Page 57 of The Crimson Lily
I walk up the final slope, following a swarm of ambitious tourists as excited as I am to get to that iconic monument of a different era. I reach the top of the street and lean on thelittle stone wall that borders the road, taking in the view. I need that moment, alone with the Colosseum, to process its beauty and all its meaning. I’ve been able to recollect the general lines of my studies in archaeology, but now, everything I’ve learned about ancient Rome and this treasure races through my mind. It looks just like the millions of pictures on the internet, but seeing it right before my eyes is simply surreal. I can feel its history booming out of its walls. I can see it reconstruct and blend with the light of the winter sun that shines upon it. If I focus on the sounds in the air, I can hear its music, its chants, the simmers of a crowd, swords clashing, battles raging, scenes of a history long gone.
I breathe in deeply, gorging myself with the scents of the past, slowly returning to the twenty-first century and to the mission I still have to fulfill. I blink a few times to resynchronize.
“All right,” I murmur to myself. “So, where is thisrelation?”
I take the large steps down to the Piazza del Colosseo and merge with a band of explorers who walk toward a metro station entrance up ahead. I can’t keep my eyes off the ancient structures of endless arches. Next to them, I spot the Arch of Constantine, Rome’s own triumphal arch. I cross the road to get closer and stroll along the elevated little grassy field. I’m now standing right beside the arch, admiring the relief panels and frieze, which both tell stories I don’t quite recall, but they’re darn pretty. I’m about to veer to the other side of the arch when I hear someone clear his throat behind me. Startled, I spin on my heels and almost knock into a tall man in a black winter trench coat. I look up to meet his eyes. They are green, or brown, or maybe hazel. I’m not sure. His thick black hair is combed backward. His stubble reminds me of Maksim’s. He wears a scarf that matches his eyes, which light up as he draws a smile on his face.
“Are you my date?” he asks, his voice warm.
I stutter. I can’t get a word out. My immediate reaction is to shake my head and assume this man is looking for someone else.
He chuckles at my reaction. “If your name is Liliana, then you are most definitely my date,” he says jocularly. He’s actually making a little fun of me with his smile. His Italian accent is mild but still present. He has two little dimples that make his entire face beam.
“And who are you?” I wonder.
The stranger stretches his hand out and waits patiently for me to shake it before speaking. He wears black leather gloves, which instantly spark a theory in my head that this man is either a biker or a criminal. I decide to squeeze his hand to show him who’s boss.
“I’m Giovanni,” he introduces himself with a smirk. “Benvenuta a Roma, Liliana!”
As he speaks these words, he gently brings my hand to his lips and kisses it. I don’t know what to make of this at all, so I just stare blankly at him, expressionless.
“Did you know your name was Italian?” he queries.
I stutter again. My answer doesn’t come out properly.
“I didn’t expect to find a beautiful blonde when they told me I had to pick up a Liliana,” he says.
Cheeky liar. He probably got my description or something, as he was tasked with finding me. That Italian man is definitely a smooth talker, and his sexy accent makes it all the more awkward for me. I retrieve my hand and arrange my ponytail to distract myself.
“Where are we going?” I wonder, because he used the phrasepick up, so that must mean we’re headed somewhere.
Giovanni clicks his tongue and motions for me to follow him. “Come, let’s take a walk.” He checks our surroundings, perhaps to make sure no one’s looking.
I follow him, still unsure if this man is a model or an Italian criminal. I realize it’s most probably the latter since Maksim referred to him asa relation. The Arch of Constantine is now behind us, and so isil Colosseo. We walk the large boulevard, passing tall pine trees that are still green. After we turn away from most winter tourists, Giovanni makes a hand motion at the road, and a large black car with tinted windows pulls up to us.
“You’ve got to be kidding me…” I mumble inaudibly.
Giovanni signs for me to embark. He notices my cautious glare and draws a calming wave with his hand. “It’s all right, Liliana,” he eases. “But the streets have ears, and we don’t like it too much when people listen.”
“So, I assume you’re not Bratva?” I guess, peeking at Giovanni next to me while we tour the roads of Rome. I didn’t even see the driver, but this all seems too familiar to me.
Giovanni shakes his head and smirks at me. “Not exactly,” he replies. “Believe me, we’re not big fans of the Bratva, so you must beveryspecial.”
I purse my lips, concretizing my theory. Giovanni is Italian mafia—I’m ready to put my money on that. However, despite what he just said, I don’t think I’m the special one. This is about the mission. For the Bratva to team up with the Italian mafia, it means the mess goes far deeper than a mere dagger of glass. Does Giovanni know all the details? Did he omit the dagger part on purpose? Perhaps his rank is too low to have the full context, or maybe mine is. What about William de Loit?
“You’re aware of the contact under our protection, right?” Giovanni checks. He continues when I give him an affirmative nod. “She says she’ll only speak to you.”
I gulp. “To me?” I curl my eyebrows, confused or surprised, I’m not sure myself. “Why me?”
“Like I said,bella, you’re very special.”
Now I’m perplexed. This is a puzzle that requires more information to be solved. I don’t have all the variables. I presume the only thing to do is actually speak to this mysterious contact everybody’s been telling me about.
“When do I get to meet her?” I ask.
Giovanni turns his face to me. In this light, as I see the Colosseum appear again through the window behind him, I can see his eyes are clearly mossy green.
“Tomorrow morning at the Musei Vaticani,” he informs.
