Page 40 of The Crimson Lily
M y night was populated with black-and-white dreams of shady speakeasies and Giovanni with a bowler hat smoking a cigar.
When I open my eyes, the migraine is still there.
I am in the king-size bed of this apartment suite somewhere in Rome, lost and alone.
I instinctively check my phone and feel a hop of glee when I see I received a text message from… ?an Italian number.
I’m in Rome. I’ll see you tonight. M
I immediately add the number to the countless entries I have under Maksim’s name.
I sincerely hope I finally have a stable way to contact him now.
I spend the next fifteen minutes on Twitter, letting it drain my mind.
I don’t want any thoughts to sit there and glower at me.
I click on funny pandas and cute birds, then save a picture of a bat eating a banana to forward to Béatrice later.
I ignore whatever news or political issues cloud my feed.
I have much better things to do than that, like checking that fox with a tail too poofy for its own good.
I put my phone down once I’m prepared to get ready.
I stagger out of bed and amble to the bathroom, where I cast a glance at myself in the mirror and instantly think of Maksim.
That mark on my neck is fading, which wasn’t so appealing anymore, then I find it a little creepy that I even think of bruises as appealing.
I shower quickly, wash my hair, and dry it in ten minutes tops.
I jump back in yesterday’s jeans and put on a large pink knitted sweater.
It’s cozy in there, as if I’m wrapped in a cloud of cotton.
I hesitate briefly between spending the morning in my room doing nothing or going out for a walk.
My stomach growls, so I opt for a good breakfast before making any decision.
Down the endless stairs of the Grand Hotel Flora is a large hall with white walls adorned with decorative arches and a beige floor so smooth, I can catch my reflection as I walk.
The buffet offers a selection of bread, jam, croissants, eggs, mini pizzas, and a wide variety of fruit.
I am already tunneling toward the food when a woman’s voice addresses me.
“Good morning!” she exclaims to wake me. “What is your room number?”
She has brown hair tied in a ponytail and a white blouse that flatters her breasts.
She speaks to me cheerfully, her heavy Italian accent making its own music between my ears.
I reply with a big smile. She lets me attack the buffet, and I grab as much bread and eggs as I can, then go sit at a lone chair by a small round table and begin to feast on my queen’s meal.
I thought I’d spend a quiet morning, not thinking about anything other than food, but after a sip of wonderful Italian coffee, images of yesterday return to my mind.
I was a member of the Syndicate. The Kinzhal Strastey is an authentication key to an anti-satellite weapon system.
Criminal organizations mustn’t fiddle with the world’s order.
Giovanni wants to erase whatever is on that dagger, possibly destroy it, who knows, and I have to omit that detail next time I speak to the Bratva.
To top it all, there’s a meeting in two days, and we are supposed to infiltrate it with Chiara’s stupid brass token.
I down my coffee and stuff my mouth with a piece of bread, hoping it’ll silence me.
Nice try. After I swallow it all, I start pondering that stupid token .
Chiara mentioned something about being granted her own token.
What does that mean? Is the Syndicate only allowing a few members at their meetings?
Is the token some sort of medal, or maybe a proof of rank?
She said something about knowing where these tokens are made.
What is the meaning of that? Is it important?
That detail wouldn’t be unimportant for her to disclose it like that.
There has to be more to it. I need to know.
As much as I don’t want to think about it, my urge to solve this mystery gets the better of me.
I have to know what Chiara meant with the origin of these tokens. I have to call Giovanni.
I search through the pockets of my jeans for that piece of paper he gave me last night.
I find it, but then I realize it’s Chiara’s note, with the phone number of a therapist that, according to her, can help me solve yet another mystery.
The final pieces of a puzzle I’m missing.
The remainder of whatever my mind shadows from me.
Instinctively, I take my phone in both my hands and dial that number.
I instantly regret it, but there’s no time to feel like I’m being stupid.
If there’s any chance to retrieve the last of my lost memory, maybe it can help us with the mission.
Maybe it can help me understand who the hell I used to be.
Why the hell I was a member of the Syndicate.
How I can possibly have made a choice I don’t recognize as mine.
“Pronto,” a man’s low voice says through the phone.
I want to speak, but no words come. I inhale deeply, stuttering even in my breath, and gather the might to speak.
“Hi…” My greeting ends in a weird slant. I clear my throat. “My name is—wait…?Do you speak English?”
“Yes,” the man answers immediately.
“Hi, my name is Liliana. I got your number from Chiara Zanetti.” I end my sentence like a question, to check if he even knows the name.
“Yes, Chiara, she told me about you,” he responds. He has the voice and the accent of an Italian opera singer—that’s who he reminds me of. “I am Doctor Alberto Rossi, and maybe I can help you.”
I pause, thinking of what to say next. “How do you think you can help me?” I wonder.
It was his turn to clear his throat this time. “I do hypnosis therapy.”
“I’ve tried hypnosis before,” I inject. “It wasn’t really successful.”
“My method is…?different,” Doctor Rossi argues. “You had an accident, right?”
I chuckle silently. “Let’s call it an accident.” I was almost murdered, but sure.
“You see,” he proceeds to explain. “It is possible that your memory was not removed by your accident.”
He has a heavy Italian accent. I have to make sure I understand everything correctly.
“What do you mean?” I check.
“I have a theory that some memories in amnesia patients get removed selectively,” he says. “As if your subconscious does not want to remember.”
I shake my head even if he can’t see. I wonder how that can be physiologically possible in the first place. How the brain can decide to remove a specific memory, especially considering this was an accident, where the aftermath is supposed to be incidental.
Doctor Rossi probably deduces my confusion from my silence. “Come to my office tomorrow, and we can try.”
“Okay,” I simply acknowledge. I am too skeptical to be curious. I’ll just go with it.
“Does 10:00 work for you?”
“Yes,” I say with no particular tone.
Doctor Rossi gives me an address I can’t decipher, but with Via Fernando something and his name, I know I can find it using my favorite tool, the internet.
Maksim will be there tomorrow; I want him to come with me, to make sure this won’t be a waste of time for me.
I say goodbye to Doctor Rossi and hang up the phone.
I finish my breakfast, head back into my room, and find Giovanni’s number on the dining table, underneath the lilies.
I call him and ask him to bring Chiara to the hotel.
There are things we need to talk about, especially regarding that darn brass token.
I’ll start by asking her how she received it because something inside me whispers that the answer she’ll give will be the first clue to unmasking the inner workings of the Syndicate.
That quiet voice, that hunch, tells me that wherever these tokens are distributed is the place I need to go next.
Chiara can’t join us today, but Giovanni convinced me he has all the information I need.
It’s late afternoon, and we stand together beneath one of the arches of the Porta Pinciana, right next to the hotel.
I examine the structure, touching the walls as if it’ll make me feel the history inside.
Giovanni quietly observes me; he’s calm, with a slight, tender smile that I’m not even sure is there.
I wonder why he looks at me that way. It’s a little unsettling, to be honest.
He wears dark jeans and his usual black trench coat, but his hair is brushed to the side today. It’s a change from the serious gangster look to the casual, fashionable man allure. Giovanni definitely has a taste for style.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” I ask with a blush.
He has a faint frown with an unclear meaning. He seems to force himself to relax his features and resorts to a laugh. “You seem to get fascinated by the smallest of things!” he heartedly exclaims.
“Well, when you lose all you know, everything is like a first time,” I say, pursing my lips.
“Everything?” he checks with an insinuating smirk.
Cheeky. I know exactly what he means. I don’t want to linger further on a topic that belongs under the sheets, so I return to this meeting’s original purpose.
“What do you know about Chiara’s token?” I ask.
Giovanni chuckles, probably at my smooth change of the subject. “Privileged members of the Syndicate receive a token to attend their secret gatherings,” he replies, his tone back to business. “Chiara received instructions to pick it up from an antique shop in the center of Rome.”
“Do you know if all members go to the same shop?”
“Apparently.” Giovanni runs his hand through his thick hair to think. “Chiara said the man at the shop knew exactly why she was there.”