Page 60 of The Crimson Lily
So, Giovanni does know more about this game we’re all playing.
“There’s a war, you know, for a seat on the Throne of the World,” he explains in that dramatic and mysterious tone of his. “The Syndicate operates in the dark. Even law enforcement has trouble proving these guys exist. They pin everything on us or other organizations like ours. It’s about time to take those bastards down.”
Giovanni falls silent when some people come sit at the table next to us. A mother and a child who obviously doesn’t want to be here. Neither do I—not anymore. This is our cue to leave. We stand up simultaneously and head back into the Musei Vaticani. We don’t waste time with paintings or sculptures. We make it to the exit faster than I thought possible, pass through the adorned gate to the small square of Viale Vaticano, and head down the street to get away from this place.
When in Rome, I might as well do some intense tourism. I tricked Giovanni into taking me through all the iconic places in Rome’s city center, telling him this might help jog my memory because all this talk of William de Loit and the Syndicate made me realize I might die on this trip. Okay, maybe I’m exaggerating a little, but who knows where this will take me? It reeks of danger, which is probably why I’m so drawn to getting my answers, and in truth, I’m a little scared. I’m ready to say I’m more afraid than I was on that plane to Paris six months ago, so if something will happen to me soon, I want to see the Pantheon one last time. At least before the end of the day, as the sun has already begun its descent.
I stand in front of the massive Corinthian columns guarding the entrance to this ancient Roman temple, now a church. When I enter, my eyes instinctively roll up, following the inner columns of the rotunda. I traverse the concrete dome’s coffering, exploring each sunken square panel one by one, trying to fill them with whatever my imagination fancies. The light of the sun drenching the room through the high oculus lands on my face, and I let my pores absorb the warm, soothing energy. I close my eyes and inhale deeply, stopping time with my mind.
If only Maksim were here.
I miss him. I miss my Belarusian man. His image didn’t yet invade my thoughts today, too busy whirring with the constant white noise of having a mission to fulfill. Now I want him here with me, instead of this crowd of strangers ogling the interior decor or taking selfies. I turn around to leave, realizing my eyes are still closed only when I bump into Giovanni.
I gasp, startled, then almost trip. Luckily, his hands are there to catch me. I grip the collar of his jacket as I slip against his chest. He holds me there, for a split second, in the middle of the Pantheon.
I take a step back, feeling clumsy, and adjust my hair. “I’m so sorry!” I exclaim awkwardly.
He gives me an evasive smirk. “You don’t have to fake a fall if you want to get into my arms,bella,” he jests, yet his playful smile reveals there might be some truth to his joke. “I’ll gladly catch you anytime.”
I laugh, a little too loudly, unsure why I’m so nervous all of a sudden. I roll my eyes. Giovanni and his elegant grin and smooth-talker allure are so typical. I blame his flirty attitude on Italian romance. Should he really try something, though, I’ll tell him I already belong to someone else.
Giovanni follows me this time as I rush out of the Pantheon. I check my phone. It’s almost 7 p.m. I spin on my heels and show him the time.
“We should get something to eat before going to the Gatto di Strada,” I advise.
He clicks his tongue. “Yes! I know just the place.”
He leads me into the narrow street to our left. A few crossings farther, I can hear the booms of music coming from the square ahead of us. Curious, I accelerate the pace and come face to face with the famous Piazza Navona, at the foot of a beautiful fountain of Roman statues and an Egyptian obelisk soaring into the sky. To the right are street merchants selling art, and to the left, a band of young men and women dance to hip hop music, making a show for the entire plaza to witness. They have smiles bigger than their faces, and the crowd cheers and applauds to the rhythm of the beat.
Behind me, Giovanni is already talking to the waitress at the nearest pizza restaurant. She points at a table, and he motions for me to take a seat. I smile and comply.
“I got you a pizza Margherita,” he announces. “The waitress says it’ll be ready in ten minutes.”
“Thank you!” I pause for a second, my attention caught by the hip hop dancers. “What is the Gatto di Strada anyway?” I ask, not attempting to answer that question in my head.
Giovanni leans over the table, coming closer to me. He purses his lips, checks left and right to ensure nobody’s listening, then waits until I lean in as well.
“It’s a speakeasy,” he finally answers. He’s so close now, I can hear his gentle breathing. His mossy gaze delves into mine. “It’s owned by the Mafia Capitale.”
Confirmation. Yet another one. Giovanni Senatore is Italian mafia and not just any Italian mafia. He’s from the infamous mafia of Rome.
I feel a chill down my spine as he pronounces those words. The pizza arrives but a few minutes later, and we eat as fast as we can. I don’t ask any more questions. I eat this simple yet delicious piece of Italian culinary art and prepare in my head what I’ll be saying to Chiara Zanetti. What information I’ll need from her. I’ll start with what the hell she knows about me, I’ll raise with where the hell the Kinzhal Strastey is, and I’ll finish with how to get to William de Loit.
A large black man greets us with a serious face, as if he doesn’t want us to be here, after Giovanni says a sequence of five Italian words to him. We enter an old pasta shop down a narrow street near the Piazza Navona. The man points at the pearl-beaded curtain to the side of the counter without saying a word.
Giovanni holds his palm open and upward in front of me. “Ladies first,” he says with a gentleman’s voice.
The pearls lead into a dimly lit hallway that ends in a black door with a round golden knob. I check with Giovanni if I should open it, and he confirms with an evident nod and a smirk. I really feel like I’m in some sort of gangster movie. The door creaks as I open it and presents a set of black-painted stairs that still smell of fresh varnish. It’s dark, but a dim lantern lights the bottom of the stairs, and I can hear some music evaporating into the hall.
The music becomes clearer once we get to the bottom. It’s jazz. Downstairs, a busty woman in a red dress comes to greet us and take our coats. She gives a bright-scarlet kiss to Giovanni on the cheek and lets him advance farther into the room. When our eyes meet, she scans me from head to feet with dangerous eyes and bites her lip.
“Bella biondina,” she comments as she lets me pass her. She adds a few Italian words to Giovanni, who laughs heartily and takes my hand.
“What did she say?” I whisper, curious to know.
Giovanni’s laugh fades into a furtive smile. “She told me blondes love Italian men.”
I propel air through my closed lips, trying to repress the awkward guffaw that wants to escape. How typical! Giovanni seems to rejoice at the idea the woman put into his head.
