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“Buonasera . We’re broadcasting tonight from Orto Botanico di Roma, tucked within the hustle and bustle of the eternal city. Tonight’s program is a very special one.”

The host’s tone snaps me back into the garden. Snaps me back to the mission. Inside, I might be losing my mind, but on the outside, I have to be as calm as the bamboo behind us. For this broadcast, especially this broadcast, I need to be a perfect prime minister, a perfect Sofia, not a single hiccup.

“Although we initially reported that our guest, Prime Minister Sofia Christiansen of Summerland, couldn’t be with us this evening, we’ve had a change of plans, and now, we are honored to welcome her.”

Focusing the best I can, I dip my chin politely as the host—a beautiful Italian woman in her fifties, with striking white hair—says that tonight we’ll speak in English, for the viewers overseas; she runs down a list of the prime minister’s accomplishments, the ways that Sofia has already made an indelible mark on Northern European society. I hold back my American “ballpark smile,” as Sofia might call it, crossing my legs at my ankles and hanging on the host’s every word; there’s no list of prearranged questions. No guarantee that she’ll ask me about a topic I know.

Flynn , my pulse beats, underneath it all. Flynn, where are you?

“Does it bother you,” the host asks first, swiveling in her chair to face me fully, “that people seem so fixated on your age? On your gender? Half of the time I see a story about you in the news, that’s at the forefront. How do you respond to that sexism, and ageism, from the press?”

Threading my hands in my lap, I answer without hesitation, paying particular attention to the length of my vowels. “I think it’s best to confront it head-on. Ask questions like Jacinda Ardern, former prime minister of New Zealand, did. Can you think of a single instance where reporters asked John F. Kennedy how he felt about being a young male in power? If his maleness made him any less suited to a political life? So, to the press, and to you, why is a question about my age and gender your first question?”

The host blinks at me, white eyelashes flicking.

Have I misstepped? Made a political gaffe right off the bat, my first few minutes on international TV? As much as I’m trying to focus, I’m also picturing Flynn in a ripped suit, fighting off an attacker outside the bathroom. So that’s why he didn’t come rushing in when I screamed his name. He was ambushed while guarding me, protecting me from—

“You have quite the point,” the host says, and I relax infinitesimally into the chair. As a follow-up, she asks me about my time in Italy; I tell her about some of the delectable meals I’ve eaten (minus the floor pizza with ranch dressing). She asks about the ongoing state of relations between Summerland, Estonia, and Russia, especially in light of the treaty proposed last week, and I give her a bland, noncommittal response, directly from Sofia’s talking points, word for word what I memorized overnight.

The cameras track us back and forth, and while being live on air doesn’t feel natural, it also—after twenty-two minutes—doesn’t feel terrifying. Is this working? There’s no flicker of doubt in the host’s eyes, no crinkle at the corners that suggests: You’re a deep, deep fake, Prime Minister, aren’t you? All across Italy, viewers might be picking me apart, but I’ve come on this show for one reason and one reason only: to deliver a message. Thankfully, the program bypasses #Lobstergate. Before I know it, the interview’s slowing down. The host’s about to open the floor. And I’m going to stare straight at the middle camera, mouth pinched with resolve, hands clasped strongly in my lap. I’m going to—

Look at Flynn.

Flynn?

He’s panting when he pulls up along the gravel path behind the cameras, beige jacket clinging to his shoulders, his shirt and trousers wrinkled like he pulled them, crumpled, out of a plastic bag. His left pant leg’s slashed at the thigh, and is that…is that blood ? Or, I don’t know, wine? Definitely leaning toward dried blood, considering that a hospital bracelet’s encircling his wrist.

I want to sob.

Obviously, I can’t sob—as a world leader, on television—but if this weren’t the most important interview of my life, I’d race offstage and throw my arms (gently) around his shoulders.

Flynn’s alive! He’s okay!

Well, he’s sort of okay.

He’s messy-haired, flushed; his eyes go even wider as he spots me, a swell of something like relief—and something like panic—evident in the rise and fall of his chest. He looks like he wants to run to me. He looks like he did run to me, maybe halfway across the city, in evening traffic. After being hit by a gelato truck. And a Vespa. And maybe even a scooter. I’ve never seen him so shattered, not even after the explosion. The crew must’ve let him past after he flashed his badge.

“Prime Minister?”

I blink, holding in an apology—and then, oh, screw it , giving one anyway. “I’m sorry,” I say, swallowing the growing lump in my throat, my peripheral vision stuck on Flynn, “could you repeat the question?”

The host shifts in her seat, thrown that I’m thrown. “I asked if you’d like to say a few words to close us out.”

Right. This. This is the part I’ve been waiting for. The reason I’m here.

I just didn’t expect to have to speak, almost directly, to Flynn . He’s breathing hard, hands on his hips, throwing me a questioning look. What are you up to, Max? What’s about to happen? The concern that’s pouring from him, pouring into me, lights my chest on fire.

The clock’s ticking.

I wet the seam of my lips, straightening my back, and drag my eyes toward the middle camera. “I have always wanted to serve a greater good, a cause, and a country. This downtime in Italy has given me an opportunity to reflect on the future of Summerland, and the many threats it faces, outside and inside . I am actively taking steps to secure my country, and will be holding a press conference to expand upon the intelligence that I’ve gathered—my brother.” I cough, like I have a hitch in my throat, like I’ve cut myself off at the beginning of the sentence, instead of at the end. “My brother, Jakob, and I have much to discuss—with you.”

In the corner of my eye, I catch Flynn wiping a hand down his beard, the weight of what I’ve just said crashing over him like seawater. Flynn knows. He knows it’s a thinly coded message for Jakob— I know you’re the one who sent the assassins, and soon, the whole world’s going to know . Unfortunately, the other code to that message is: Come and get me before I expose you, you bastard! Which is why I’m already taking out my earpiece and leaving my seat so quickly after the interview’s over, shaking hands firmly with the host before skedaddling offstage, my fake security wrapping around me, alongside my real handler. He smells like sweat and cologne and summertime, and his breath’s as uneven as mine.

“Is there really a press conference?” he asks out of the side of his mouth, grabbing my hand as we speed walk.

“No. Were you really in the hospital?”

“Yes.”

“Should you still be at the hospital?”

“According to my doctors, yes, but I’m fine. The stab’s not that deep.”

“You were stabbed ?” I hiss as Flynn leads me off the beaten path, toward the Japanese garden.

“Mildly,” Flynn says.

“What, did he use a paper clip?” Every new piece of information he gives me hits with a jolt. I told myself I’d keep a relatively cool head, but—

“I’ve been out of my mind , Max,” he says thickly, refusing to drop the pace. Bushes whip by us. Flynn’s speaking to me like I’ve given him a heart attack, and he’s just learning to breathe again. “Gail said that you’d decided to leave, that you’d finally caught a flight back to the States. Then she retracted her previous statement and said you were MIA.” He gazes at me desperately from a foot away. “When I saw you on TV, I ran. I ran here.”

He sprinted out of the hospital. Across the city. With a stab wound to the leg. For me.

“Don’t you ever do that again,” I manage, bordering on teary-eyed, as if this scenario is likely to happen twice.

“I’d do it again in a heartbeat. Go left.”

Curving around a cluster of date palms, I hear it—suddenly. A heart-stopping bang . Something whizzes past my ear, cracking the tree trunk by my head. Was that—?

“Go, go, go!” Flynn shouts, voice totally cold, my fake security team scattering for cover. Whatever Calvin’s paid them, it is not enough for an active emergency.

Another bullet zings right next to my ear, and I shriek. “Jesus!”

Yep, no doubt about it. Someone’s shooting at us. Shooting at me, and probably Flynn, and you’d think that an assassin could hit a moving target, but apparently not the kind that Jakob hires! Is it the Producer? Does he need glasses?

“Street’s this way!” Flynn yells, hand on my shoulder, running, and I’ve already stepped out of my heels, bare feet pounding on grass, pulse like a siren in my ears. My first thought is, I’m too old for this —which, at the tender age of twenty-nine, is ridiculous. But I haven’t stretched; I haven’t warmed up my calf muscles. My lower back twinges as I lengthen my stride, and I’m increasingly thankful that I’ve worn pants. In the prime minister’s black sequined dress, I’d have tripped ten times by now.

Another bullet, zing . Where are they even coming from?

I shout to Flynn as we dart from tree-cover to tree-cover, zigzagging our way—ultrafast—out of the garden. “Here’s the thing! I was imagining a delayed response!” In my mind, Jakob would take at least half an hour to send a team of professional hit men to trail me. By that time, I’d actually be at the airport, ready to board a plane back to America, where I’d enjoy the mini pretzels in coach and watch too many episodes of MasterChef .

But what if Jakob never got the memo that Sofia’s team canceled in the first place? What if he’d always planned to assassinate her in the garden?

It’s public. Poetic. Merciless.

“Left again!” Flynn says before we burst onto the road. The summer sky is starting to turn a dusky pink, and it’s just too pretty for what’s happening. My head whips around, checking for any sign of the fake security, because they have the keys to the Range Rover. Taxi? Any taxis around? Nope. The street’s been blocked off. Only a few people on bicycles are whipping by. Bicycles, and a sandwich delivery man, weaving through on a motorcycle.

“Excuse me!” I rush toward him, thinking fast—or barely thinking—Flynn on my heels. The motorcyclist stops for a prime minister in distress, his helmet lopsided on his head as he cocks it, obviously recognizing me. He’s clutching a white paper bag of sandwiches in his hands, unstraddling the bike, and I—“I’m so sorry, really sorry, but I need to borrow this.”

“Uh…really?” the man says, replying in English, the assassin probably reloading their weapon, and it’s not motorcycle theft. It’s motorcycle borrowing. The nation of Summerland is going to thank him. “Are you actually going to…?”

“ Grazie! ” I throw back at him, swinging my leg over the two-seater saddle, a baffled but game Flynn settling in behind me. Now, the only question is, How do you drive a motorcycle? Does one even drive a motorcycle? Is that the right verb? Thick heat rushes up my throat as I channel every memory I have of my father’s bike, back when I was a kid, before my mom insisted You’ll kill yourself on that thing, Richard , and he sold it to our neighbor with the pug down the street.

Lever, clutched. Shifter into first gear. Twisting the throttle just so…

A bullet clips the handle, right by my fingers, and I almost feel bad for this assassin. Surely they are better at close-range kills. Poisonings. I don’t know. Cucumbers in the salad. As soon as I think that, I wonder if the cucumbers back at Hotel Giorgio were intentional, if that was them, too, or—

Hold on, Flynn!

We’re blasting forward, the motorcycle skittering and weaving, the front tire lifting ever so slightly off the ground before we curve around a line of parked cars. Two more shots ring out in the air, and Flynn yells into my ear, “Are you okay ? You haven’t been hit?”

“Are you okay?” I bat back, equally worried about him. I’ve just put him in a tremendous amount of danger for a broadcast that I assumed would be easy. Everything about this was supposed to be easy—the trip to the news station, the Italian “vacation” itself. And now look at us, zipping away from what’s turning out to be a crime scene, my hair streaming into Flynn’s face as he coughs it out.

And this is…not a fantastic motorcycle. It’s coughing, too, engine spluttering like it has the motorcycle flu. At least it isn’t a Vespa?

At least we’ve managed to lose the assassin.

In the rearview mirror, I see the blurry outline of a man in a plain blue shirt, disgruntled, regrouping by the building, before Flynn and I round the bed, bursting onto the main road. I integrate us into the traffic, thinking that my Roman holiday is turning out a little different from Audrey Hepburn’s.

“I called for backup on the way over here!” Flynn shouts over the traffic. “Police, armed escort! They can track my location in the city, so they should meet up with us soon.”

The words that he’s saying should calm me, should make everything feel at ease. Jakob might’ve sent an assassin to the garden, but we escaped without a scratch. We’ll tag up with Flynn’s team—and with Calvin. We’re away from danger now.

Aren’t we?

Why does it feel like we are still very much in danger?

Wind cuts through my bangs as Flynn leans into my back, his fingers clutching the sides of my hips, and I’m so painfully aware of him, of his every movement, that I blurt out, “Why’d you do it?”

I sense his confusion, the way he shifts in the seat behind me. “Leave the hospital? I told you, I saw you on TV. It’s kind of hard to hear you back—”

“I meant why’d you break it off,” I tell him, raising my voice above the hum of the motorcycle, not even sure where I’m going, and not entirely clear on the Roman rules of the road. “After that summer. After Thanksgiving. I got so used to talking to you, to you being there, and then all of a sudden you were just gone, and then you were really gone.” A painful amount of emotion is welling up in my throat, and I can’t quite believe I’m bringing this up now , in the speedy rush of traffic, Flynn’s chin almost resting on my shoulder. If not now, though, when? Who knows what’ll happen in two minutes, three minutes, four?

To Flynn’s credit, he doesn’t say anything like We’re really doing this? You’re really asking me this on a speeding motorcycle? His palms simply flatten on my hips, melting even more into me, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of my body. “I know I was supposed to come see you at Thanksgiving,” he finally gets out, over the engine roar, “but I couldn’t—I couldn’t afford the plane ticket. My dad’s business took a nosedive, a big one, and after that summer, we lost everything. I’m talking everything . He built it up again, but back then, I was using email at the local library. I didn’t want you to pity me, or worry about me, and you were such a free spirit, Max. I absolutely didn’t want to send that letter, but I felt like I had to. I would’ve been such an asshole if I made you wait. Wait on someone who couldn’t see you, touch you—”

“You could’ve at least given me the option ,” I say, blood rushing through my ears as we pull up to a stoplight. The newsstand to our left is coated with pictures of my face. And, oh look , Flynn’s face. We tip our heads to the ultraconfused vendor, spilling his evening cappuccino, white foam on the tips of his mustache.

“I thought that I did,” Flynn says at the stoplight, completely still behind me. Warmth radiates off him, a blaze at my back. “I thought that I was giving you a clear out, and if you wanted to make it work, you’d respond. When you didn’t, I assumed that you’d…moved on.” His voice cracks at the end. I hear the split of it, right by my ear.

“I hadn’t moved on,” I whisper.

And he curves his chin even farther over my shoulder. “What?”

“I hadn’t moved on!” I shout, loud enough for him to hear me this time. What Flynn’s just said has winded me. Knocked half the breath out of me, when I didn’t have much left to start. I release the clutch, unable to determine if I’m shaking, or if it’s just the vibrations from the motorcycle. “I thought you didn’t feel the same way I did.”

“Max,” he says, more like breathes, his chest rising against my back. “I loved you.”

Loved . He loved me. He loved me? The words are a shot of adrenaline into my bloodstream. They’re everything I’ve been waiting to hear for eleven years. I’m thinking about how angry I was at him, how desperately I wanted him to say those words—and now? Now I’m wondering if he’s hung on to any shred of that love, if he can feel how fast my heart is pounding, not just from adrenaline, but—

In the motorcycle’s tiny rearview mirror, I spot the flicker of a black car. It looks…bulletproof, hard, out of place in a sea of Fiats and Smart cars.

“Someone’s following us,” I say, throat tight.

Flynn crowds against me even more, peering into the mirror. “Black car?”

“Black car.”

“Gun it,” he says, stoplight changing to green, and I do, night air slapping my face. As we speed ahead, I take one of the side streets at random, swerving around a restaurant with patio tables and accidently clipping one. Plates full of antipasti rattle. A glass of Aperol spritz topples, glass shattering in an orange bloom on the pavement.

“This may be a bad time to tell you!” I shout over my shoulder, terror streaming into my voice. “But I’ve never driven a motorcycle before!”

“You think ?” Flynn bleats out, and it isn’t harsh, isn’t chiding. It’s more like a gut reaction. I wonder if his pupils are as dilated as mine. “Make a left! Left, Max!”

“I’m trying!” I fire back, easing up on the throttle for a second at the next stoplight, biting the inside of my cheek before I just go. A symphony of horns blares around me. A man stops short in his dusty green Fiat, yelling out the window, “Muoia, signora!”

If you want to try to kill me , I think dryly, you’re going to have to get in line!

My grip tightens on the motorcycle handlebars. “Are they still following us?”

Flynn gives a quick glance over his shoulder. “Three of them now.”

Three? A peek at my mirrors reveals—yep. Two identical black cars now, and someone tailgating them on a Vespa.

“Any second,” Flynn shouts over the traffic, “they’re going to start shooting at us.”

“Well… shit !” I say, the only thing I can get out. Flynn slips his hands tighter around my waist, gripping me closer, almost cradling me—and I’m focusing, trying not to crash into a porchetta stand by the Campo de’ Fiori or lose control outside of the Piazza del Paradiso, toppling into a group of tourists who’ll click, click, click their cameras.

Flynn’s breath is warm in my ear. “Take the Via dei Baullari.”

Thanks to the assassins, I’m a little agitated. “You say that like I know where that is!”

“On your right!”

“ When on my right?” I bat back, weaving past a Lamborghini and a jewelry store.

“Now! Now!” Flynn says, leaning as I angle us—hard—into the turn, tires gripping the ancient road. It’s obvious; Flynn is actively steadying his voice, attempting to be the cool and calm one in this scenario. Despite this, his throat gutters. “They’re gaining on us. Our best chance is to make a sharp turn somewhere, pull off where they can’t see. Confuse them. Let them pass us…”

“Where are the police ?” I gasp. Did they get stuck in traffic, too? Is Flynn’s backup coming? Gail’s? “Where’s the armed escort? They should be—”

“ There ,” Flynn says, but he’s talking about a gap between buildings.

I take a chance, jamming on the brakes, back tire skidding and pulse hammering in my ears as we slip into the alleyway. I cut the engine, listening for the sound of two armored cars, followed by a Vespa, zzzz-zip -ing by. Behind me, Flynn also seems to be holding his breath, not a muscle moving. As soon as the vehicles pass, he loosens a little, whispering, “Close call.”

Gathering myself, the blood returning to the tips of my fingers, I unclench my fists from the handlebars. “What now?”

I’m asking Flynn, although my body already knows. I’m already swinging my leg off the bike, stamping the ground, traveling forward on foot. The fuel gauge on the motorcycle looks incredibly low—and we can’t stay here. We can’t wait for them to reach the main road again, figure out what we’ve done, and throw their cars in reverse.

I should make myself less recognizable, too. Better ditch the outfit I wore on TV. Shrugging off the cream blazer, satin lining sticky with sweat, I’m about to chuck it into the street, when—at the other end of the alleyway, no less than thirty feet ahead—someone appears. A shadowy silhouette in the dying sun, moving to block the exit.

My heart claws at my throat.

This person…there’s a knife in their hand, and I can’t immediately make them out. Just the glinting steel blade, the way it catches the half-light. Flynn told me once that assassins wouldn’t attack at close range, that I’d never have to put those self-defense skills to the test. That hasn’t exactly been true, has it?

“Max…” Flynn warns, throwing so much emotion just into my name, and I know—with every fiber of my being—that he’s about to rush out in front of me. Sure enough, his hand meets my back, firm as he shoves me behind him. Max, I loved you. I loved you .

At the same time, I’m squinting. Registering the silhouette and the tailored lines of an impeccable suit. When the sun moves, revealing the man behind the shadow, I shout, “Calvin! I thought we were meeting closer to the river.” Bypassing Flynn with a side step, I rush up to my roommate, glancing down at the blade in his hand. “Why’re you holding that?”

“This?” Calvin raises the blade slightly. Flynn moves to yank me back again; he doesn’t look like he’s seen a ghost—he looks like he’s seen a hundred ghosts, and they’re all holding knives in an alleyway. Calvin, for his part, says, “Oh, no-no-no, sorry! It’s a souvenir! It’s for frosting cakes. See? It isn’t even sharp! Before I started tracking you on my phone, I got a little bored while I was waiting and stumbled into a gift shop. I thought Max might like it.”

“I do like it,” I say, at the same time Flynn jumps in: “Would someone tell me what’s going on?”

“It isn’t too flashy?” Calvin asks, dead serious, about the gift. “The handle’s got little Popemobiles on it, and teeny-tiny Pope hats. Maybe I should’ve gotten a baggie. Honestly, I’ve been getting some looks.”

“I think that has to do more with you openly carrying a knife into an alleyway than the popes,” I offer quickly, and Calvin gives me a tip of his head like, Could be . “Flynn, Calvin’s been helping out. Calvin, assassins are chasing us. Both of you, I’ll explain everything later, but we need to keep moving.”

“You can’t wear that,” Flynn says, echoing my thoughts, as the three of us stalk down the alleyway. “If we’re getting out of here on foot, they already have a clear image of you. We need to—” His phone dings, and he checks it in an instant. “Shit. Shit. The backup’s been held up. An extraction team can meet us at the entrance to the Sant’Angelo bridge in thirteen minutes.”

“How long does it take to get there on foot?” I ask, peeking out of the alley, gaze whipping side to side, checking for those black armored cars.

“Thirteen minutes.”

My teeth grit. “Fantastic.”

“Hey, you can swap with me,” Calvin offers, gesturing to his suit. “They don’t know I’m wearing this, do they? And they wouldn’t expect you to be wearing this, would they?”

“It’s actually not a bad idea,” Flynn says, eyeing the teal-and-mint florals with a wince. “Hide in very plain sight.”

That’s how we end up emerging onto the street again, me in Calvin’s suit, and him—rather tightly—in mine; he looks stately and elegant, dare I say ministerial. A double-decker sightseeing bus zips by, filled with people snapping photos of the architecture, and we duck our heads, curving onto the sidewalk. “No taxis,” Flynn says, shoulder to my shoulder, setting the pace. His tone’s more even now, but there’s an undercurrent of panic. Like this is history repeating itself for him. Extracting an asset. Leaving the city. Making it out alive. “We don’t know who’s on the lookout for you. The only car you’re getting in is a CIA vehicle. We cut through buildings where we can. Keep your stride steady but don’t look like you’re rushing. This is an urban escape, so we shouldn’t slink; blend in with the crowd as best you can.”

I roll up the sleeves of Calvin’s suit. “I think I’d have better luck in a nun’s habit.”

“My aunt Eunice was a nun,” says Calvin helpfully, and in the corner of my eye I catch Flynn peeling off his shirt, tiny scratches on his suntanned skin; if we are trying to be inconspicuous, he’s missed the mark. He’s half-naked on the streets of Rome, more than one person giving him a surprised—then, honestly, lustful—look. Still in motion, as we pass a souvenir stand, he rips down one of the Pantheon T-shirts from a hook, tossing the vendor about three times what it’s worth in cash before slipping it over his head.

“Cut through the church,” Flynn says, completely focused, like all of our hearts aren’t in our throats. Well, maybe Calvin’s isn’t. He’s lolling a few paces behind, mouth dropping open at the sights and sounds, but we’re going a little faster now, slipping past a set of open doors—the stale church air a change from the warmth outside. It’s loud, though. Voices. Murmurs. The sound of an evening service. Sixteenth-century religious murals glare down at us as we pass pew after pew, almost speed walking through a baptism. Someone snaps a photograph. Of me. And I just know, instinctively, at my core, that tomorrow’s headlines are going to include the prime minister of Summerland, crashing yet another family gathering. The baby at the font coos, water passing over his teeny-tiny forehead, and I’m saying whatever comes to my mind to whoever catches my eye. “Many blessings. Cute baby. Beautiful family.”

“Ten minutes,” Flynn says, reminding us of the countdown, throwing open the door at the back of the church. More cars, flashing by. Bicycles. Honking horns and swooping pigeons. It takes me this long—yes, this long—to remember that I’m completely barefoot. It’s like my feet aren’t even my feet. I’m half-numb. All things considered, I’m coping well, but worry is like a wolf at my back.

How’s Flynn’s leg? What if those black SUVs round the corner again?

“Eight minutes,” Flynn says, and we can’t hear the river yet. Somewhere in the distance, the Castel Sant’Angelo looms heavy against the darkening skyline. I’ve seen pictures of the bridge, where we’re going. Stone statues saying, Enter here . Saying, Save yourself here .

I’m just hoping this isn’t like one of those spy movies where we have to jump into the river.

I know we’re not supposed to clump ourselves together, not supposed to rush, but I grab Flynn’s hand, our fingers intertwining, our strides almost syncing, and I realize that I’d trust you with my life isn’t just a saying. I am trusting him with my life. And I suppose the corollary is true, too; he’s trusting me with his. He knows that I’m capable—that together, we’re a team.

“Five minutes,” I say, keeping tabs on my own watch, my pulse picking up with every block, and it’s truly a whirlwind tour. Handbag stores. Glassware winking at us from window displays. Palazzo after palazzo after palazzo. The three of us, we’re blending in with the tourists, weaving gently around them. We don’t want to be the only ones swimming upstream. We follow the pattern, follow the flow, and follow the main road, because we don’t have time to zigzag through the side streets.

Every once in a while, I covertly peek behind me, see if they’ve discovered us. Caught up to us. Are they right at the edge of our backs? So far, we’ve gotten lucky. We’ve played it smart. And we reach the crosswalk near the Sant’Angelo bridge exactly on time, the moon half-visible in a soon-to-be-starry sky. It’s gorgeous scenery. Breathtaking, even. And under normal circumstances, I’d gape like Calvin, taking in the bridge’s stone archways, the slate blue rush of the Tiber River, the way the Castel Sant’Angelo rises up like a jigsaw piece, slotted against the sky. Instead, I’m noticing the trickle of traffic—the slow creep of commuter cars, no one glancing our way, no one stopping for us.

My gaze slips to Flynn. Even in the dying light, I can read his face perfectly.

The CIA is running late.

The extraction team hasn’t arrived yet. Hasn’t made it to the bridge to greet us. Which would be fine. Except that we’re out in the open, near a busy crossroad, and…there’s a black flicker around the bend, those armored cars popping into view. They’re here? How? How did they find us? Police radio, maybe? An interception? Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter how. All that matters is we’re exposed, under the bright lights by the bridge, and we could rush into the nearest store—but that’s almost half a block back. It’s too late. Someone’s rolling down the window of the SUV, the man in the blue shirt—the one from the garden—leaning out of it. He’s average-looking. About fifty years old. Dark hair.

And Flynn. Flynn’s clocked everything. I know because I know him . I know because his lips brush a quick kiss against my cheekbone, Goodbye, Starfish , before he’s running. Not running away . Running into the street. Left and right, cars jerk to a stop in the intersection. It’s instant chaos, all around him. Horns, yelling, tires screeching. He climbs on top of one of the cars, a bright red Alfa Romeo, and yells with waving hands, “Over here! Over here !”

He’s drawing away attention, giving me time to escape, time for the extraction team to catch up, and—

I think I love this man.

I think I’ve always loved this man.

There is absolutely no way that he’s going to die for me.

I’m not even fully processing what I’m about to do before I do it: ripping off Calvin’s jacket, wrapping it around my fist, and striding toward an empty parked car near the crossroad. I smash the passenger’s side window with all of my might. Glass shatters in a rippled burst. The security alarm wails, sharp and ultraloud, cutting through the night noises.

Attention shifts. From Flynn to me.

And I see his whole face fall, his whole body stiffen, the SUV doors swinging open, at least one assassin getting out—and Calvin, in the background, purchasing a cone from a gelato truck. He thanks the vendor, nearly dropping it as more sirens pierce the night.

Police ones, this time.

And a helicopter, suddenly swooping overhead, over the bridge, the chopper blades kicking up wind, whipping up the stray strands of my hair. It’s all happening so fast: The rush of backup, like a river undamming. The startled pedestrians. The assassins scattering. Flynn, shouting my name.

I step backward, onto the sidewalk.

I drop my guard for only a second.

A second is all it takes for a Vespa to round the corner, brakes screeching before it straight-up mows me down.