02

The woman crosses her arms. A strap of her silk pyjama shirt slips down her shoulder. My mouth dries as she says, « You know, when people get drunk, they call their exes and sing bad karaoke. You planned a heist for a painting worth half a million dollars, and executed it perfectly. »

She gestures to the painting behind her, as if to say, Exhibit A.

I planned a heist ? And pulled it off ?

I shake my head again. Firm. « No, even if I could, which I couldn’t, and even if I did, which I didn’t, I . . . I just . . . it’s not possible. »

I slam the water bottle back onto the nightstand. More cash flutters to the ground. I want to ask why the hell she has so much loose cash, but instead I grab my wallet.

Stiffly, I add, « Also, I need to go. »

The woman looks me up and down, her gaze lingering over my dress, my heels.

« In that ? It’s a little early in the morning to work at a strip club. »

I push open the bedroom door, not daring to look at the painting I allegedly stole. I flick my chin at her―Vittoria, my roommate, said it was the equivalent to giving the middle finger.

« I have a university class to get to in― » I check the clock in her kitchen. « ―six minutes ! »

« Wearing that ? » the woman calls out, following me through the apartment.

« Yes, » I hiss. « I don’t have any other clothes. And there’s no time to go back now. »

« You know, you could wear something of mine. »

My chin tilts higher. « I am perfectly fine going like this. » Damn my pride.

« Could I at least give you a ride ? The university is halfway across town. »

Shit. If I say no, I’ll be late. But if I say yes . . .

It’s my first day of class. I can’t be late.

« Fine, » I say coldly. « Thank you. »

« WHEN YOU SAID RIDE, THIS ISN’T what I was picturing. »

I cross my arms over my chest, ignoring the warm wind that ruffles the edges of my dress.

The woman buckles the helmet beneath my chin. She only had one, and she said I needed it more than she did.

And who said chivalry is dead ?

The woman straddles the seat of the motorcycle and pats the space behind her. « Are you coming or not ? »

She revvs the engine, and a thunderous roar burns through the empty cobblestone streets.

I refrain from asking, Is this safe ? Mostly, because I’m terrified the answer will be a grin and not of course this is safe, don’t be ridiculous.

I hop onto the back of the motorcycle and tighten my arms around the woman’s stomach.

Breathing in the scent of leather, I close my eyes as the woman pushes the motorcycle into gear and we go flying.

Wind rushes into my ears, drowning out the sound of my heartbeat.

Blood pumps hard and fast through my body, until my fingertips tingle and dizziness washes through me.

I feel alive.

After what feels like forever but is definitely only a minute, I open my eyes and squint at the world around us. Cobblestone streets and pink brick buildings blur as we speed past the people walking and the shiny metallic cars driving.

Straight into the heart of the city.

Strands of the woman’s dark hair whip my face. I taste lemon and verbena.

But angels above, it’s glorious.

When we finally thunder to a stop in front of the university, students turn to gape at us. The woman gives me a wry grin as I let go of the firmness of her stomach and jump off the seat.

I unbuckle my helmet and hand it to her.

I’m already late, but I pause.

« Um. Thank you. »

The woman’s eyes are like pools of honey. She blinks at me. A ferocious grin curves her mouth.

« You’re welcome. »

The engine roars, and the motorcycle takes off with a rush of wind.

I’m already on the marble steps of the Accademia, four minutes late, before I realize―

I don’t even know her name.

« THAT IS NOT FUNNY. »

« Come on. It’s a little funny. »

I shake my head. « You think it’s funny because you weren’t there. Believe me, it was terrible. It was awful. It was-« 

« Humiliating ? Embarrassing ? Awkward ? »

« Hey ! »

Vittoria grins. « What ? I thought we were just supplying words. »

I give her a look. « Well, we weren’t. »

Just then, the waiter arrives holding two plates. Penne for me, gnocchi with basil for Vittoria. The scent of tomato sauce and grated Parmesan cheese is heavenly.

Around a forkful of pasta, Vittoria says, « So . . . this all happened this morning ? »

I swallow and nod. « This morning. Which begs the question-how much did I drink last night ? »

Vittoria’s eyes flicker guiltily. I may have met her only a few days ago, but as my roommate, I’ve noticed one particular tell of hers-that conscience. That guilty, guilty conscience.

As she dips her fork into the gnocchi, her eyes dart away. « Well, the alcohol I ordered was a little stronger than what you . . . Americans . . . might be used to. Here, in Italy, we drink wine with everything, which means our tolerance is high. »

I finish for her. « And you need stronger drinks to actually get drunk. »

Vittoria nods, a nervous smile twisting her lips. « Sorry, mia cara. »

I wave her off. « It’s fine. Just please-a warning next time ? »

Her answering grin is devilish.

I dig into the plate, and Vittoria says, « When do you think you’ll see her again ? »

I shrug. « Probably never. I don’t even know her name. »

Vittoria narrows her eyes. « Listen here. This isn’t your little Americano city . . . Las Vegas ? New York ? »

« Los Angeles, » I supply.

« Right. Los Angeles. This is a small city, and everyone knows everyone. Chances are, I know your little girlfriend. » She twirls her fork in the air, and a wide grin splits her face. « Oh . . . I know. You’ll see her at the Gala this venerdi ! »

Venerdi. Friday.

« Gala ? What Gala ? »

Vittoria’s eyes are dreamy, lit by the glow of the golden light bulbs. « Oh, it’s just the most beautiful art ball in the world. The university students are all invited, and they put these great works on display for everyone to see. Once, they even had the Mona Lisa brought over. »

Images of the Desperate Dancer painting in the woman’s room flit through my mind’s eye. I push them away. She was lying. She had to be. I didn’t steal anything.

« And she’ll be there ? » I say doubtfully.

Vittoria opens her mouth to respond, but in the next second her arms are across the table and she yanks me down to floor.

Gunshots ring across the restaurant. The window shatters. Glass sprays.

Screams pierce the dark, and then I hear it : The sound of an engine, roaring. Then wind rushes through the broken windows, and the vehicle takes off.

From where I’m laying on the ground, head tucked into my arms, I slowly lift myself up.

« What the hell was that ? » I ask, breathless. Eyes wide.

Vittoria stands, brushes herself off. She doesn’t look at me, but instead at a man who has rushed to the front of the restaurant. Judging from the way he’s dressed, I know he’s the owner.

Too quickly for me to catch on, she begins to speak to him. « Cos’hai fatto ? Come li hai fatti impazzire ? »

Something about making people mad ?

The man shakes his head, throwing his hands up in frustration. « Ero a corto di soldi e ho cambiato la mia alleanza con la famiglia Genovese. Non potevo permettermi la protezione dei Falcones. »

He couldn’t afford something . . . but what ?

Vittoria’s voice suddenly becomes very soft and very, very dangerous. »Sei sotto la protezione della famiglia Genovese ? »

Blinking tears from his eyes, the man gestures to the room. At the people, crouching down on the ground, the others gathering their things to leave. »Sì, ma che importa ? I Falcones hanno appena sparato ai miei clienti. Gli affari sono rovinati. »

Vittoria’s eyes are hard, cold. I only met her last week, and even though we’ve been roommates for less than seven days, I have never seen her like this. Furious.

« Non preoccuparti di questo. Lo abbiamo coperto, » she says.

This time, I understand the last sentence : We’ll take care of this.

We ?

Vittoria moves towards me and urges me to collect my things. The owner pushes away everyone who tries to pay, but Vittoria shoves euros into his hand anyway.

In English, she says, « Take care. »

The owner nods briefly, looking grave. « Grazie. »

Outside of the restaurant, in the cool night air, I glance at Vittoria. Too full of questions to ask one. I’ve never seen anything like that before-a drive-by at a restaurant ?

Vittoria takes in my expression, and as we walk, begins to explain.

« What you saw back there . . . it’s part of a long, long history between the three families in Sicily. The Genoveses, the Abruzzis, and the Falcones. »

The streets are empty ahead of us, lit by the golden glow of the streetlamps. Beneath our feet, the cobblestone shines with damp rain.