Page 62 of The Rook’s Obsession

Ouch. “That’s different.”

“Exactly how is it different?”

“I thought you were dead.”

“I didn’t know you existed.” She lets that land, and it sits heavy in my chest. “So, by your logic, we were both single and free to make our own choices. Which means the number doesn’t matter for either of us. Unless you want to tell me yours first?”

I open my mouth. Close it. Open it again. “Let’s talk about something else.”

“I thought you might say that.” The smile she gives me is small and knowing. I would be annoyed by it if it wasn’t so goddamn beautiful. She knows she won. Hell, she won before the conversation started, because she’s smarter than me in all the ways that count. The sooner I make peace with that, the better off I’ll be.

We finish the meal slowly. Lucia brings dessert without being asked—some kind of almond cake with powdered sugar that melts on the tongue. Along with that, we have coffee. By the time we leave, the sun has crossed the sky. It’s heading for the horizon with the kind of unhurried inevitability that only happens in places where time doesn’t feel like it’s working against you.

Ivy leads again. We walk through narrow streets that open onto wider ones. We pass shopfronts and churches and a small park where children are playing while their parents sit on benches and argue about something in rapid Italian. She doesn’t narrate or explain. She just walks, and I walk beside her, and that’s enough.

At one point, her hand finds mine. She doesn’t look at me when she does it. She just reaches over and threads her fingers through mine like it’s something she’s always done, and we keep walking.

She stops on a bridge over one of the smaller canals. Our hands are still linked when she leans against the railing and looks out over the water. The light turns everything gold and amber and makes the yellow and cream buildings on either side of the water glow. For a long time, it’s enough to stand by her side and admire the way the water sparkles where the sunbeams hit it.

It’s enough to stand here, arms touching, breathing together in this moment. Neither of us needs to say a word. It’s enough to be here. It’s even better when she leans closer, her head almost touching my shoulder.

“This is a good spot,” I decide.

“I used to come here after jobs to decompress.” She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly as I watch. In this light, I see the faint scar at her temple. I’ve noticed it before, and I’ve never asked about it, and I probably never will unless she brings it up first. “I wanted to feel like a normal person.”

“Did it work?”

“Sometimes. More than anything else did.” Now her head rests against my shoulder, and I welcome the weight as much as I welcome the music coming through an open window somewhere along the canal. It’s a slow song, kind of pretty, and it fits the moment perfectly.

Then she turns her head until her mouth is close to my ear, and I can feel the warmth of her breath on my skin. “In case you were wondering,” she murmurs, “I’ve never done this with anyone else.”

“That’s good to know,” I reply. She’s giving me something she’s never given anyone. The simplest thing in the world. Her trust, her true self. I bring her hand up and press my lips to her knuckles, and she lets me do it.

The sun slowly sinks and eventually disappears, but neither of us is in any hurry.

IVY

It’s been four days since the club. They’ve been the closest thing to normal I’ve had in longer than I can remember.

We’ve been back to Lucia’s twice. Nick pretended not to notice the way she touched my arm when she brought the wine, which I appreciated—but the faint color in his ears told me he’s still adjusting. We’ve walked until I ran out of streets to show him, then found new ones. He bought me gelato from a cart and watched me eat it like it was the most important thing he’s watched lately. Like he was cataloging every second, every reaction, and storing it. Normally, I would find it unnerving. It would probably piss me off. It doesn’t bother me now.

I took him to a bookshop where I used to spend entire afternoons. The owner, an old man named Sandro who smells like pipe tobacco and doesn’t ask questions, nodded at me like I’d been in last week instead of several months ago. Nick browsed the shelves while I sat by the window and watched him. For a few minutes, the distance between who I was and who I’m becoming narrowed down until it felt a lot more manageable.

It’s been nice. I’m not used to nice. Nice usually makes me suspicious, because in my experience, nice is usually the thing that happens right before everything goes wrong.

There’s an open-air market near the canal that sets up every morning and sells everything from fresh produce to leather bags to cheap scarves for the tourists. I have a paper bag under one arm filled with fresh pasta, bread, wine, and a huge wedge of pecorino. I promised him I’d make cacio e pepe tonight, and I intend to keep that promise. We walk together, side by side, content to be together. I’m actually content.

Which is, of course, when I see him.

He’s on the other side of the street, maybe thirty meters ahead of us. Mid-forties with a stocky build, his hair going gray at the temples. He’s wearing a blue linen jacket that’s too warm for the weather, which tells me he’s carrying something underneath it. He’s walking with purpose but not urgency, phone in one hand while the other swings at his side.

Marco Ferretti. One of Vincenzo’s mid-level associates. Not inner circle, but close enough to know faces. Close enough to know mine.

In the space of a heartbeat, everything changes. The market noise goes flat. The colors drain away. The warm, easy feeling I’ve been carrying these past several days folds up and disappears. Something older and colder replaces it.

I don’t grab Nick’s arm. I don’t do anything that might draw attention. I only angle us toward a fruit stand on our side of the street, putting a canvas awning between us and Marco’s sightline.

“Two o’clock,” I murmur. “Blue jacket. Don’t look.”