want the grand tour, eh? Rome never sleeps. She sparkles at night . . . like jewels, yes?”
As the cab rumbled to life and pulled into the maze of cobbled streets flanked by crumbling stone façades and shuttered cafés, Rome unfolded before us in slow, cinematic frames. The Colosseum came first—colossal and ancient, its pockmarked walls glowing amber in a wash of floodlights. Every arch seemed to breathe history. I imagined the roar of crowds, the clash of blades, the ghosts of gladiators pacing the arena long after the empire had fallen.
As we rounded the back side of the massive structure, our driver gestured proudly. “TheColosseo,” he said with a sweep of his hand. “Nearly two thousand years of gladiators, lions, emperors, blood, and glory. And now? Just tourists and pigeons.”He chuckled, tapping the steering wheel. “But still she stands, eh? Rome may fall, but she always gets back up, so we say.”
As I leaned across to gape out the window, Thomas took the opportunity to reach up and twist my nipple. I grunted, resisting the urge to leap and bump my head against the roof of the cab. My quiet scowl was met by a grin of triumph.
Then, out of sight of our driver, I raised one very meaningful finger.
Thomas’s grin only widened.
Fucking Thomas Jacobs.
We wound past the Roman Forum, and my breath caught.
“This—this was the center of the world,” our driver said in thickly accented English. “Senators walked here. Caesar, too. All roads really did lead to Rome, and this was where they met and merged.” He glanced in the rearview mirror, a glimmer of pride in his eye. “Now? It is little more than rocks, but once—eh—once it was the beating heart ofeverything.”
