“What the—” It surges forward with power. I look down at the black box. A motor?
I’m weaving through people, the wind slapping my cheeks, the handlebars shaking in my sweaty grip. How do I slow this thing down? I dare a quick glance at the handles and there’s not one of those squeezie brake things.
A horn blasts and I look up in time to narrowly miss a pedestrian who gives me a hand gesture I can understand. I try to slow down, stop pedaling, drag my feet on the pavement, but it’s no use. The car turns. I turn. The alleyway narrows. Another car nearly clips me as it cuts me off.
There’s traffic, and like a true Italian, I navigate through the tight space between cars until I’m just close enough to look inside the windows. When I do, I meet the confused looks of an older man and his wife.
I’ve lost him. Great.
I pedal back toward what Ihopeis the square, only to realize every street here looks the same. The winding alleys, the cobblestones, the charming shutters and balconies—it’s a maze disguised as a postcard.
Panic nudges me to pedal harder. Huge mistake. This thing launches like it’s in a race. I’m rocketing downhill, the square up ahead, tourists scattering as I blow past.
“Brakes. Brakes. Brakes.” I press everything—pedals, grips, prayer.
Finally, there’s a clearing ahead. But I’m still going too fast. The closer I get to it, the more people begin waving at me, warning me to slow down. All I can do is grit my teeth and pretend like I’m in control. A few people yell. I yell back, “Sorry!”
I round the curve just in time to see the cart. Up. Close. And personal.
I slam into it, crashing into a pile of flowers, fruit, and... is that a fish? A bucket of water tips, soaking me from head to toe.
People rush over. I sit up slowly. There’s more Italian I can’t understand. And the absolute humility of sitting in a puddle of water with lettuce in my hair and tomato stains on my tracksuit, looking like a Mediterranean salad.
Chapter 16
Ben
Lagoverde, Italy
Friday morning
I’m elbowing through the crowd to get closer to the commotion, and when I do, my heart nearly crashes through my rib cage.Cybil.“Mi scusi, mi scusi.”
She’s sitting on the street, surrounded by bruised produce and stunned pedestrians. She blinks up at me like I dropped out of the sky.
“B—”
“Are you hurt?” I cut her off, dropping to my knees. Her hair’s a mess, tomato smeared on her shirt, cheeks pink with embarrassment. I reach out, fingers brushing her leg to check for injury, but she swats my hand away.
“Does it hurt anywhere?” I press. “Head? Limbs? Cracked ego?”
“Besides my pride?” she mutters, glancing around at the gawkers before narrowing her eyes on me. “Whatare you doing here?”
Her tone is sharp enough to draw blood. But I don’t answer—because I can’t. Because the real reason involves the man who was following me. I’d spotted him watching us during the meeting. I needed to know who he was, so I declined Moretti’s offer to join him and Marcello Vieri for lunch and circled back to the last place I saw the man.
I couldn’t find him and was on my way back to the villa. Then I heard the scream. The crash. Now I’m here, facing Cybil’s misdirected agitation.
“Cybil,” I say, steady and low, “I need you to hear me. Does anything feel broken?”
Before she can answer, the produce vendor storms over, Italian flying fast and furious. His precious tomatoes didn’t survive her crash landing. I stand, pull out my wallet, and negotiate a peace treaty with euros.
“Puoi schiantarti e pagarmi,” he grumbles, counting the bills.
The crowd trickles away. Cybil’s already back on her feet, shouldering her purse and giving me the full view of her outfit. The bright blue tracksuit is giving nineties rapper vibes, but the way she’s eyeballing me, I know to keep that to myself.
“Just...” She exhales, shoulders sagging. “Don’t.”
I grab the bike. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”
