Page 36 of The Crimson Lily

I called Béatrice over FaceTime after a bath and a wonderful nap.

I figured telling her I’m on vacation in Rome with Maksim was a better choice than opting for the entire truth.

She lectured me on my romantic interest being an absolute psychopath, but after I told her how good he’s been to me the past six months, she relaxed and asked me all about my relationship with him.

I spared her the kinky details, but I did say a few things about the silver necklace I have around my neck and never take off.

It’s quite simple, really, just a silver chain with a rounded pendant, but it’s his gift to me, and that means everything.

It’s a thirty-minute walk to the Colosseum—down the hotel street and into the narrow roads of Rome’s city center.

I can do that. I jump in my jeans, black boots, and a delicate pinkish blouse that gives me a fresh look.

I clip Maksim’s tracker to my collar and tie my blond hair in a ponytail.

I’m about to head out into the city, and I almost forgot about the mark on my neck.

I check myself in the hallway mirror. The mark has muted into a dark-purple collar that I really need to hide, or someone will think I’ve been attacked.

I don’t want people giving me those inquisitive glances again.

I already got enough of them in Paris and New York, which is why I never go anywhere without my white linen scarf.

I cover most of it so it won’t be noticeable, then I put on my gray faux fur coat and head out of the Grand Hotel Flora.

I cast a quick glance at the arched gate before heading down the street, forcing myself not to get distracted by shops or pretty buildings because it’s already 1:34 p.m. I pause before that large building, which is a color that matches my blouse, with the big American flag.

Yep! Confirmed. It’s the American Embassy.

I slip into the narrow Via Firenze that makes me feel so small, and at the crossing with the Via Nazionale, I take a left, toward the piece of a massive white building I can see in the far distance.

There’s no way I don’t recognize that building.

I walk down this street bordered by symmetrical blocks of houses of Mediterranean colors, and as I get closer and closer, the tall structure becomes clearer to me and my memory.

I distinguish the gilded bronze statue of a figure with wings, guiding a chariot of horses on the summit of the left propylaea.

There’s no longer any doubt. This is the Altare della Patria, also known as the Typewriter, and it’s one of my favorite buildings in Rome.

Had I listened to my eager legs, I would have pursued my path toward the Piazza Venezia, but I have to take a left turn now, or I’ll be late for the Colosseum.

A few steps along an iron fence, and there it is, at the horizon, the vision of a two-millennia-old amphitheater.

I walk and walk, but it still stands miles and miles away.

That’s how big it is. Just like the moon in the sky, the closer you get, the farther it seems.

I walk up the final slope, following a swarm of ambitious tourists as excited as I am to get to that iconic monument of a different era.

I reach the top of the street and lean on the little stone wall that borders the road, taking in the view.

I need that moment, alone with the Colosseum, to process its beauty and all its meaning.

I’ve been able to recollect the general lines of my studies in archaeology, but now, everything I’ve learned about ancient Rome and this treasure races through my mind.

It looks just like the millions of pictures on the internet, but seeing it right before my eyes is simply surreal.

I can feel its history booming out of its walls.

I can see it reconstruct and blend with the light of the winter sun that shines upon it.

If I focus on the sounds in the air, I can hear its music, its chants, the simmers of a crowd, swords clashing, battles raging, scenes of a history long gone.

I breathe in deeply, gorging myself with the scents of the past, slowly returning to the twenty-first century and to the mission I still have to fulfill. I blink a few times to resynchronize.

“All right,” I murmur to myself. “So, where is this relation ?”

I take the large steps down to the Piazza del Colosseo and merge with a band of explorers who walk toward a metro station entrance up ahead.

I can’t keep my eyes off the ancient structures of endless arches.

Next to them, I spot the Arch of Constantine, Rome’s own triumphal arch.

I cross the road to get closer and stroll along the elevated little grassy field.

I’m now standing right beside the arch, admiring the relief panels and frieze, which both tell stories I don’t quite recall, but they’re darn pretty.

I’m about to veer to the other side of the arch when I hear someone clear his throat behind me.

Startled, I spin on my heels and almost knock into a tall man in a black winter trench coat.

I look up to meet his eyes. They are green, or brown, or maybe hazel.

I’m not sure. His thick black hair is combed backward.

His stubble reminds me of Maksim’s. He wears a scarf that matches his eyes, which light up as he draws a smile on his face.

“Are you my date?” he asks, his voice warm.

I stutter. I can’t get a word out. My immediate reaction is to shake my head and assume this man is looking for someone else.

He chuckles at my reaction. “If your name is Liliana, then you are most definitely my date,” he says jocularly. He’s actually making a little fun of me with his smile. His Italian accent is mild but still present. He has two little dimples that make his entire face beam.

“And who are you?” I wonder.

The stranger stretches his hand out and waits patiently for me to shake it before speaking. He wears black leather gloves, which instantly spark a theory in my head that this man is either a biker or a criminal. I decide to squeeze his hand to show him who’s boss.

“I’m Giovanni,” he introduces himself with a smirk. “ Benvenuta a Roma , Liliana!”

As he speaks these words, he gently brings my hand to his lips and kisses it. I don’t know what to make of this at all, so I just stare blankly at him, expressionless.

“Did you know your name was Italian?” he queries.

I stutter again. My answer doesn’t come out properly.

“I didn’t expect to find a beautiful blonde when they told me I had to pick up a Liliana,” he says.

Cheeky liar. He probably got my description or something, as he was tasked with finding me. That Italian man is definitely a smooth talker, and his sexy accent makes it all the more awkward for me. I retrieve my hand and arrange my ponytail to distract myself.

“Where are we going?” I wonder, because he used the phrase pick up , so that must mean we’re headed somewhere.

Giovanni clicks his tongue and motions for me to follow him. “Come, let’s take a walk.” He checks our surroundings, perhaps to make sure no one’s looking.

I follow him, still unsure if this man is a model or an Italian criminal.

I realize it’s most probably the latter since Maksim referred to him as a relation .

The Arch of Constantine is now behind us, and so is il Colosseo .

We walk the large boulevard, passing tall pine trees that are still green.

After we turn away from most winter tourists, Giovanni makes a hand motion at the road, and a large black car with tinted windows pulls up to us.

“You’ve got to be kidding me…” I mumble inaudibly.

Giovanni signs for me to embark. He notices my cautious glare and draws a calming wave with his hand. “It’s all right, Liliana,” he eases. “But the streets have ears, and we don’t like it too much when people listen.”

“So, I assume you’re not Bratva?” I guess, peeking at Giovanni next to me while we tour the roads of Rome. I didn’t even see the driver, but this all seems too familiar to me.

Giovanni shakes his head and smirks at me. “Not exactly,” he replies. “Believe me, we’re not big fans of the Bratva, so you must be very special.”

I purse my lips, concretizing my theory.

Giovanni is Italian mafia—I’m ready to put my money on that.

However, despite what he just said, I don’t think I’m the special one.

This is about the mission. For the Bratva to team up with the Italian mafia, it means the mess goes far deeper than a mere dagger of glass.

Does Giovanni know all the details? Did he omit the dagger part on purpose?

Perhaps his rank is too low to have the full context, or maybe mine is. What about William de Loit?

“You’re aware of the contact under our protection, right?” Giovanni checks. He continues when I give him an affirmative nod. “She says she’ll only speak to you.”

I gulp. “To me?” I curl my eyebrows, confused or surprised, I’m not sure myself. “Why me?”

“Like I said, bella , you’re very special.”

Now I’m perplexed. This is a puzzle that requires more information to be solved. I don’t have all the variables. I presume the only thing to do is actually speak to this mysterious contact everybody’s been telling me about.

“When do I get to meet her?” I ask.

Giovanni turns his face to me. In this light, as I see the Colosseum appear again through the window behind him, I can see his eyes are clearly mossy green.

“Tomorrow morning at the Musei Vaticani,” he informs.

Oh, man! First Rome, now the Vatican. Where am I going next? I look out of the window, only to realize we’ve been driving in circles.

“Is this how you have all your meetings?” I joke, pointing at us going for another round, a little cheeky smile on my face.

Giovanni laughs. “If only!” he exclaims exaggeratedly.

I like Giovanni. He’s the sort of man who’s instantly likeable.

He genuinely seems like a nice guy, the criminal allure notwithstanding.

I wonder, for a brief moment, what his life looks like.

Is he a full-time black trench coat wearer with leather gloves?

Does he do something else on the side? Does he have a family?

We spend the next few hours driving around Rome after I insist on taking a different route to at least see other parts of the city.

Giovanni finds my vain attempts at pronouncing the names of each monument particularly amusing.

My Italian is terrible. His English, however, is almost always spot-on.

This makes me even more curious to know what kind of man he is.

After our endless ride, I discovered that Giovanni Senatore has experience in international trade, that he learned English at a very young age, that his father’s out of the picture, and that his mother is the only family he has.

Giovanni was not hesitant to share this information with me.

He was actually enthusiastic about it. Definitely a talker.

He said nothing of his criminal affairs, but I didn’t ask either.

“What’s the contact’s name?” I wonder as we reach a familiar boulevard. I figure I’d better get a real name instead of thinking of the woman I’ll meet tomorrow as the contact all the time.

Giovanni clears his throat. “Her name is Chiara Zanetti,” he replies. “She’s a reporter for some art magazine.”

“Why will she only talk to me?” I ask again. I really need to know. The curiosity is killing me.

He exhales deeply. I’m sure he knows the answer but hesitates to tell me. I think he gives in when we lock eyes and mine are too piercing for his own good.

“Because you both have the same enemy,” he concedes. “William de Loit, the man who hides within the walls of Rome.” He says that last part in such a mysterious tone, like the start of a mystery thriller in which we’ve been cast as main characters.

A few houses later, I recognize the large building and the American flag. My hotel is just at the end of this street. The car pulls over at the Grand Hotel Flora, and Giovanni signs that this is my cue to leave.

“I’ll be picking you up tomorrow at 9:00,” he announces. “ Buona sera , Liliana!”

I wave at him and watch the car leave beyond the arched gate.

I have a strange sentiment that settles in me at this moment.

An intrinsic feeling of loneliness, as if the rest of the day is entirely up to me and me alone.

Maybe I’m just really tired. I check my phone: It’s almost 6 p.m. I get back to my room—I mean, my presidential suite—and immediately jump into my pajamas.

A comfy T-shirt and blue yoga pants. I throw myself on the bed, pondering whether I should go back out to get dinner or if I’ll just order room service.

Who am I kidding? Room service it is. Let’s see if Rome’s hotel has better penne arrabiata than Paris’s.

The answer is: most definitely. We are in Italy, after all, the award-winning country of pasta cuisine.

I spend the rest of the evening in front of the flatscreen TV, watching Animal Planet and eating pizza with Italian bread.

Yes, I opted for pizza in the end, which is delicious.

The cheese—mmm, divine! The juicy artichokes and cherry tomatoes are just perfect.

I chatted with Béatrice and with Priya, who didn’t miss the chance to ask me about the tall, handsome, tenebrous man who got me an Indian-style soymilk latte yesterday.

Eventually, I gather the might to text the only number I have from Maksim.

I’m not even sure if he still uses it, but I tell him I met Giovanni and that I’ll be meeting this Chiara Zanetti person tomorrow. He doesn’t respond.

I brush my teeth standing in front of the living room window, looking at the piece of the arched Roman gate that I now know is called Porta Pinciana.

I spend a minute gazing upon this monument, so modest yet so full of history.

I can picture armored soldiers, horse carriages, peasants, and commoners passing through the gate, like a glimpse into the distant past. Far ahead, the hues of the sunset reach my eyes.

It is splendid. I inhale deeply to savor the moment, with tears of I’m-not-sure-what glazing my eyes.

Now I finally understand why people take pictures and selfies all the time.

I must say, judging by my social media profile now, and even in my previous life, I never really was that kind of photo-snapping person, unlike many other millennials.

But as I look over the skyline of Rome smoldering under the sinking sun, I realize that such moments deserve to be captured and fastened in eternity.

However, I can’t bear to tarnish this wonderful view with my cheap phone equipped with a good-for-nothing camera.