Page 15 of The Roman Holiday Rule

I should be too or I’ll be late for the reception, so I shower, shave, and change into my dreaded suit. Navigating down the stairs to the street, I dial Mariella’s number as soon as I arrange for a ride on the app.

She doesn’t even say hello. “Tell me you’re not calling to bail on tonight.”

Our restoration company is part of an architecture exhibition in the art festival next week. Mariella is counting on me to help woo the guests and garner good publicity at tonight’s reception for word-of-mouth attention during the festival.

“No, I’m on my way.” I rest against the streetlamp and keep an eye out for my Uber. “What is the family not telling me?”

She’s silent for a long time. “I’ll be seeing you in an hour. Ask me then.”

“Mari. I’m already going to this reception. The least you can do is give me an answer.”

She sighs. “Rumors say the biggest bidder for the palazzo is Zoe Richards at Ivy International Group.”

The news hits me like a punch to the stomach. I thought I was done with Zoe for good.

“I’m sorry if your history with her makes that painful. I’ve got to go.” She hangs up.

IIG. The American company that owns a huge hotel chain. I expected interest from the hotel industry thanks to the palazzo’s ideal location and size.

What I never expected was that it would be Zoe making the bid. I heard she was hired and rose in the company thanks to her “international experience.” Which is a sick, ridiculous joke. She’ll be quick and careless of Italian culture. She’ll get what she wants from Rome and jet out without looking back. Like when we dated, when I followed her to Italy, and when she walked away five months later—a day after I signed a two-year lease on my apartment.

A bright yellow Citroën Ami turns onto my street and buzzes past. Not my ride.

Zoe is how I know what a bad idea it is to get involved with anyone who isn’t a permanent resident in my city and who thinks Italy can be reduced to a few tourist sites and pasta. That mindset is far from harmless.

A black jeep pulls up. This one’s me. I slide into the back seat and slam the door.

I’m not going down that road again.

Nine

Mark

The reception venueis a Baroque stone villa we did restoration work on years ago, so I remember its sprawling layout. The mile-long, tree-lined gravel lane would make a pleasant walk in the late evening, but now, with the sun’s low, straight-in-the-eyes rays, I’m grateful for the car’s air conditioning.

The driver twists in his seat, car idling. “Sir?”

“I know, I’m getting out now.” Can’t put this off any longer.

I pass through the breezy loggia’s arches to the front entrance, pull out my phone, and show the invitation to the middle-aged woman at the door. She hands me a thick card outlined in gold with the wordsRome Art Festivalpainted on a striped hot air balloon at the top and points to the evening’s schedule at the bottom.

I flip it over. There are three columns of names, including mine.

“Don’t lose that.” The woman taps the blank lines next to the list of names. “There will be a competition later and this program doubles as a scorecard. We’ll have an official presentation with information about the festival in about a half hour. In the meantime, make yourself at home.”

Not much chance of that, but I thank her and follow the classicalmusic down a marble hallway to thegrande salotto, where a string quartet plays in the corner.Clusters of people in suits and dresses mill around the gray couches with plates of antipasti. My stomach growls.

First, find Mariella. This place is six-month-renovation huge and there must be over a hundred people in here. I check the open rooms on the main floor. By fortunate accident or event flow design, I happen upon the table loaded with an impressive spread of antipasti.

Not passing that up. I swipe a garlicky mushroom crostini. It’s so crunchy and delicious I’m tempted to stay near the food and let Mariella findme. Whoever is in charge understands how to keep people satisfied. Or, at least, how to mollify people forced to wear a suit and mingle with strangers.

I’ll be back, I mouth at the bruschetta platter. I take a drink from the roaming waiter’s tray and hover near the open back door where guests spill out into the warm night. Cicadas buzz from the trees, almost as loud as the chatter around the stone-tiled patio.

I’m James Bonding the reception right now—on the prowl at a fancy soiree to find my contact and receive an information drop, blueprints to the mansion preloaded in my head.

Except I’m failing my mission.

Mariella isn’t downstairs, unless she’s wandering through the formal gardens.