Page 76

Lexi

“Just try to enjoy the scenery,” Slash said. “I’m going to get us there safely.”

Once again I sat stiffly in the front seat of the convertible, trying hard to ignore the incredibly narrow and winding roads leading to Gaeta. This was the part of the Amalfi coast that I didn’t like. In fact, if Slash hadn’t handled the car so expertly, I would have already had a heart attack. Every time we passed a bus or large car, I squeezed my legs together to make myself smaller and bit my lip to keep from shouting “Look out!” I would have screamed in terror, except I was too afraid to distract him for even a sliver of a second.

But Slash knew anyway. Maybe the fact that my face was bleached of all color, my knuckles were white from clenching them together in my lap, and I hadn’t spoken for the past thirty miles was a giveaway that I was scared witless.

“We’re almost there,cara,” Slash said soothingly. “You can relax now.”

I’d decided I would relax only when I was out of the car and could kiss the solid ground beneath my feet. I envied the calm confidence he had behind the wheel.

However, as we got closer to our destination, I could see the tension begin to build in him, too. His fingers gripped the wheel tighter and it had nothing to do with heights and scary cliffs. The meeting with Manuel de Rosa loomed in front of us and neither of us knew what the outcome would be. This entire situation was taking a toll on us.

To complicate matters, the Congo issue and the massive CIA hack-off between us had been festering inside me since I arrived in Italy. I had no idea how to deal with these feelings. The fact that we’d been fierce opponents, with him on one side and me on the other, was just hanging there between us. If I left the issue alone, it would eat at me. On the other hand, Slash already had a lot on his plate at the moment. I didn’t need to add to that. For the time being, I’d decided to keep quiet. Still, I wondered if this thing would always be between us, or if I brought it up, whether we could survive it.

Once we pulled into the town, I was distracted from my worries by the charming view. We passed an open market where people were selling everything from trinkets to strings of sausages. Soon, the town roads became so narrow, they could barely fit one car. At least there wasn’t a cliff on one side, so I was thankful for the small things. Eventually Slash pulled onto a sidewalk next to another car and cut the engine.

“Wait. This is a parking space?” I asked in surprise. “Half on the sidewalk, half in the road?”

He got out of the car and adjusted his sunglasses. “Welcome to Italy.”

He checked the street addresses as we walked along a twisty road lined with lovely stone buildings, most of which had balconies lined with flower boxes spilling over with colorful blooms.

“This is it,” he said, stopping in front of a building.

“Do you think he’ll be home?” I asked.

“Guess we’ll find out.”

We entered the building with a couple of old ladies who glanced at us. All Slash had to do was smile at them and they let us in.

“He works from five thirty in the evening to one thirty in the morning,” Slash said as we climbed the stairs.

I didn’t ask him how he knew that. By this point, Slash probably knew more about him than his proctologist did.

“He worked last night, but will hopefully be awake by now,” Slash continued. “Whether he’s home or not is another question. If he isn’t, we’ll wait.”

Slash knocked and after a minute a man opened the door, still held shut by a chain. I caught of glimpse of tousled black hair, brown eyes and the dark complexion of southern Italians. His eyes alighted on me first and then flicked to Slash.

“Cosa vuoi?”he asked.

Slash answered.“Sei Manuel de Rosa?”

“Si.”

Slash spoke rapidly with him. After a minute of back and forth, the man shut the door, released the chain, and reopened it. He motioned for us to enter.

When I hesitated, Slash put a hand on the small of my back, encouraging me to go inside. I took a step across the threshold. The apartment was small, but clean and bright. The sun streamed into a small living room with a tiny couch and loveseat, as well as a well-worn coffee table covered with books and a wide-screen television. A kitchenette was situated off to the left. I could smell coffee brewing. There were a few faded paintings hanging on the wall, including a couple of religious items—a wooden cross with a crucified Jesus, as well as a picture of the Madonna and child. I didn’t, however, see any lit candles or a shrine to the candidate saints, as we had in Father Opizzi’s place.

The man ushered us into the living room and spoke with Slash in Italian. Manuel was tall and well-built with clearly defined muscles, a strong jaw and chiseled chin. Definitely good-looking. From the data we’d gathered, I knew he was fifty-three, but he looked like he was in his thirties.

Manuel asked something, and Slash responded, holding up his bandaged hands and pointing at mine. After another minute of conversation, Manuel disappeared into a kitchen.

“What was that all about?” I asked.

“He agreed to talk with us after I told him I was from the Vatican and had a few questions about his time at the church in San Mauro,” Slash murmured. “He was curious about our bandages, so I told him what happened in Salerno. He’s getting us coffee now.”

“Great,” I murmured back. “Maybe we’ll finally get some answers.”