Page 56 of The Crimson Lily
“H…ello,” I greet but have to clear my throat since I haven’t spoken properly in over eight hours. “I think someone reserved a room for me here?” I ask rather than declare.
“What is your name?” she probes.
“Liliana Springfield.”
She looks through the papers arranged atop her desk, then at her computer, then back at me. “There is no Springfield, but there is a Liliana Kovalyova.”
Maksim’s name. Well, the female variant, that is. I’m not sure if the glee I feel from hearing the name comes from her elegant Italian accent or from the name itself.
“That’s me,” I assure.
She clicks her mouse a few times. “The presidential suite…” she murmurs to herself, then her brown eyes lighten with something that could pass for admiration. “Welcome to the Grand Hotel Flora, Mrs. Kovalyova; I see your husband is a regular. Here is your key.” She hands me a little paper pocket.“The room number is inside. Your luggage will be brought to you. Would you like a tour of the room?”
Wait a minute, my husband? So…my husband is a Grand Hotel regular. I flinch at her last question, then shake my head with all I have; I don’t want a tour. I am too exhausted to get a tour. I feel a little awkward, knowing I’ve been handed the key to the freaking presidential suite. I thank her a bazillion times, head for the nearest stairs, and switch to the closest elevator when I see the room number. I’m too tired to walk more than three floors up. About a minute or two later, I stand by the presidential suite’s door, frozen, my heart pounding in my chest. It’s now officially confirmed; I’ve never really been a suite person. I muster the will to swipe the door open and enter a wooden-floored room with ivory walls.
This place looks bigger than my apartment! I take off my coat and shoes and set out on an exploration quest. There’s a beige sofa, a huge flatscreen TV, matching armchairs, and a dining table with a vase of blooming white lilies on top of it. In the next room is the king-size bed, plus more vases and framed tapestries of Italian art.
When I enter the bathroom, my heart stops. The shower looks like a museum piece, and the large bathtub is exactly what I need right now. I instinctively turn the tap on and go unpack my things. Before I get back to my suitcase, I look at the view out of the living room window. Man, it’s breathtaking. I stand right above the wall of arches I saw earlier. It’s an arched gate, an ancient passageway out of the city walls that guarded Rome centuries ago. I don’t know how long I’m standing there, frozen in time, admiring the view, when my phone rings. I rush to it and answer the unknown number.
“I see you made it to the hotel,” Maksim’s voice echoes.
“Yes!” I exclaim, a little too excited. “You should see the view!” I proceed to tell him everything about the room, my flight,the business class food and champagne, the woman next to me who snored all the way here, the taxi driver with his bowler hat, and Rome. Throughout my elaborate speech, he doesn’t say a thing. He just…listens. I can only hear his steady breathing on the other end of the line. “I can’t wait until you’re here.”
He doesn’t respond to that either. How Maksim of him.
“I’m going to take a bath,” I announce, checking on the water in the bathroom. “What’s the plan for today?” I ask, knowing I’ll eventually get some instructions so we’d better get to it now.
“Get some rest,” he requests. “You need to be at the Colosseum at 2 p.m.”
Oh, the Colosseum! Just hearing the name shoots a hundred images into my mind from the first time I saw the jewel of Rome, then the second and third times. The last time, I was on a summer internship in Italy with Béatrice.
Oh, shit. Béatrice. She has no idea I’m in Rome, in her time zone. I need to text her right now! I don’t know what to tell her—about why I’m here and who’s going to join me. But I have to tell her something.
“What do I need to do there?” I check, preparing to end the call, even if I don’t really want to because talking with Maksim is actually a little soothing.
“You’ll be meeting with one of our relations,” he replies in a serious tone.
I nod. Probably Italian Bratva? I frown a little. Wouldn’t Italian Bratva have beef with the Italian mafia? How dangerous is this meeting going to be? There’s the little spark of anxiety! My mind settles down and shrinks, making room for doubts and concerns. Maksim must sense it because he sighs softly into the phone.
“Don’t forget to wear your tracker,” he requests. “I’ll be watching over you.”
I smile wistfully, letting Maksim’s reassuring voice linger between my thoughts. I feel appeased that he’ll be there, in the backline, making sure I’m safe even from miles away. Hang on, it’s the middle of the night in New York!
“Shouldn’t you be sleeping?” I tease with a vocal smirk.
“Not when you’re out there on your own.”
Oh my, that sentence spoken from his beautiful lips—that’s my reward. I feel the thousand butterflies in my stomach take flight again. I know exactly what I feel for him at that moment, but I can’t bring it to sound. I want to tell him, but I chicken out, again. I kiss him goodbye on the phone and hang up. I stand still for another minute, holding my phone against my belly, hugging it like I don’t want to let go. But I have to. I inhale deeply and hop to the bathroom to undress and jump straight into the bathtub.
I called Béatrice over FaceTime after a bath and a wonderful nap. I figured telling her I’m on vacation in Rome with Maksim was a better choice than opting for the entire truth. She lectured me on my romantic interest being an absolute psychopath, but after I told her how good he’s been to me the past six months, she relaxed and asked me all about my relationship with him. I spared her the kinky details, but I did say a few things about the silver necklace I have around my neck and never take off. It’s quite simple, really, just a silver chain with a rounded pendant, but it’s his gift to me, and that means everything.
It’s a thirty-minute walk to the Colosseum—down the hotel street and into the narrow roads of Rome’s city center. I can do that. I jump in my jeans, black boots, and a delicate pinkish blouse that gives me a fresh look. I clip Maksim’s tracker to my collar and tie my blond hair in a ponytail. I’m about to head out into the city, and I almost forgot about the mark on my neck. I check myself in the hallway mirror. The mark has muted intoa dark-purple collar that I really need to hide, or someone will think I’ve been attacked. I don’t want people giving me those inquisitive glances again. I already got enough of them in ParisandNew York, which is why I never go anywhere without my white linen scarf. I cover most of it so it won’t be noticeable, then I put on my gray faux fur coat and head out of the Grand Hotel Flora.
I cast a quick glance at the arched gate before heading down the street, forcing myself not to get distracted by shops or pretty buildings because it’s already 1:34 p.m. I pause before that large building, which is a color that matches my blouse, with the big American flag. Yep! Confirmed. It’s the American Embassy.
I slip into the narrow Via Firenze that makes me feel so small, and at the crossing with the Via Nazionale, I take a left, toward the piece of a massive white building I can see in the far distance. There’s no way I don’t recognize that building. I walk down this street bordered by symmetrical blocks of houses of Mediterranean colors, and as I get closer and closer, the tall structure becomes clearer to me and my memory. I distinguish the gilded bronze statue of a figure with wings, guiding a chariot of horses on the summit of the left propylaea. There’s no longer any doubt. This is the Altare della Patria, also known as theTypewriter,and it’s one of my favorite buildings in Rome.
Had I listened to my eager legs, I would have pursued my path toward the Piazza Venezia, but I have to take a left turn now, or I’ll be late for the Colosseum. A few steps along an iron fence, and there it is, at the horizon, the vision of a two-millennia-old amphitheater. I walk and walk, but it still stands miles and miles away. That’s how big it is. Just like the moon in the sky, the closer you get, the farther it seems.
