Page 59 of Skotos
28
Thomas
We made it back to the hotel without incident, though our tails stayed with us with at every turn—never close enough to draw attention, yet never far enough to forget. Will and I didn’t speak of them until we stepped into the lobby, pretending to be nothing more than tired American tourists in suits.
The concierge greeted us with a too-eager smile, but I was already sweeping the tall windows flanking the entrance. Outside, just past the line of taxis and flower carts, our gray-coated friend leaned against a lamppost pretending to read a newspaper. The one in the blue tie loitered near a parked Vespa, tapping a cigarette out of a crumpled pack.
“Hungry?” I asked Will, mostly to keep things normal.
“Starving,” he said, one hand rubbing his stomach.
The hotel restaurant was all polished marble and soft lighting, the kind of place where forks clinked quietly and voices never rose above murmurs. Of course, themaître d’seated us by the window. Will sat facing the street, and I could tell he was counting blinks between tail glances.
“They’re not coming in,” he muttered, cutting into a mound of gnocchi drowned in sage butter.
“No, but they want us to know they’re there.”
I picked at my pasta, not really interested in food with goons glaring through glass.
“You think they’re protecting us or waiting for us to slip?” Will asked between bites.
“They’re not protecting us.” I shook my head. “They’d have announced themselves if we were on the same team. Whoever they are—they’re watching, and they don’t care if we know.”
We finished our meal in strained silence and then retreated to our room. Will double-locked the door and checked the window, ensuring the curtains were pulled tight. I turned on the radio and let soft jazz bleed into the space between us.
The next morning arrived gray and humid, with a haze over the Tiber that stank of a coming storm. We dressed quickly and silently. I chuckled as Will struggled to knot his tie.
“Here,” I said, gently shoving his hands away. “You’ll either strangle yourself or make a knot so tight we’ll have tocut it loose.”
He rolled his eyes but leaned into my touch, his hand rising to hold my wrist as I worked.
How long had it been since we had a moment alone, since we felt intimacy flow between us? My logical mind knew it had only been days, a week or so, perhaps; but my heart, the irrational part of me that craved Will’s touch with every breath I drew, believed it had been years since we lay together as one. We needed to correct that egregious error as soon as this mess was settled. Perhaps before, if we could find a moment alone without tails or bugs.
“Worried they’ll follow us again?” he asked as I tied.
I nodded. “They already are.”
We exited through a side entrance this time, flagged a taxi by the back alley, and gave instructions in English. The driver’s weak attempt at an English reply was thicker than the tomato sauce we’d enjoyed with our bread the night before.
As the cab pulled into traffic, I pressed my shoulder into Will’s and leaned just enough to glance out the rear window.
Two cars followed.
Neither was close.
Neither was overt.
But both were familiar.
“Two now?” Will exhaled slowly. “They’re not even trying to hide.”
“No, they weren’t really hiding last night, either,” I said. “And that means they want something. The question is—what?”
Rome drifted by in shades of stone and gold as we turned toward the ancient gates of the Vatican. Behind it all, the weight of unseen eyes settled heavier on our shoulders with every passing street.
The moment we stepped into the cool shadows of St. Peter’s Square, that feeling only deepened despite guards at the entrance checking our names against a list and waving us through without question.
Once inside, we asked for the Archives.
