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J ulia stood with Gianluca in Imola, outside the grounds of Caterina’s castle.

It looked like a scaled-down version of Rocca di Ravaldino, but it was closed due to flooding.

Sandbags and orange plastic fences prevented access to the castle and its grounds.

Sand, gravel, and lumber lay mounded around the property in mid-cleanup, though there were no workmen or construction vehicles.

“I’m sorry.” Gianluca scrolled his phone, frowning. “It doesn’t say on the website that the castle is closed. I thought the flood damage would have been cleared by now. I should have called ahead. I’m a bad librarian.”

“No, you’re not.” Julia didn’t know if she wanted to see another of Caterina’s castles anyway. The first one had been enough drama for one day, and she’d been newly nervous on the way here, keeping an eye out for the white Fiat. “I didn’t see a white Fiat, did you?”

“No.” Gianluca pocketed his phone. “Thanks for making the best of a bad situation. For what it’s worth, this castle is similar inside, but smaller.

Imola’s a smaller town than Forlì, too.” He perked up.

“You want to know a fun fact about Imola? Its town map was drawn by Leonardo da Vinci himself, shown from above. He made it by pacing his way around the town, then drew it as if from the air. You know, the Sforza family was a major patron of Leonardo’s.

Caterina’s uncle Ludovico Sforza commissioned him to paint The Last Supper . ”

“How cool is that? I have to read up, don’t I?”

“Yes.” Gianluca smiled. “But now that we have extra time here in Imola, there’s something else worth seeing. We can grab lunch, too.”

AUTODROMO INTERNAZIONALE ENZO E DINO FERRARI , read the sign, or International Speedway of Enzo and Dino Ferrari.

Evidently, the Imola raceway was the site of the Emilia-Romagna Grand Prix on the Formula One racing circuit and other motorsports.

Julia had been surprised to learn there was a major racetrack in this small town, but on the way here, she’d heard the roar of car engines through her helmet.

Today was a practice session for a race called 6 Hours of Imola, which was endurance racing with four-man teams of the top drivers in the world.

Julia held on to Gianluca’s waist, feeling more comfortable now that they’d broken the seal on touching each other.

She kept an eye out for the white Fiat, but hadn’t seen it, so she was trying not to worry about it anymore.

Gianluca accelerated as they traveled the road to the racetrack, which wound through gorgeous parkland filled with greenery, cypresses, and, incongruously, engine noise.

They came to a large grassy field, and at the far side was a stretch of asphalt racetrack surrounded by cyclone fence with barbed wire.

They reached a large parking lot filled with Ferraris, Lamborghinis, and Maseratis.

Gianluca parked, cut the ignition, and they took off their helmets.

Conversation wasn’t possible with the engine noise, and Gianluca motioned to her and they hurried across the grass to the racetrack, where a small crowd watched from behind a cyclone fence and metal rail.

They reached the track, and it was thrilling to see sleek race cars zoom past like rockets, a streaking blur of enameled color, their deafening engines blasting full-throttle.

Julia was able to lose herself in the excitement and speed, and the crowd was small and spread out enough that she didn’t feel panicky.

In time, the cars stopped coming, and the engine noise died off with a break in the action.

The crowd at the rail started talking excitedly, resuming conversation and lighting cigarettes.

Gianluca looked over with a grin. “Well? Do you like it?”

“Totally!”

“I come here whenever I can. It’s not F1, but it’s awesome.”

“Agree.” Julia thought it was cute that he was a librarian who liked to go fast. She liked the layers of his personality. There was an intriguing complexity to him, but he seemed to enjoy life, and she liked that, too.

“The cars are beautiful, aren’t they? They have a Scuderia Ferrari F1 car inside the building.

We can eat there, too.” Gianluca led the way past racing murals and a larger-than-life photograph of a handsome race car driver, with a plaque that read Ayrton Senna.

Gianluca stopped, making the Sign of the Cross.

“This is Senna, one of the greatest F1 drivers ever. He was killed here in the San Marino Grand Prix in the 1994 season.”

Julia shuddered. “Oh no.”

“He was trying to stay ahead of Michael Schumacher, who was new then. He hit the wall on the Tamburello curve, a crash at maybe a hundred seventy, a hundred ninety miles per hour.” Gianluca grimaced, pained.

“None of us knew how serious it was. They even restarted the race. Everybody believed he was going to be okay. He had to be. We loved him.”

“Were you here?”

“No, we watched it on TV. Everybody here did, even back then. Now F1 is so big, locals get priced out of the tickets. F1 fans mob the hotels and restaurants. Imola’s too small to handle them.

They overrun to Bologna and Florence.” Gianluca’s gaze returned to the memorial photo.

“Every racing fan remembers where they were when Senna died. I was watching with my father. He cried so hard. We never thought it would happen to Senna. He was so good, so young, only thirty-four.”

“I’m sorry,” Julia said, thinking of Mike. “It never seems possible that young people die, but they do, every day.”

Gianluca looked over, thoughtfully. “You don’t think it will happen, but it does. It’s a paradox, isn’t it? There’s not many things like that.”

“Only death.”

“No that’s not all. Let’s go.” Gianluca took off, and Julia fell into step with him in the crowd past the scaffolding under the grandstand bleachers, then they flowed into a narrow tunnel of corrugated metal, echoing with chatter.

They popped out on the other side, where there was a sleek complex of buildings painted Ferrari red.

The gift shop had a predictably massive display of Ferrari ballcaps, polo shirts, and replica racing helmets, plus a real Ferrari convertible in flashy red, which Gianluca drooled over.

They reached a café, went inside, and scanned a display counter of panini and other sandwiches. The place was dim, with shiny black tables and chairs, smoked glass walls, and a polished concrete floor inlaid with red racing stripes. They joined the back of the line, which was all men.

Julia whispered to Gianluca, “I’m the only woman.”

“I’m the only librarian,” he shot back, and they both laughed.

In time they reached the front of the line, picked caprese sandwiches and beer, then took the food to the grandstand.

They bought tickets for the next practice session and found seats near the finish line, where Julia tore into her sandwich.

The mozzarella was soft, the basil fresh, and the tomato tart and salty, proving even café food was perfect in Italy.

She was about to take another bite when she noticed a man over Gianluca’s shoulder, sitting on the far side. His profile looked familiar, then he raised a cigar to his mouth. “Gianluca, don’t turn around, but I see the Fiat driver.”

“Where is he sitting?”

“Third row from the front.”

“I’ll look discreetly.” Gianluca bent over, put his beer on the floor, and glanced to the left. “I see him.” He turned back to her, his dark eyes troubled behind his glasses. “Maybe he’s a racing fan.”

“Then why was he at Forlì, outside the castle?”

“We don’t know he was. We know only that a white Fiat was parked there, not that it was his. I tell you, they’re super common cars.” Gianluca searched her face, his handsome features softening. “I’m not doubting you. I’m telling you not to jump to conclusions.”

Julia’s appetite vanished. “Let’s leave and see if he follows us. Would you mind?”

“Not at all.” Gianluca drained his beer, Julia gathered her purse and trash, then they left the bleachers and went down the stairs. She forced herself not to look back because if White Fiat was following them, she didn’t want to show her hand.

They headed for the tunnel, and the throaty roar of the engines resumed, obliterating all other sound. People were hurrying past them in the opposite direction, running to catch the practice session. The tunnel was emptying. They would be alone. She didn’t know if they would be safe.

“Give me your trash.” Julia held out her hand, and Gianluca gave her the trash as they approached the tunnel. She dropped it intentionally, picked it up, and quickly looked back when she threw it out. White Fiat wasn’t following them.

“He’s not there,” Julia told Gianluca, and they left the tunnel, headed for the parking lot, and reached the motorcycle.

Julia glanced over her shoulder. White Fiat was nowhere in sight. She wedged on her helmet, kicking herself. “Sorry I made us leave. I guess I was wrong.”

“No worries. We should be getting back anyway.” Gianluca swung a leg over the motorcycle, and Julia climbed on after him, putting her arms around his waist. They left the parking lot and drove through the park, winding this way and that through the trees.

“Julia?” Gianluca said through the helmet microphone. He tilted his rearview mirror so she could see. “Look.”

Julia checked the mirror. Three cars back was a white Fiat.

“Hold on tight.”