Page 70 of Valentino

"Rome. Bruno already has the apartment set." I lean against the doorframe and let him hear the part where he doesn't get a vote. "Luca drives lead. You take the second car with Amanda. I ride with her."

"Of course you do." He fits the slide back together without looking, the metal clicking into place.

"Go find Luca," I say. "Take his place on the perimeter. I need him inside."

His jaw works. For a second, I think he's going to swing. Part of me wants him to. A little because of him, but mostly because I've wanted to hit something since the palazzo and walls don't bleed.

He stands and slides the gun into the holster at his back. Then he goes, and the door clicks shut behind him.

Luca comes in three minutes later. His face gives away about as much as a locked safe. Fifteen years I've worked with him, and I've seen him surprised exactly never. I don't think death surprises him anymore. He notes it, files it, moves on.

"We're moving," I tell him. "Rome. Four hours."

He nods once and pours himself coffee from the pot.

"You drive lead. If something is set up for us, it'll be ahead, not chasing." I take the second cup he pours. "Fabio's already in Rome. Apartment's in Trastevere. By the time we pull up, he'll know every face on that street and which ones belong there."

"Trastevere." Luca pours sugar into his coffee. "Crowded."

"Crowded is the point. We're hiding her in a city of strangers instead of an empty house anyone can drive a truck into." I drink. The coffee is terrible, but I don't care. "Fabio runs the inside. You run the route. I handle Amanda."

The corner of Luca's mouth moves a hair, the closest thing to an opinion he allows himself. "You handle Amanda."

"Don't start."

"I haven't said anything."

"You don't have to. I know that look.”

Amanda

I sit on the edge of the bed with my hands in my lap, pulling the sleeves over my knuckles because I don't know what else to do with them.

My phone would be in my lap right now. I would be scrolling. Posting something. A photo of the window. The coffee mug on the nightstand. Anything.

It's been—I don't know. A day. Two days. I can't count right. I have never gone this long without it.

The posting was never the point. It just filled the empty spaces. The quiet dinners. The birthdays spent at someone else's table. The feeling that if I stopped talking, nobody would notice I was gone.

I tried therapy once. Four sessions. By the fourth, I was making jokes instead of answering questions and counting down the minutes until I could leave. She told me things I didn't want to hear. Things that hit too close. I never went back.

I pull the sleeves farther down, and then the tears come.

I am so tired of being the girl who's fine.

The door opens. He stops in the doorway like he hit a wall. I don't turn my face away. There's no point. He's already seen me.

He crosses the room and lowers himself until he's crouched in front of me, forearms on his knees, those scarred-up hands hanging loose between them. His eyes are level with mine.

"I can't watch you do that," he says, his voice low, rougher than usual.

"Do what?" It comes out wet. Not my best work.

"Cry like that. Like you're trying to make it quiet. Like you're trying to take up less space while you do it."

I let out a breath that's half laugh, half hurt. "Careful, Conti. You're getting chatty."

"If there's something I can do," he says, ignoring that, "so it doesn't happen again, you ask. Whatever it is. I'll handle it."