Page 45

After I leave Justice, I linger, making sure he walks away first. If I am identified, I don’t want him pulled into it. Then, as I’m making my way out of the square, I hear a voice that has my brain perking up like a happy puppy.

Marco?

Of course it’s not Marco. What I’m very obviously hearing is the contralto Italian-accented voice of a man who speaks perfect English, which is a lot more common in New York than an American speaking perfect Italian in Rome.

Still, I look. I can’t help it. I even spot the back of someone who could be Marco over by the entrance to Juilliard. Dark curly hair. Athletic physique. He’s wearing a tight T-shirt and cutoff jean shorts, and while he presents a very fine rear view, that is definitely not Marco’s fashion style.

He’s talking animatedly to a man and a woman.

That’s also not Marco’s style despite the stereotype of the gesticulating Italian.

With reluctance, I pull my gaze away to scan for who is actually speaking in that Marco-like voice.

The hot-guy-in-cutoffs quarter turns, and I stop so abruptly my shoes squeak.

It’s Marco.

A fantasy flits through my brain, that after emailing me, Marco hopped onto a flight to New York and tracked me down to offer his help.

The problem with that story? The tracking-me-down part. I’m a fugitive, and he isn’t exactly a private eye.

This is just some guy who looks enough like Marco that my brain is conflating him with another nearby tourist who sounds like Marco. Marco wouldn’t be caught dead in that outfit, and he doesn’t gesticulate like this.

So it’s not him.

Except it is. I’m looking at the face I’ve woken up beside for countless nights. Which makes no logical sense.

I’m losing my mind.

Someone laughs loudly, and not-Marco glances over. I sidestep fast behind a knot of students. As he turns, I see his face full-on, and there is no doubt it is Marco, right down to the cleft-lip scar.

The woman with him turns my way. In her hand is a small video camera. I follow her gaze as it lands on the spot where I’d been sitting with Justice. The now-empty spot. She lets out a curse that has the blond man beside her jumping to attention.

They’re journalists.

No, they’re paparazzi. I know the look.

What is Marco doing with paparazzi?

Do I want to know?

I do. Yet the woman has realized I’m no longer where I’d been, and she’s moving away from Marco, her gaze scanning the fountain square.

I withdraw. I must, as much as I want to figure out what the hell is going on here.

I slip around a restaurant on the edge of the square and head onto the sidewalk. Then I move as fast as I dare, adopting the New Yorker walk, purposeful strides that cut through the tourist clusters.

Marco.

That was Marco.

“Keep walking,” a voice says, and I’m so distracted that I inwardly exhale in relief, thinking it’s Marco. Before I can even look over, I realize my mistake because I made it before, waking in a park and thinking the person touching me was Marco.

It’s the same guy.

I stiffen, but the man’s arm is already around my waist, pulling me against his side as we walk. My insides explode with panic, the air suddenly too thin to breathe.

Earlier, I thought I’d be safe in public. I am safe. We’re surrounded by people on a busy sidewalk. I just need to be sure he doesn’t take me anyplace private, and I’m not stupid enough to allow–

Cold presses against my side, and this time it isn’t a knife. It’s a gun.

“Keep walking,” he says again in a voice so pleasant it chills me even more than that icy gun barrel.

I glance at him.

“Eyes forward, Lucy,” he says. “We’re just a happy couple out for a stroll.” Another two steps. “I think it’s time you and I had a chat, don’t you?”

I look around.

“You could do that,” he says, his voice still conversational. “It’s a busy street. You can scream. You can run. And you can find out how serious I am about pulling this trigger.”

Another two steps.

“Have you ever seen hit men in movies?” he asks.

“They go through elaborate schemes to eliminate a target. It’s Hollywood bullshit.

A silenced gun. A busy street. A nondescript guy who shoots and keeps walking.

Or maybe h e’ll shout for help. Oh, my God, this woman just fell to the sidewalk!

She needs medical attention! Then as the crowd gathers, he slips away, invisible . ”

My heart thuds so loud I struggle to speak. “Is that what you are? A hit man?”

“Mmm, no, that’s a very specific job description, and I’m much more flexible. You killed Isabella Morales, Lucy, and someone has decided they can’t rely on the justice system to see actual justice done. You–”

“Excuse me,” says a voice in a heavy Italian accent.

The man pretends not to hear and walks faster, but then he stops short as the speaker grabs his gun arm.

Marco’s gaze doesn’t even flick my way. He just meets my captor’s glare with a disarming smile.

“Excuse me,” Marco says again. “I look for… I look for 9/11 monument, yes?”

“Take your goddamn hand off my–”

“The 9/11 Memorial?” I say quickly, as if trying to get rid of this tourist.

Marco releases the man and turns my way. “ Grazie .”

I give directions. As I do, I cut my gaze subtly toward the gun.

The man looks as if he has his hand casually resting on my back, jacket draped over his arm.

The gun must be hidden beneath it. Marco nods without even following my gaze.

He’s already figured that out – the jacket over an arm in June is a giveaway.

Marco asks me to repeat a few parts of my directions. My captor grows increasingly impatient, but he doesn’t dare make a scene.

“Lincoln subway station, yes?” Marco says.

“Right. You want to head back to the Lincoln Center subway–”

I’m not even sure what Marco does then. It happens too fast. I’m midsentence, and he’s listening intently. Then I’m shoved aside, and when I catch my balance, he’s got my attacker by the arm. A sharp twist, and Marco is bouncing away, holding the jacket in a bundle.

“And I’m not going to tell you again!” Marco says, slamming his open palm into the man’s chest, his accent American now. “I catch you sniffing around my girl, and I will kick your ass. You got it?”

People part around them, as if the two men are traffic cones that shot up from the concrete.

Marco continues his diatribe as my stalker struggles to regain his mental footing.

I spot an available cab and leap to the curb, waving.

Marco doesn’t seem to notice, but he has the handle before the taxi rolls to a stop, yanking open the door and bustling me inside.

He climbs in behind me as I tell the driver, “Just drive.”

My stalker lunges for the door as the cab pulls away. I spin on Marco. “What–?”

“PCTracy,” he says, extending a hand. “Pleased to meet you.”