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I’m dreaming about gelato. We’re on an Italian side street, Flynn and I, dipping into the nearest shop, above-the-door bell tinkling. Inside, it’s all white marble and cool surfaces, with giant tubs of gelato in shiny glass cases. Stracciatella. Cioccolato con Peperoncino. Lampone. Flynn translates, pointing to the labels. “That one’s vanilla with shaved chocolate; that one’s chocolate with spicy pepper; and, bingo, this is my flavor. Raspberry gelato.”

I want twelve of them. I want all of them.

“I think if I died,” I say, cone suddenly appearing in my hand, “this gelato could literally bring me back to life.” Fresh whipped cream fluffs the top. At the bottom is a pool of dark melted chocolate, smooth as silk. Each bite gets better and better as we stroll under the moonlight, winding our way through late-night Positano, restaurant windows lit up with diners savoring their food. Last bites of risotto, shrimp, spaghetti alle vongole .

“You make a face,” dream-Flynn says, “when you’re eating something you like.”

“What do you mean? What face?”

His eyes half roll back in his head.

“Oh,” I say, chocolate on the seam of my lips, “that is not a good-looking face.”

He chews on the side of his smile. “No, actually, it’s a pretty good face…You want a lick?” He offers me his raspberry cone, so innocently, and suddenly the image snaps.

I’m no longer with Flynn, no longer sharing gelato on a close-to-midnight walk. I’m in an unfamiliar restaurant, scraping charred bits off a pewter pan, and chaos is erupting. Glass shatters in a tremendous boom , rattling the cutlery, knocking plates from shelves and—

I jerk awake to the sound of a phone buzzing, sweat beading down my neck, visions of last night popping behind my eyes. I can’t tell you how strange it is to wake up in a room that isn’t your own, in pajamas that aren’t your own, with hair a different color than it was two days ago. It fans out on the pillow in thick brown strands, almost like a stranger’s lying in bed next to me.

A glass of water rests on top of my bedside table. I did not put it there.

Did Flynn, after I fell asleep?

Rolling over fully, I catch a glimpse of him, white cotton T-shirt falling over his torso, a tan sliver of skin flashing me as he stretches in sleep. Long, lean lines and taut muscle. His hair is mildly disheveled, a few pieces sticking up at the back, jostled by the pillow. He’s going to be incredibly stiff when he wakes up—from the couch, but also, wow, from last night. My own body’s suffering, my collarbone much more tender than I thought it’d be, even though this bed is sensationally comfortable. Angels have blessed this mattress. And the linens smell amazing. I want to full-on sniff the sheets.

Tentatively, I lean in, burying my nose in the lavender, and of course, it’s at this moment that Flynn chooses to open his eyes. “Whatcha doin’?” he says slowly.

I startle. My voice is croaky as I answer him. “Sniffing the sheets.”

“For…”

“I lost a cookie in here earlier,” I deadpan. “No, it’s the lavender. Does your couch smell this good?”

“I don’t know, Max, do you want to come over here and give it a sniff?”

I roll my eyes, trying to shuck away the residual adrenaline from the dream. From last night. Flinging back the covers, I swing my legs out of bed. “Now you went and made it weird.”

He huffs out a laugh, voice almost as strained as mine. The butterfly suture has held on overnight. “Oh, I made it weird? Okay…” Clearing his throat, he fixes the flyaways on the side of his head. “You hungry?”

The phone buzzes again, and this time, Flynn bolts up to answer it. An imprint from the pillow slashes across his cheek. I heard him up at odd points throughout the night, checking his email, shooting off messages. Were there any updates overnight? Is Sofia okay? Has Calvin made it back to the States? Do we know who tried to assassinate the prime minister?

“Firstly,” Gail says over speakerphone, her voice filtering into the summer heat of the room, “how are you both feeling this morning? Max?” It’s the most concern I’ve ever heard in her voice. Which, I know, isn’t saying much; she isn’t exactly the touchy-feely type.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I half lie, out of bed now, running a finger over the bandage on my neck.

“Right as rain,” Flynn says with a groan, hugging his ribs.

“Good. Now, I have a great deal of information to get through in this little team meeting, so I’ll speak fast. Reviewing all the footage from a one-kilometer area surrounding the restaurant could take days, even with a team working around the clock. We are, unfortunately, no closer to determining the Producer’s whereabouts than we were twenty-four hours ago, and the youngest Halverson brother, Aksel, is no longer present and accounted for on the family compound. Forensics is still working on biomarkers from the explosion. I have been out of coffee since four in the morning, and—are you sitting down?”

Oh lovely , the eyelid twitch is back. “Should I be?”

“What’s going on, Gail?” Flynn says, almost harsh, a bruise slightly visible under his beard.

Gail pops her lips against the receiver. “In roughly six hours, you will be getting a knock at your hotel door. It’ll be a hair stylist and a wardrobe stylist. They’ll make you look presentable for this afternoon, Max. For the museum gala. An exhibit for modern Summerlandian art is opening just outside of Positano. The prime minister has promised her attendance, so you’ll have to—”

“Wait a second,” I cut in, blinking furiously at the phone, as Flynn rises from the couch, clocking something that I’ve clearly yet to understand. “ Sofia ’s supposed to do the state affairs.”

“That was true,” Gail says briskly. “Until around seven minutes ago, when we learned that Prime Minister Christiansen has disappeared.”

My heart stops. “What do you mean she’s disappeared?”

“Synonyms include gone, vanished, missing . She isn’t at the safe house, or with her security, or with her chief of staff, or anywhere we can reasonably find her.”

Flynn jumps in before I can fully process that, white T-shirt falling over his shoulders like water. “Any signs of forced entry at the safe house?”

Gail’s quick. “None. I am beginning to doubt the effectiveness of this security team, alongside the Italian police, considering that Max’s roommate also disappeared before his flight. The man called Calvin was last seen buying a souvenir lollipop before entering the bathroom at Rome Fiumicino International Airport. His handlers lost track of him.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose, hard enough to see stars. My brain doesn’t know what to address first: turtle man or Sofia? I’ll go with the world leader. “Do you think she went to the hospital, after the attack? Maybe she’s at the hospital.”

“Or maybe she’s at the bottom of the Tyrrhenian Sea,” Gail offers sharply, “duct-taped to a pool chair. Without more intel, everything is speculation. We’ve checked over a hundred hospitals, all across Italy, a few in Slovenia—even some back in Summerland. She might’ve sought private medical treatment somewhere, but I doubt it. Something tells me she isn’t holed up in a shed with a Reiki master.”

“What about the head of her special protection group?” I offer. “Could he be involved somehow? Or is there…There’s no chance that she just walked away? Maybe with Roderick?” I ask this, hopefully, deliriously, like I’m questioning if Sparky really did go to the farm. At the same time, I text Calvin with my American phone: Where are you??? “Or maybe she just got tired after a lifetime in politics with her family, wanted a break, thought she’d like…Thailand? Coconut mojitos? Bingo?”

“Are you having a stroke?” Gail asks, and I can almost hear the furious flick of her eyelashes. “I sincerely hope not. Our main goal now is to avoid international panic. Personally, I don’t believe that the prime minister walked away, or that she’s dead. Crime families like public spectacles. This is too quiet.”

“What if the Halversons aren’t behind it?” Flynn pushes. The phone’s on the dining room table, and he’s leaning forward, palms flat on the wood, just like last night. His forearms are tense cords of muscle. “You’re assuming a lot there.”

“Could her brother be a suspect?” I venture, stiff. “They seem like they have a terrible relationship, and if he’s in the government, too, maybe he wants to push her out of power?”

“Jakob Christiansen,” Gail says, “has been calling Hotel Giorgio every nine minutes since before dawn, demanding that Sofia look over a draft of a finance proposal. Unless his acting skills are impeccably crafted, he doesn’t have her, and he didn’t hire anyone to take her.”

Flynn absorbs this. “Max is right, though. Maybe this isn’t an ‘easily’ foiled assassination plot from the obvious suspects.”

“Maybe so,” Gail admits as I cross my arms close to my chest, suddenly cold. All the things that could’ve happened to Sofia dart through my mind. “Either way, we still need your services, Max.”

“She can’t protect a woman who’s already missing,” Flynn argues.

“She can protect that woman’s country ,” Gail bats back, irritable. “If word gets out that the prime minister is missing and no one has a clue what happened to her, stock markets will collapse. Say goodbye to the Summerlandian economy. I wouldn’t be surprised if the weapons trade picked up again. Civil unrest. The threat is higher than ever. Until we conduct a thorough investigation and find Prime Minister Christiansen, Max, you will maintain the status quo and take over her bureaucratic duties for the rest of this holiday.”

The room tilts to the side. “You want me to do what?”

“Act as the prime minister,” Gail repeats. “A touch more formally.”

“You’re joking,” Flynn says, color leaching from his face.

“I rarely joke,” Gail says, drying out my throat. “I’d suggest black.”

“Black?” I parrot, losing her.

“Your dress for the museum gala; it’s classic,” Gail says, and on that note, hangs up the phone.