Page 35 of The Crimson Lily

I just flew business class. At the airport, Maksim arranged everything for me.

He accompanied me up until the last point he could take me at the security tollgate.

After I gave him a soft kiss goodbye, which he returned with the utmost tenderness, I disappeared into the crowd of passengers.

I don’t think Maksim has ever kissed me like that before. It was…?emotional.

He wiped a little tear off my cheek before reassuring me with his husky voice, “Three days, and I’ll be there, zaya .”

I’m ambling the large halls of Fiumicino, dragging my suitcase behind me, looking for the exit.

In February, Rome is much warmer than New York; I can see that from the thinner coats my co-tourists wear, even if locals are probably wrapped in five-layer wool.

I might actually overheat in my fluffy mantle.

I analyze my surroundings to see if I recognize anyone or where I need to go, then unlock my phone to check if I received any of Maksim’s instructions on what to do next. Nothing.

However, as I follow a mass of passengers streaming out of the luggage area, I spot a short man in a gray suit and a bowler hat.

His nose is the size of his face, which is encased in chubby cheeks.

He has a slight tan, the typical Mediterranean hue of a life in the sun.

One thing is for sure: He doesn’t look Russian.

The man holds a small plastic board with Liliana written in big, bold letters. I walk up to him and halt at an arm’s length. I don’t know what else to say to him other than Hey, it’s me! so I just remain still. He looks up at me with his small, squinty brown eyes.

“Liliana?” he asks with an Italian emphasis on the first syllable.

I nod, absolutely clueless as to what’s going to happen next. He leans over to take my suitcase and motions for me to follow him.

“Come, come!” he urges.

I mechanically trot behind him, numb, just like in Paris when I had no idea what was going on around me.

I still don’t have much of a clue, but at least I know what the story is about.

The part that should scare me is that I’m mixed up in this criminal mess, but for some reason, I am more than fine with it.

There’s something about me I still haven’t uncovered fully, the glue that connects me to all of this.

My vain attempt to search for it with Doctor Gully and hypnotherapy hasn’t really gotten me anywhere.

Yet I feel it now, as if that part of me is just within reach, as I hover behind the short man who wears a bowler hat.

I guess this is who I am now, following danger like a moth to a flame. My instincts drive me.

The man walks me to his car, a large black taxi that makes me chuckle.

Typical. About ten minutes later, I can see the city of Rome take shape around me.

The sun already peaks above the city, and its rose-colored light shines upon the road like a dim beacon guiding the way.

The man doesn’t speak. I figure I’ll distract myself, my face stuck to the car’s window as if I want to lick it.

I need to see all of it. The pinkish, yellowish, orange buildings adorning the streets.

An obelisk I vaguely remember from a distant past. A church, another church, a chapel, Roman statues, Roman numbers.

At some point, we’re going uphill, past an immense building with a big, wide American flag. That’s most probably the US Embassy.

The taxi pulls over at the end of the street, right before a tall wall of arches I’ll definitely take the time to visit. The short man opens the door for me.

I give him a nod. “ Grazie! ” I exclaim, that word suddenly popping into my head. It’s thank you in Italian.

He responds with three nods and a simper.

There I am, somewhere in Rome, facing the Grand Hotel Flora. The taxi man hands my suitcase to a young fellow in a bluish-gray suit who smiles at me. His partner, who wears the same attire but has a patrol cap on his head, greets me and leads me inside the hotel.

I go to the dashing lady behind the counter, who beams with her full red lips. Her black curly hair is so shiny, she can probably light up brighter than the lamppost beside her.

“H…?ello,” I greet but have to clear my throat since I haven’t spoken properly in over eight hours. “I think someone reserved a room for me here?” I ask rather than declare.

“What is your name?” she probes.

“Liliana Springfield.”

She looks through the papers arranged atop her desk, then at her computer, then back at me. “There is no Springfield, but there is a Liliana Kovalyova.”

Maksim’s name. Well, the female variant, that is. I’m not sure if the glee I feel from hearing the name comes from her elegant Italian accent or from the name itself.

“That’s me,” I assure.

She clicks her mouse a few times. “The presidential suite…” she murmurs to herself, then her brown eyes lighten with something that could pass for admiration.

“Welcome to the Grand Hotel Flora, Mrs. Kovalyova; I see your husband is a regular. Here is your key.” She hands me a little paper pocket.

“The room number is inside. Your luggage will be brought to you. Would you like a tour of the room?”

Wait a minute, my husband? So…?my husband is a Grand Hotel regular.

I flinch at her last question, then shake my head with all I have; I don’t want a tour.

I am too exhausted to get a tour. I feel a little awkward, knowing I’ve been handed the key to the freaking presidential suite.

I thank her a bazillion times, head for the nearest stairs, and switch to the closest elevator when I see the room number.

I’m too tired to walk more than three floors up.

About a minute or two later, I stand by the presidential suite’s door, frozen, my heart pounding in my chest. It’s now officially confirmed; I’ve never really been a suite person.

I muster the will to swipe the door open and enter a wooden-floored room with ivory walls.

This place looks bigger than my apartment!

I take off my coat and shoes and set out on an exploration quest. There’s a beige sofa, a huge flatscreen TV, matching armchairs, and a dining table with a vase of blooming white lilies on top of it.

In the next room is the king-size bed, plus more vases and framed tapestries of Italian art.

When I enter the bathroom, my heart stops.

The shower looks like a museum piece, and the large bathtub is exactly what I need right now.

I instinctively turn the tap on and go unpack my things.

Before I get back to my suitcase, I look at the view out of the living room window.

Man, it’s breathtaking. I stand right above the wall of arches I saw earlier.

It’s an arched gate, an ancient passageway out of the city walls that guarded Rome centuries ago.

I don’t know how long I’m standing there, frozen in time, admiring the view, when my phone rings.

I rush to it and answer the unknown number.

“I see you made it to the hotel,” Maksim’s voice echoes.

“Yes!” I exclaim, a little too excited. “You should see the view!” I proceed to tell him everything about the room, my flight, the business class food and champagne, the woman next to me who snored all the way here, the taxi driver with his bowler hat, and Rome.

Throughout my elaborate speech, he doesn’t say a thing.

He just…?listens. I can only hear his steady breathing on the other end of the line. “I can’t wait until you’re here.”

He doesn’t respond to that either. How Maksim of him.

“I’m going to take a bath,” I announce, checking on the water in the bathroom. “What’s the plan for today?” I ask, knowing I’ll eventually get some instructions so we’d better get to it now.

“Get some rest,” he requests. “You need to be at the Colosseum at 2 p.m.”

Oh, the Colosseum! Just hearing the name shoots a hundred images into my mind from the first time I saw the jewel of Rome, then the second and third times. The last time, I was on a summer internship in Italy with Béatrice.

Oh, shit. Béatrice. She has no idea I’m in Rome, in her time zone. I need to text her right now! I don’t know what to tell her—about why I’m here and who’s going to join me. But I have to tell her something.

“What do I need to do there?” I check, preparing to end the call, even if I don’t really want to because talking with Maksim is actually a little soothing.

“You’ll be meeting with one of our relations,” he replies in a serious tone.

I nod. Probably Italian Bratva? I frown a little.

Wouldn’t Italian Bratva have beef with the Italian mafia?

How dangerous is this meeting going to be?

There’s the little spark of anxiety! My mind settles down and shrinks, making room for doubts and concerns.

Maksim must sense it because he sighs softly into the phone.

“Don’t forget to wear your tracker,” he requests. “I’ll be watching over you.”

I smile wistfully, letting Maksim’s reassuring voice linger between my thoughts. I feel appeased that he’ll be there, in the backline, making sure I’m safe even from miles away. Hang on, it’s the middle of the night in New York!

“Shouldn’t you be sleeping?” I tease with a vocal smirk.

“Not when you’re out there on your own.”

Oh my, that sentence spoken from his beautiful lips—that’s my reward.

I feel the thousand butterflies in my stomach take flight again.

I know exactly what I feel for him at that moment, but I can’t bring it to sound.

I want to tell him, but I chicken out, again.

I kiss him goodbye on the phone and hang up.

I stand still for another minute, holding my phone against my belly, hugging it like I don’t want to let go.

But I have to. I inhale deeply and hop to the bathroom to undress and jump straight into the bathtub.