When we land my eyes are aching, my heart is broken into a thousand pieces, and my mind doesn’t stop wandering. But I drag myself from my seat and stumble down the aisle. Flight attendants smile and greet me, but I don’t give a rat’s ass about a single thing in the world. Derek is either dead or dying or sick. Binx is in a kennel, and he only ever lasts about a week. So I am on borrowed time with that one. Angie might be in danger. Pat is in danger. And whatever the hell is in that safety-deposit box is a risk I can’t afford anymore.
A man ahead of me has his iPhone hanging from his bag. I walk closer to him, wiggling my fingers and watching the phone. It’s a crazy idea but I reach up, slipping it from the bag, nudging him as I pocket it. He looks back, and I offer a sheepish grin. “Sorry.”
When I get to customs in Rome, I smile and nod, hoping everything checks out for my new identity, Inga Deloncrae. My passport identity is an American from Maine. The man at the counter grants the seven days I require to attend the “business meeting” I am en route to Turin for. Italian men are easy when you smile and bat your eyelashes.
Once I’ve arrived in Turin, I am desperate to get back to the US. The cab ride from the small airport in Turin is short. I can’t nap alone with a man I don’t know, but my eyes are burning, almost as badly as my stomach is aching. I need food.
The aching and irritability don’t end as we pull up outside of an unostentatious building. I have never seen a bank look like this before. It’s stone and glass and might have been fancy once upon a time, but the area seems to have become laden in graffiti and cars I wouldn’t assume were Italian. They’re definitely not Lambos.
The cabbie leans back, giving me a smarmy look. I slap cash into his hand, not certain how much I’ve given him, but by the smile it must be an all-right amount. That was the only perk to stopping in Rome—I was able to change my money and clear customs.
I get out, gripping the key and watching the people on the streets. The sun is in the middle of the sky, but the air is cold. In the distance, snowcapped mountains surround the city. It’s cold and blustery and not at all how I pictured Italy. I hurry up the steps, excited and anxious all at once.
When I get inside the marble foyer of the ancient-looking bank, warm air blasts me. I shiver with the chill I still have but walk to the front counter. A middle-aged and yet sensual-looking woman smiles at me. She asks in Italian if I have an appointment.
I shake my head, offering her Italian in return, to my own surprise. I explain that I just need to get into my safe-deposit box. She lifts a perfectly sculpted, dark eyebrow, explaining I will have to come back, as an appointment is necessary.
I nearly turn away, defeated and uncertain as to how long I will have to stay, when a man smiles wide, clapping his hands excitedly and rushing toward us. He embraces me, whispering in my ear in English, “Are you crazy?”
I nod against his cheek, almost relaxing into the scent of his aftershave. He smells like someone I know. He turns, telling the woman I am his special client, and drags me across the shiny stone floor to an office. When we are inside he offers a chair. “Ms. Barnes, I thought we agreed that you would never come here again.”
I scowl. “I need to see inside the box.”
His gaze narrows. “Why? No good can come of that. It’s not an insurance policy if you take it out.”
“I just want to look in on it, check its safety and ensure it’s still intact.” I know this dark-haired man. I know him, but I can’t recall how.
He sits on the edge of the desk, looking down at me, sighing and nodding. “Fine, we go and look, and you leave. You never come back again. Your life is at risk just being here.”
What the fuck?
Who the hell am I?
I know I was a spy once upon a time, but an Italian banker is worried about me? Needless to say, I am completely lost, and yet satisfied, when he opens the door again and leads me down the long hallway.
“We have to be very careful; keep your head down.” He plucks my clothing. “At least you dressed incognito. No one here will recognize you.”
We descend a wide set of stone stairs to the basement. They make me nervous with their sharp edges and brilliant shine. They’re a deathtrap waiting to happen. I can feel my sneaker treads gripping the shiny floor, but he has on leather dress shoes. I’m terrified for him.
“They have been asking about you all over Europe. Searching high and low for three years. It’s been painful to see them struggle.” He’s joking and mocking someone I don’t know, but I smile and nod. He nudges me when we enter another corridor, this one much more glamorous looking. “You seem different.”