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When Calvin returns closer to midnight, I’ve already been on his computer for hours. His password, predictably, is Kevin , and the internet connection is slow but reliable; my eyes snap up at him, wide like an owl on a nighttime hunt. “If someone said to you, ‘You can’t trust your own people,’ who’s the first person you’d think of?”

He plunks down his shopping bags, crusty bread and souvenirs spilling from the plastic. I spot a miniature replica of the Colosseum, shrouded in Bubble Wrap, and a bottle of olive oil in the shape of the wolf who reared Romulus and Remus. In true Calvin style, he doesn’t question the intensity of my inquiry, but considers it with a slow, thoughtful pause. “My sister, Keeva.”

My head rears back. “Your sister’s name is Keeva?”

“Yeah, why?”

Calvin and Keeva and Kevin . Even in my mind, it’s a tongue twister. “No reason,” I mutter before moving swiftly on. “I’ve just been thinking, sure, the Halverson crime family could be after Sofia, since she shut down their illegal gambling rings and weapons trafficking routes, and there was chatter from their side that something would go down in Italy, but that’s not ‘her own people,’ is it? Outside of messing them over, she isn’t close to them. Who stands to gain the most if the prime minister of Summerland dies?”

“The Russians?” Calvin guesses.

I consider this. “Well—”

“Big business CEOs who want to increase their carbon emissions without paying hefty international fines?”

Actually, those are…extremely specific and exceptional guesses, but also not what I’m circling around. “Her brother, Jakob.” I spin the computer in Calvin’s direction, screen shining in the darkness of the room; Jakob’s face flares back at us. In the picture, he’s trailing Sofia through the halls of parliament, his lips pursed like he’s just sucked on a (really tart) bottle of limoncello. He’s about fifteen years her senior, with more salt than pepper hair and a face that says (in Norwegian!), Hey, you kids, get off my lawn . “He’s the special advisor to the deputy prime minister, and according to Wikipedia—”

Calvin leans back on his heels. “ Love Wikipedia.”

“If the prime minister dies, then the deputy prime minister automatically rises to power. No election. No casting ballots. It’s a simple succession. And as special advisor, Jakob could be pulling the strings.” Then, everything else spills out. The details of the mission, exactly what Flynn—unwittingly—recruited me to do. The switch in the tunnel, Sofia’s note of warning. I tell him about the Producer and the explosion in the restaurant powder room, the soot and the ash; the pretending on the beach and the speech in the gallery; the glistening-haired assassin, who said she’d kill me if I didn’t run. The whole time, Jakob’s gray-eyed gaze pierces us, unblinking, from the screen.

Calvin picks up his newly purchased Roman emperor snow globe, shaking it thoughtfully. “So, you’re saying…”

“I’m saying that her brother could’ve hired the assassin.”

“Assassin s ,” Calvin corrects, making it plural. “First was the Producer, at the hospital. Second one was at the restaurant; that one probably didn’t do a good enough job, you barely got hurt, so they hired a woman to finish the mission. Only—”

“I broke my cover, and she let me go.” I run both hands through my hair, head spinning. “The woman did say that the others cut corners. Still, that’s a lot of assassins.”

“Maybe Jakob had a coupon.”

“And the Producer the CIA caught…maybe Jakob did hire a decoy, as a distraction.”

“ Or ,” Calvin says, clearly enthused, “the Producer hired his own decoy. Because he really wanted to make it to Rome and correct his mistake from the first go-around. Like a pride thing. I bet he’d have the money. Assassins must be loaded.”

“True,” I say, heart pounding. “The thing is, no one believed me that Jakob could be a suspect, partly because he kept calling the hotel. He clearly didn’t know that Sofia was missing. But what if…And this is a big if …Sofia’s disappearance is separate from the assassination attempts?”

“Oooh,” Calvin says, then pauses. “I don’t get it.”

I chew my lip. “But I think I do.”

I’m trying to trust my instincts. My gut. My read of the situation. Since the mission began, everyone ’s been telling me what to do. Wear this, smile like this, don’t drink that, walk like this and wave like that. And I’ve let them. I’ve let them because I didn’t trust myself in this role. I didn’t trust myself to make any decisions for another person. How could I, if I couldn’t even make the right choices for myself?

But that…has to change. It has to change for me, and it has to change for Summerland. If my instincts are even close to right, if I’m putting the pieces together in the correct order, then a very dangerous man is about to start pulling the strings in my grandmother’s home country. Jakob can’t just go around using violent means to secure power for himself.

Sofia shoulders a hell of a lot of responsibility—and now it’s my turn.

“Calvin?” I say, steeling myself, fists clenching. “I’m going to need a new suit.”

···

The plan assembles itself at a rapid pace. By seven o’clock in the morning, drawing back the curtains—seeing the sunrise over Rome, tangerine and cotton-candy colors—I’ve gone over each step at least a dozen times in my head. My eyes whip back and forth over the road, double-checking that no one’s scoping out the B and B. Across the street at the panetteria , pigeons pick at last night’s crumbs, but that’s it. Everything is almost silent, although I still feel that buzz of life , pulsing straight through to my fingertips.

Admittedly, that could be the three espressos from the hotel’s room service menu. It could be five dizzying hours on the computer, streaming recent episodes of La Visione Italiana with English subtitles on YouTube, paying special attention to the host’s interview style. A world-renowned broadcaster, she’s in favor of open questions, not pinning down her guests, letting them freely speak their minds. That’s why Sofia must’ve agreed to the interview in the first place, before her team canceled it. That, and each interview takes place at a truly stunning location around the country—inside Florence’s Uffizi Galleries, on the seaside cliffs of Cinque Terre, on the banks of Lake Como.

This afternoon’s broadcast? Inside Orto Botanico di Roma. Five o’clock.

I rub my lower back, stiff. When I turned twenty-nine, my birthday present was chronic lower back pain, and it doesn’t help that I’ve spent the night hunched over on the floor as Calvin snored on the bed beside me. A far cry from the hotel suite, with Flynn.

Don’t think about him , I tell myself, even as an image flashes in my mind, unbidden: the way he was lounging on the couch in the suite, a sliver of skin bared under his cotton T-shirt. The ruffle of his bedhead and the golden trail of hair extending below his waistline. How he feels underneath my palms. And I’m so angry with him. Leaving like that, again, just disappearing. Ending us.

I bet he’s back in the States by now. Is he sleeping off the jet lag in his apartment, or is he just as pried-awake as I am?

“You ready for today?” Calvin asks, yawning, stretching his arms above his head. He’s slept on a souvenir keychain and now has a four-inch imprint of Trajan’s Column on his cheek.

I nod, staring out at the city. “Ready as I’ll ever be.” My gaze slides to the computer, where I’ve also been poring over a litany of Sofia’s speeches from the past seven years. “I think I can do her justice—but she’s witty.”

“You’re witty,” Calvin says, biting an almond biscotti with the side of his mouth.

“She’s sharp.”

“ You’re sharp,” he says. “You predict who wins The Bachelor every year, right out of the limo.”

“A crucial test for a world leader.”

“Hey,” Calvin says, holding up his hands. “I just call it like I see it. Gelato’s on me tonight after this all goes down.”

Outside, on his scooter, he lists the flavors he wants to try, voice slightly muffled in the wind. “The lemon one, and the coffee one, and the one with the little black dots…” Right at 8 a.m., in a thin side street around the corner from Piazza Venezia, he screeches to a halt, and I step off the back of the scooter, staring up at a sign for Abiti Impeccabili . Google translates this as impeccable suits . In the window, effortfully posed mannequins—decked in swaths of expensive fabric—show us just how snazzy we can be. A bell tings over the door as we waltz into the mildly ancient interior, mothballs melding with the scent of mint, Calvin in his new Rome Stole a Pizza My Heart tee and me in the raspberry-stained outfit from yesterday. We look like an odd couple from an indie film, so out of place, I’d laugh if I wasn’t singularly focused.

“ Posso aiutarla? ” comes a voice from the back. A shop owner toddles out, all five foot five of him, with gold-wire spectacles and a pouf of white hair that reminds me of Giorgio.

It’s clear that he doesn’t recognize me.

Or, rather, doesn’t recognize Sofia.

“ In inglese, per favore? ” I try, having looked up the phrasing.

He gives me a quick once-over with his elderly gray eyes, and says in English, “My, my, we can do better than that.” He leads us to an array of suits, as Calvin ooh s and aah s over the choices, thumbing the fabric and even sniffing some of it. For what? What could he possibly be sniffing for? Despite everything, the corner of my mouth turns up.

At first, I was reluctant to accept any help from Calvin. I figured that I could put most of the plan into motion myself. But as soon as Calvin clocked the full extent of the mission, he wasn’t just eager to help—he was desperate. “ Please ,” he said to me, hands together. “This is just like a movie. Even better than the one where Sandra Bullock has to go onstage before she wins Miss Congeniality, and everyone rallies around her. This is that moment! Let me be those people! What’s that movie called again?”

“Miss Congeniality . ”

“Right. That one. Hold on, let me cash out some Bitcoin.”

So in the buttery light of an Italian tailor, we’re measured and fitted. Normally, the turnaround time for close-to-custom suits is four to six weeks. Calvin puts an ultra-rush on the order, and we make the store our base camp for a little over eight hours, scarfing paninis from the adjacent paninoteca while Calvin places phone calls and I hone my approach down to the last detail. In the end, we purchase a sateen pocket square, a vintage porkpie hat, and two new suits—a bright-cream-colored one for me, and a teal-and-mint floral one for Calvin; it makes him look vaguely like a young Elton John, and has probably increased our visibility by, oh, 2,000 percent, considering that he wears it directly out of the shop, an undeniable pep in his step. Add that to a lime green scooter, and we don’t need diplomatic flags flying. We’re a whole parade, all by ourselves.

“Time check?” I ask him.

Under the thin brim of his new hat, Calvin glances at his cell phone. Kevin the turtle is his background. “Seventeen minutes to get there.”

Not much time. That’s partly intentional. We’re carving this down to the minute, giving as little space as possible for anyone to stop us. At precisely four thirty-one, less than half an hour before the TV slot, we jerk a hard left around the backside of a Greek Orthodox church, evading a small colony of feral cats (Cat Giorgio’s cousins, maybe), and sidle up to the jet-black Range Rover that Calvin contracted, an almost perfect replica of Sofia’s vehicle.

“You sure you want to go in with just the actors?” Calvin says, one foot off his scooter, idling in the back alley. “I could come in with you.”

I eye the metallic threading of his jacket, gleaming silver in the sunlight. “I have a feeling that you might…stand out a little.”

“Is it the suit?”

“It’s the suit.”

“I knew I should’ve gone with the cummerbund,” he says, like that addition—on top of the porkpie hat and the pocket square—would make every bit of difference. “But you’re right. Here, my phone.” He thrusts his iPhone in my direction, waggling it until I accept. “I’ve just turned on Find My Friends, so I’ll know where to meet you for gelato after, if something happens.”

“But how will you check my location if you don’t have your phone?” I ask him, pausing by the Range Rover door.

“I’ll use my other phone,” he tells me, like it’s obvious, before scootering off.

The humidity in the air is getting thicker. My new suit sticks to my elbow creases as I slide into the back seat, the driver giving me a tight, diplomatic nod. He’s no Lars; there’s no polka. It’s a tense, silent ride to Orto Botanico di Roma, the botanical gardens in central Rome. When I crane my neck, checking out the back window, two more SUVs are following us—the fake motorcade that Calvin hired.

Each step of the plan is going off without a hitch.

Things could still go spectacularly, spectacularly wrong.

Am I even an asset for the CIA anymore? Technically speaking, no. Immunity is out the window. Isn’t impersonating a foreign leader a crime?

I exhale, slowly, through my nose.

You can do this, Max , I tell myself as we cross the Tiber River, garden in the distance, sweet gum trees rising up to kiss the sky.

Near the palm-lined entry, my driver lets me out, and I steady myself in the blazing sunlight, smoothing the front of my bright cream suit and tucking a stray piece of hair behind my ears. The air’s sweet with the smells of flowers, perfume from the rose garden. My bangs ruffle in the breeze of my “security,” rushing ahead of me—and behind me—toward the confused-looking crew of La Visione Italiana , blocking pedestrians from the closed set. One crew member with a clipboard twitches when he sees me, leaping up from his folding chair. I’m dramatically unexpected. I’m not supposed to be here. The prime minister’s team, they canceled…right?

In the background, birds chirp; wind rushes through the palm fronds; city noises slice into the chaos.

“Where do you want me?” I ask in a cool Summerlandian accent, gesturing to the entry path, and soon, assistants and showrunners are springing from the woodwork, offering their profound apologies for the confusion. You have no idea how sorry they are! There must’ve been some misunderstanding on their part; something lost in translation. Of course they’ll reopen my interview slot. Of course. They’ll push back the replacement guest and alert the host, if I’d like to hop aboard this electric shuttle cart? And they’ll drive me to hair and makeup? Not that I need much! Just a little touch-up for the cameras.

We speed through the garden on the open-air shuttle, past a grandiose fountain and a sea of greenery, ferns hiding where they can in the shade. Roses bloom in fat yellows, reds, and pinks. Signs flit by for the French greenhouse, the Mediterranean wood, This way to the grapevines .

Just outside the bamboo forest, I sit as casually as possible, as steadily as possible, at the pop-up makeup station. My foot jiggles before I calm it down. Someone applies powder to my nose and a dusting of blush to my cheeks, alongside a dab of neutral lipstick. In my head, I practice my words. Turn them over and over and over. This plan is a Hail Mary long shot, mildly unhinged, but I think it might work. It will, won’t it? So far, everything is unfolding smoothly, exactly as I’d envisioned at two in the morning, with a literal lightbulb burning above my head. Five minutes before the live broadcast, when the time comes to approach the cameras, I excuse myself to the side with an authoritative one moment finger and dial Gail, heart in my throat.

“Who is it?” she asks flatly, picking up on the second ring. She sounds as if she’s been up all night, too. “How’d you get this number?”

I toe the gravel underneath my shoes, swallowing any last drop of fear. “Gail, it’s me.”

“Max,” she says, recognizing my voice. “Max, where are you.” It isn’t a question, really. It’s more of an interrogation, the end of a polygraph test that she’s already decided I’ve failed.

“The botanical gardens, in Rome,” I say quickly, with resolve. “On the set of La Visione Italiana , four minutes from the air.”

If I had supersonic hearing, I’m sure that I could pick up the furious flicking of Gail’s eyelashes. “I’m sorry. I must’ve misheard you. I thought you said you were about to go on live, national television, on a show with almost a million nightly viewers.”

That last drop of fear I’ve swallowed down? It’s threatening to come right back up. “Correct.”

“No, I must be mistaken.”

I dig myself farther into the garden, ferns by my feet, covering my mouth with my hand so no one can hear me. Behind me, rows and rows of bamboo stalks act as a backdrop; mobile lights glisten and flicker, cameras swiveling to a central spot by the forest, where a dazzling host takes her seat. Another plump, green chair (to match the bamboo) waits for me. A literal hot seat.

“I don’t think the Halversons are behind the assassination attempts,” I tell Gail, speeding up. “Did Jakob Christiansen make it to Rome? Can you get eyes on him?”

“Yes…” Gail says, a kettle ready to explode.

“You should watch him closely over the next half hour. I think the assassination attempts were an inside job, that Sofia’s own brother is trying to take her down. One of the last things she said to me was ‘family is tricky,’ the female assassin told me it’s ‘your own people,’ and if you look at the news, you’ll see that Jakob made a trip to the Czech Republic for work, right before the Producer showed up at the hospital. I don’t know where the PM is, but if he’s guilty, once her brother hears what I have to say, he’ll start making big, noticeable moves.”

“So you’re trying to force a reaction,” Gail says, flat.

“Yes.”

“And if it isn’t him?”

Acid burns a little at the back of my throat. “Then I guess I got this suit for nothing.”

“ Due minuti! ” an assistant calls out. Two minutes and counting down.

“I’ll find out where Jakob is, put a tail on him, and send backup to the botanical gardens just in case, but Max—” Gail says, attempting to reason with me in the final seconds. “Max, I would strongly urge you to reconsider. In fact, I’m ordering you to step down. Immediately…Max, are you still there? If you’re still there, put Agent Forester on the line.”

Hearing his name, it’s like Gail is suddenly a thousand miles away, shouting at me via a boat offshore. Her voice barely makes it across the water. My mind barely hooks on what she’s trying to say. “Why…why would you think that Flynn’s with me?” The tone that comes out of me is foreign and strange, even to my own ears. “I thought you said that he was on a flight back to the States.”

“I may’ve lied.”

“Gail.”

“Theoretically, he may’ve had a run-in with a second assassin, who was hired to handle the PM’s bodyguard while the female assassin took you out in the bathroom.”

“Gail.”

“And theoretically, the reason why he didn’t contact you is he was at the hospital, but now we’ve lost track of him. He really isn’t with you? You haven’t seen him?”

“I…haven’t seen him,” I manage, suddenly finding it almost impossible to breathe. In the hospital? What was he in the hospital for? Where is he now?

How many assassins are there?

The garden’s suddenly taking on a foggy quality, the sunlight too bright, the gravel unsteady under my feet. I feel like I’m going to be sick.

“ Mi dispiace , Signora Prime Minister! But it’s time.” That voice, too, comes from exceedingly far away. The assistant doesn’t quite touch me, more air-guides me by the elbow, off the path and onto the mobile stage, as I pocket Calvin’s iPhone, Gail shouting from the other end, “Max, Max! Listen to me. Don’t do what—”

Disoriented, I hang up the call, the assistant pinning a microphone on my lapel and handing me a small white earpiece, much like the one I lost on the streets of Trastevere. Shoving it into my ear, I feel my pulse climbing as possibilities roar through my mind. What if an assassin came to finish off Flynn in the hospital? What if he’s roaming the streets, injured, uncontactable, and—

A countdown follows, in Italian. Dieci to nove to otto . As soon as the camerawoman hits five , she counts silently with her fingers in the air. I wiggle, panicked, repositioning. The green chair isn’t so plush, once you actually sit in it. It hurts my back, sends a rod up my spine. I’m probably sitting too stiffly, not naturally enough, but the beat in my chest has turned to Flynn, Flynn, where the hell are you, Flynn?

“ Buonasera ,” the host says, directly to the cameras.

We’re live on the air.