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Gail isn’t kidding about the time constraint. We leave within the hour. At the very last second, a tremble starting in my hand, I scribble a note (pathetically, on a bright yellow Post-it) for my parents to find if anything does happen to me— I’m in Italy. I love you both more than words. I’m sorry —and shove it under my pillow. Then, it’s quick into a black van, Gail chattering while I mostly stare out the window, trying to keep my breathing steady. The bay flashes by. Little peeks at the ocean between concrete buildings. When the city center fades away, colonial houses pop up to take the place of businesses. Swing sets and aboveground pools. Kids running through sprinklers on sparkling, green lawns. Happiness, summer, life.

By the time the driver drops us off at Portland International Jetport, my left eyelid is twitching. “So…what are the odds of me actually getting murdered here?”

“You want me to give you a distinct percentage?” Gail tilts her head from side to side. “Thirty-six percent?”

My throat hitches. “Jesus Christ . It’s that high?”

“I really have no idea. I pulled that number clear out of the air. I thought it would soothe you to have something concrete.”

“It did not soothe me.”

“Oh. My mistake, then. Seven percent.”

Needless to say, I don’t sleep on the chartered flight to Italy. I spend most of the time stress-munching mini pretzels, watching preloaded videos of Sofia’s speeches, and whenever I even think about closing my eyes, I picture myself biting into a poisoned cannolo . Cream squirts from the crunchy shell as I swiftly keel over in the street…before, to add insult to injury, getting run over by a Vespa. Why my brain has settled on this very specific method of assassination, I can’t say, but by the time we land at Rome-Ciampino International Airport, I’m paranoid; if you tapped me on the shoulder with a feather, I’d swear it was Big Bird come to murder me.

“You’re pale,” Gail says to me, gripping the steering wheel of a BMW sedan. We’ve picked it up from the airport parking garage. Who left it there? Someone from the CIA? The interior smells of high-end perfume and those tiny, thin cigarettes. “Are you not holding up well?”

“No, I’m just—” We swerve around a Fiat 500, whose driver has the audacity to obey the speed limit. Gail drives like she’s fleeing the scene of a crime, paying very little attention to trivial things like stoplights, stop signs, or traffic laws. In the passenger’s seat, I thread my fingers through the grab handle, holding tight. “Just thinking. Overthinking.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Sorry.”

“Also, don’t apologize,” Gail chides. “Prime ministers never apologize.”

“Seems like maybe they should,” I mutter, considering one or two in particular. Then, a little louder: “Are we headed to the hotel now? Didn’t you say we’re going to Positano first?” The small digital clock on the BMW’s dashboard reads a staggering 4:28 a.m. Outside the windows is a sleepy Rome, the outskirts lined with spindly trees, stonework walls, and posters for big-budget American films. It feels impossible to take it all in, to process that I’m in Rome —that any moment, we could turn off the highway and come face-to-face with famous cathedrals, art museums, the Spanish Steps.

“We have a few items to tick before that,” Gail says, only half answering my question. “You’ll meet with your handler—”

“Hold on. I thought that you were my handler.”

“No. As I was saying, we’ll do something about your hair. Catalog the rest of your visible appearance, see if there are any scars to cover up, or any freckles we need to add. Then we’ll dive into your prep work: how to present yourself as Sofia. But don’t worry. It won’t be too extensive, considering we’re time-pressed, and you’ll mostly just be sitting there.”

Sitting duck , my brain whispers. I ignore it.

“Your handler will take care of the bulk of your training,” Gail continues. “You two are going to be like peas in a pod by the end.”

By the end. Not ominous at all! I nod tightly, adjusting the neckline of my faded white tee, pretending this conversation is very normal. “Okay. What’re they like?”

“Competent,” Gail says.

“And?”

“Tall,” she says, leaving it at that.

A dozen follow-up questions spring to mind ( What’s their name? How long have they been with the CIA? Have they trained people to walk into positions of power before? ), but Gail jerks the car to the left, narrowly missing an early-morning pedestrian—and I spot a flash of the Roman aqueducts by the side of the road, arches glowing in the moonlight. An exhalation of breath leaves me in a small, awed gasp. They’re magnificent. They’re something I never, ever thought I’d see.

The only stamps in my passport are Canadian. After months of working at Lobster in the Rough, a local seafood joint, I’d cross the border with my family at the end of each summer, holing up in a pine cabin with bunk beds. Bear repellent was involved. We’d start with washing all the sheets and wiping away dust from the windowsills. There’d be packed lunches—sandwiches, mostly, with Hannaford deli meat and sliced cheese—and hiking would be the only activity on the agenda. Sometimes, hammock swinging. Sometimes, a freezing dip in the local lake.

This is not that. This city, even in the half-dark, even on the outskirts, is still so elegantly alive. When Gail takes the next exit, the architecture changes. Limestone churches bloom from the ground. Terra-cotta-colored apartment complexes give way to community gardens. A few people are lingering, zipping around on scooters, smoking outside of shuttered newspaper stands, and I’m…feeling incredibly guilty, honestly. Who am I to deserve any semblance of a vacation?

Beyond that, this city is romantic . Perfect for couples. In an ideal world, I’d be here with someone other than trench-coat Gail. That would require an actual relationship, Max . Fast-paced restaurant work and romance don’t mix well. The last guy I dated (Damien, fellow chef, with a sleeve of tattoos and a penchant for baking soufflés at three o’clock in the morning) told me that I always seemed too busy, too casual about us . Maybe that’s true. Casual doesn’t hurt.

The car turns again, residential streets giving way to even more glamorous surroundings. Here are the polished hotels and the columned cathedrals, the flower shops and gelaterias with sparkly glass windows. Brilliant little cafés with rolled-up awnings wait for their early-morning visitors. You can almost smell the espresso beans, lingering from late-night drinkers, and I love it. I am so instantaneously in love, it makes me feel sick. You don’t get to enjoy this. This isn’t supposed to be fun.

Gail throws the BMW into park outside of an eight-story apartment building. I peek out the window, neck craning up at the layers of wrought iron balconies, potted vines hanging over the edges. The building looks stately enough for a prime minister. “Is this where I’m staying?”

“Not quite. Get your bag.” Gail fishes a rattling set of keys out of her coat pocket; it’s a lighter coat for the weather. In Maine, there’s always an under-chill, like winter is never more than a few footsteps away, but here, the early-summer morning is already washing over my skin. I step out into a flower-petal-blown street, wondering what the sunrise looks like over these buildings. I’m imagining orange. I’m imagining sherbet in neat glass bowls. “Hurry, Max.”

“Yeah, sorry—” I catch myself. “Not sorry.”

“Better.”

Unlatching a delicate gate, Gail takes the marble steps two at a time, and I more than keep up with her, floor after floor. It’s a small reminder that I’m capable. I really am fitter than I’ve ever been. My kind of restaurant work takes a while to leave you; you spend hours and hours on your feet, rushing between stations, barely pausing for water or food. Add that to the intense physicality of the last three months, and it’s easy to trick myself into believing—just for a second—that my body’s strong enough to dodge whatever might come my way.

You think you can outrun an assassin because you climbed some stairs?

Get a grip.

We stop at apartment 4B, with its lion-headed door knocker and less-than-conspicuous keypad. Gail types in a long code, shoves a key into the lock, and we’re in. First impression? I’m shocked by how nice it is. Movies tell you that everything in the CIA is stiff: concrete walls, hard-looking chairs, underground bunkers with flickering yellow lights. Off to the side, maybe, a stressed-out guy is vigorously blacking out files, or leaning nervously over a computer. But this ? This apartment is luscious. Gold-tasseled pillows sit plumply on velvet furniture. Sage green walls show off a variety of botanical prints. Above my head, a low chandelier dangles with delicate crystals, and I reach up to tip-tap one.

“Don’t do that,” Gail says.

“Right.” I hold in the sorry .

“Hello?” Gail calls into the living room, stripping off her coat and hanging it on a standing rack carved into the shape of an olive tree. Underneath she’s wearing a nondescript white button-up, and I wish I’d done the same. Something classy. I’ve settled for travel wear: black jeans and a comfy cotton shirt, with room to wiggle my toes in my Birkenstocks. “Come say hello to Max, please!”

There’s commotion around the corner—and my stomach tells me with a little swoop that I’m nervous to meet this person. My handler? Who I’ll be joined at the hip with for the next five days. In my mind, my handler looks identical to Sandra Bullock: sleek and agile, with a long brown ponytail and a face that says, Let’s get down to business.

My assumptions are…off.

“Ah, there you are,” Gail says to the man in the hallway. “Now that you’re here, I’m going to pop back down to the car to make a few phone calls and maybe pick up some pastries around the corner. Anyone want anything from the shop? It opens in fifteen minutes. Yogurt? Cornetto? Max, he has my number. I’ll leave you two to get reacquainted.”

And then she does leave, swiftly, closing the door like she’s shoving me off a cliff. I take one good look at my handler, at his tall frame and sea blue eyes, the undeniable coolness of his posture—effortlessly laid-back—and instantly, blood rushes to my ears. He winces with the tiniest hint of crow’s-feet, the corner of his pretty mouth turned up, and the way his forehead creases triggers some long-buried memory, tugging at the core of me.

“Hi, Max,” he says, silky smooth, voice like spearmint gum tastes.

I might black out for a second. Because it’s impossible. Totally, absolutely impossible.

Standing there in the safe house foyer is the first and only man I’ve ever loved.