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“You knew Hugo and his wife? They sold this place to me years ago. I haven’t seen him in a long time. Seems like they just vanished, honestly. I assumed they moved back to Greece.”

Vanished. Yeah.

“Are you okay?” She rests her hand on mine, genuinely concerned.

“Fine. Just out of sorts.”

“The concrete jungle will do that to you. Breathe. Get some headphones to block out the noise.”

Is it really that obvious that I’m not from here?

The bell on the door rings and I’m saved from my foundering awkwardness. I catch his eye in the mirror. One eyebrow shoots up, glancing around the store with a confused expression.

Before we can speak, Sandra drops a vase of flowers, shattering loudly. She’s staring right at Ero. “Do…I know you?” Ero squints.

“Um. No, no. I’m sorry. You’re so much like…” Her throat bobs; she shakes herself. “I thought you were someone else I haven’t seen in a long time.”

“Who?” I press.

“A friend of mine. I mean, her fiancé. They…”

Ero approaches her slowly. “You planned their wedding.”

“It wasn’t the event we hoped it would be.”

“What happened to them?” Ero’s voice lowers. Deadly calm.

“They had to leave. Abruptly.” Her expression suddenly closes, her eyes flicking between us. “I don’t know where they went.”

Fear.

Dammit Ero. I forget that normal people find him incredibly intimidating and downright terrifying. Hooking a hand around his bicep, I tug at him, making a face.

“I upset you. We’ll go.”

Sandra nods, folding her hands. Something in her posture stays firm. She’s protecting her friends.

“Can you tell us one thing, Sandra?” I smile reassuringly. She shrugs. “Were they happy? Safe?”

Ero’s eyes soften, meeting mine.

“They are.”

The words hang over us as we step outside. Are.

“I take it you didn’t find anything?” Ero is back to his calm, calculating self.

“No. You?”

“Went back to the compound. Found a bunker. Not much left. They must have cleared it out. I did find this, though.” He holds up a small, blue leather-bound notepad. The letters A.D. stamped on the front.

“Alessandro? Adriano?” Name’s he’s muttered in his sleep.

“Adriano. Most of it is useless. Old marching orders, to-do lists. Except for the last page. I texted the number. He wants to meet.”

“Who?”

“Someone named Jim Weller.”