Page 87 of Skotos
Thomas groaned but nodded. “What about that café Enzo used to run? The one near the ruins?”
Enzo was a contact of ours during the war, one of the sympathizers who resisted the rule of Mussolini. America had struggled to find men like Enzo, men willing to do what needed to be done to win their country’s freedom. In France, they were attacked, invaded, occupied. Their peoplewantedto fight back. Italy had been a different matter altogether.
“Enzo’s dead, remember?”
Thomas winced again. “Yeah, but his nephew’s still running it . . . or was, last I heard. His name is Armando or Marco, something like that.”
“Something ending in O?” I smirked.
Thomas flicked me the bird as his eyes danced. “His place is quiet and tucked away. No one’s watching out there.”
I considered it. “Okay. It’ll give us a place to regroup and get you patched up.”
“And after that?”
“We find the cassock-wearing bastard with the pistol and end this before they get another shot at the Pope.”
Thomas let out a shaky breath, then smiled grimly. “Now that’s the Will I fell for.”
I turned to the driver. “Piazza d’Oro. And step on it.”
40
Thomas
The cab finally rolled to a stop beside a shuttered storefront tucked into the shadow of a crumbling Roman wall. A faded awning read “Caffè Sant’Angelo.” Behind its frosted windows, the faintest sliver of light glowed like a candle in a cave.
Will got out first, scanning the quiet street. He then hurried around and opened my door. In the window’s reflection, I saw how pale I was. My shirt clung to my side in a deep crimson mess. Despite it all, I still managed to roll my eyes at Will’s fussing.
“Quit treating me like I’m dying.”
Will narrowed his eyes and gripped my arm a little tighter than necessary. “I’ll quit when you stop trying so hard to get shot, stabbed, shoved off a roof, thrown into a river—”
“I’ve never been shoved off a roof,” I protested.
“Sorry, that’s my plan if you keep getting hurt.”
I grunted. At least Will had some semblance of humor left. It really had been a shitty day.
He helped me to my feet, slinging his good arm around my shoulders. Together, we shuffled to the door, which creaked when he pushed it open. The air inside was cool and earthy, thick with the scent of coffee grounds and aged wood, maybe a splash of spilled whiskey or ale, I couldn’t be sure. The place was nearly dark.
Chairs sat stacked upside down on tables, and a lone bartender behind a long counter polished glasses with the indifference of a man who thought he was alone.
“We are closed,” he barked in harsh Italian without looking up. “Come back after six.”
“We need to speak to Enzo’s nephew,” Will said in English. He tried to add some urgency, “Now, please.”
The man’s hand froze, towel and stein in hand. His head lifted, eyes tightening in the low light. “And who’s asking?”
Will didn’t blink. “Tell him it’s the American sailor with the smart mouth.”
The man studied us for a beat, then gave a tight nod and vanished through a narrow door behind the counter.
I looked at Will, raising an eyebrow. “The American sailor with the smart mouth?”
“I thought it was rather poetic. It’s clearly you.”
Before I could reply, the back door banged open and a young man burst through. He was broad-shouldered with rolled sleeves, a jaw sharp enough to slice bread, and a gaze that would’ve made the most militant clergyman look away with feelings of unidentifiable guilt. He noticed me, hissed a curse in Italian, and was across the room in two strides.
