Page 41 of The Crimson Lily

This is something I could work with. That is proof the shopkeeper was made aware that Chiara would come for the token, and this evidence suggests that the man has probably seen more of these Syndicate goons.

Perhaps he keeps a list, or an overview of pick-up times, descriptions, and maybe even names.

What if that shopkeeper is a way to find more members of the Syndicate? How valuable can that information be?

“We need to get to the shopkeeper,” I declare, more stern than determined.

Giovanni rounds his eyes. “What would that bring us?”

I click my tongue before defending my reasoning. “The man probably keeps a list of who’s supposed to get a token. What if we could get our hands on that list?”

Giovanni squints and purses his lips to think. He takes a moment to sort his thoughts. I can see he’s actually going with my reasoning and considering the possibility.

However, he is quick to shake his head and respond with a rejecting frown. “If the shopkeeper keeps such a prized list, the Syndicate is watching him twenty-four-seven,” he states. “And he might be Syndicate himself.”

Fair point, but we don’t have time for hesitation. I put my hands on my hips and adopt a resolute stance.

“Where is the antique shop?” I interrogate.

“On a street right by the Piazza di Trevi,” Giovanni answers with a slight smile. “But you’re not going there today, bella .”

I cross my arms and frown. “Why not?”

He takes a step closer to me, laying his hands on my shoulders. He plunges his gaze into mine, leaning in, coming right in front of my face. I want to dash back and avoid his gaze, but I am as mesmerized as a cobra by a snake charmer. The mossy-green color of his eyes is all I can see.

“If you get caught there, you compromise the entire mission,” he declares, severe, a fiery warning in his scowl.

I never expected Giovanni to be able to turn into such a dark creature.

This is no longer the smooth talker speaking, but the Mafia Capitale soldier.

I freeze, perhaps a little scared of that tingly sensation I now have down my spine.

That look in his eyes reminds me all too well of Maksim, of what he can do to me, and I don’t like anyone else having that glare.

“Let me go,” I warn with a reluctant growl.

He lowers his arms, and his old smile reappears. “I can take you to the Trevi Fountain instead if you want.”

I burst into nervous laughter, a little bit hysterically, unsure what to make of the situation.

I might as well go see the fountain while we’re at it, perhaps cast a glance at the adjacent streets to see if I can spot the infamous antique shop.

I nod and wait for Giovanni to decide on the method of transportation.

I let him lead me to the nearest taxi, a blue car this time, and off we go toward the center of Rome.

We sit still for a good fifteen minutes until the taxi takes us as close to the Piazza di Trevi as possible. The sun has already begun its descent. I can no longer see it in the sky. Giovanni opens the door for me like a true gentleman and guides me to the crowd of people amassed by the fountain.

It is as beautiful as I had it in my mind.

I know the last time I was here was three years ago, with Béatrice.

I won’t forget to snap a picture this time.

The mighty statue of Oceanus taming the waters is what catches my undivided attention.

His chariot of savage horses rides the insurgent waves, guided by ferocious Tritons.

I am hypnotized by the fountain’s music, enhanced by this imagery and the cacophony of the crowd.

I am brought back to reality by Giovanni, who has a hand on my waist to make me turn around. He bears a flare in his eyes I don’t want to acknowledge, as if he’s been looking at me this whole time instead of at the object everyone else is ogling.

“You could be Anita Ekberg with your blond hair in the wind,” he softly sings to my ear. “And I’d be your Marcello.”

I chuckle before realizing Giovanni is way too close. I put my hands on his chest with the intent to push him away, yet he finds his way around my lower back and presses me even closer. He takes my hand in his before turning his face slightly, his lips coming just within reach.

“What are you doing, Giovanni?” I question, tensing up the muscles in my arms.

His pupils have dilated, and his eyelids look heavy. He exhales a little, caressing my cheeks with his warm, minty breath. Then he lets go of me.

“You’re a special one, Liliana,” he confesses. “Let’s go have dinner before I think of something else to do.”

I blink a few times, wondering what Giovanni meant by that last part, then feeling stupid because I know exactly what he meant. Giovanni was an inch away from kissing me. As handsome as he is, I cannot let him do that. I belong to someone else, and I need to make that clear.

I catch up to him and seize his arm. “I’m dating someone already, Giovanni.” I choose not to sugarcoat this and get straight to the point.

He turns to lock his eyes with mine. “Is it the man who did this to you?” he asks, pointing at my neck.

Shit. I completely forgot my scarf! How stupid of me. What was he thinking this whole time? How did I not notice? I maintain his gaze to show I’m in control, but I bite my lip nervously. He must notice because he’s holding my gaze too and eventually wins the staring contest.

“A man like this doesn’t deserve you,” he comments.

I want to answer, to defend Maksim, but how can I explain my strange kinks in the middle of the Piazza di Trevi, where everyone can hear and judge?

I can’t tell him I like being marked and bruised by my Belarusian man.

That idea is twisted. I don’t think Giovanni would understand. He would think of me as insane.

“That wasn’t him,” I lie. It’s an obvious lie.

Giovanni shrugs, unamused, and keeps marching ahead, toward a small pizzeria on one of the side streets. I realize I completely forgot about the antique shop, too entangled in the Trevi Fountain, the crowd, and Giovanni and his mossy glower.

He makes me take off my coat and sit down at a table close to the window, and he immediately orders us a bottle of wine. He regains his smile once the vino rosso appears, and the young waiter in a fancy outfit with a bowtie pours me a glass.

“So, Liliana,” he begins when the waiter leaves. “How do you like Rome?”

I’m unsure how to respond. His mood has begun to change. He’s getting back to his friendly and witty self. The waiter brings us some menus, and I intuitively go for the vegetarian section. I don’t answer his question.

The waiter takes our orders. Once he’s gone again, Giovanni decides to try and break through my awkward shell.

“Did you grow up in America?” he asks.

I decide to answer this time. “I think so. I don’t remember much of it.”

“Ah, yes, the memory. Do you remember your parents?”

I shake my head. “I know they died when I was four.”

Something in his gaze softens, and his tensed shoulders loosen. “I’m sorry,” he apologizes. “Do you know who raised you?”

“Nope,” I answer, not wanting to say more. Why does everyone ask about my parents? “I don’t remember my fosters, and I don’t think I want to remember them.”

“It sounds like a complicated childhood is behind you,” he remarks.

I nod distantly. He’s right, after all, and I begin to consider Doctor Rossi’s theory about selectively forgetting aspects of my life. Perhaps my subconscious indeed erased that part to protect me. Tough luck, Liliana. I want to know now, more than anything else, what those memories are.

“How does a man like you end up…?here?” I ask, veering the spotlight away from me. By here , of course, I mean the criminal life. I make sure not to mention the Mafia Capitale in public.

Giovanni understands my furtive question. “My father was a bastard who deserved to die.”

Wow. Harsh, but I let him go on.

“My mother kicked him out when I was little,” he continues. “Because we had no money, she did jobs so I wouldn’t starve. And when I was older, I did jobs too.”

“It sounds like a complicated childhood,” I mirror with a wistful smile.

That makes him chuckle, and his cute dimples are back. “We all have problems, right?”

I don’t answer that. I just look into his eyes that shine with a complicit glow.

We were both kids who grew up in situations that brought us here, in an alternate future away from the law.

I still need to figure out my reasons for joining the Syndicate, but Giovanni’s are clear, why he became a mafia soldier.

And they are justified. What are you supposed to do when the world turns its back on you?

We eat our pizzas and down that bottle of wine around conversations about our lives.

I tell him about Paris, as covertly as I can, of course, and about my life in New York.

Giovanni speaks of his mother, Lydia Volta, who now lives a peaceful, retired life outside Rome.

He tells me he calls her every single day to tell her he loves her.

I find that so endearing I almost get tears in my eyes.

During our delightful evening, I check my phone a few times, hoping for a message from Maksim.

I expected him to call me once he was done with whatever he needed to do.

But nothing. No text, no call. It makes me a little sad, like I was abandoned.

No—abandoned isn’t the right word. Maybe…

?forgotten? I’m getting bitter from that feeling, always waiting for him .