Page 66 of Skotos
Oh! That tailor, I thought as clarity descended.
I blinked. “The one in the city?”
Thomas nodded. “You know. The one who takesspecialorders.”
Right, Manakin, of course.I gave him the barest nod.
“And we’ll need to make sure the tailor has all our measurements,” I added.
“Exactly.”
The cab hit a pothole that jolted us both upright. I cursed and rubbed the back of my head.
“Maybe next time we’ll rent something with shocks,” I muttered.
The driver said nothing, his eyes fixed forward as if he was part of the car itself. We were well past the last village, with nothing around but the winding road and a sea of hills. There was a quality to the air out here. It was cooler and thinner, somehow more expectant, like it knew something we didn’t. The closer we got to the chapel, the louder the voice in my head grew, whispering that we were being watched, calling out that we were hunted, screaming that someone—some thing—was waiting for us out here in the countryside.
I leaned forward, resting my forearm against the inside panel, careful to keep my voice down. “They’re still behind us.”
Thomas shifted subtly to look. “Close?”
“Closer than they were.”
His eyes narrowed. “They’re not being discreet at all now.”
I nodded. “They definitely want us to know they’re there.”
Thomas turned to the driver. “Can you speed up? We’d rather not be late for our appointment.”
The driver glanced at the mirror and paled, his response confirming that he spoke enough English to make out whatever we said. “Si, signore.”
As the engine revved and we jolted forward again, I reached across the cab. My hand found Thomas’s, and I gave it a gentle squeeze. He looked at me for a moment, and his hardened edges softened. Warmth filled his eyes, something I needed more than I realized, especially in moments fraught with danger.
I didn’t speak. I didn’t need to.
My thumb rubbed across the back of his hand once, twice, before I let go, pretending to reach for something in my coat pocket.
It was a small gesture. A hidden one. But it was everything.
I looked back. The Fiat was gaining.
I could see its grill now, dark and aggressive, a wolf bearing down with its open maw and angry fangs. I could practically hear the growl of its engine over the rattling of our own wheels.
My stomach twisted.
“For a second there,” Thomas muttered, “I thought they might try to run us off the road.”
“They still might.”
The Fiat kept pace, matching every curve and surge. There were no other cars, not that far out into the Italian countryside. We tore around a corner so fast the tires screamed. My heart slammed against my ribs, a mixof fear and adrenaline pounding through my veins. The image of Marini’s pale, thoughtful face flashed in my mind. Had he seen this same car? Had they followed him here, too?
Then—abruptly—the road narrowed and curved sharply again. Up ahead, I caught sight of a crumbling wall.
“There!” the driver shouted, slamming the brakes.
The car screeched to a halt in front of the chapel—or what was left of it. We tumbled out, feet hitting gravel.
The Fiat didn’t shut off. The driver didn’t follow. He simply paused at the bend, engine idling, then performed a perfect J-curve and sped away, dust billowing in its wake, leaving us alone outside the abandoned ruin of a chapel with unknown men in an unmarked car pulling to a halt across the country road.
