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“Fox.”
“How old are you?”
“Eighteen, why?”
“Young to be sent all the way from Chicago to Rome for work, aren’t you? What line of work are you in? Let me guess, it’s fashion, isn’t it?”
“What makes you say that?”
“The cut of your outfit is sharper than your pay would let you afford. You didn’t buy that handbag.”
“You don’t know what I can afford.”
“I know how much a night in this hotel costs. I know you’d stay at a better place if you had the money that handbag and dress suggest. I know the designer of that dress, and I know how much it cost. You got it from work. You didn’t buy it.”
“Maybe I bought it.”
The elevator pings, and the door opens. He steps in, shaking his head.
“What?” I snap. “Why are you smirking at me like that?”
“Let’s say you could afford the dress. Why’d you pair it with those twenty-five dollar sneakers?”
“I like these sneakers; they cost two hundred bucks, thank you.”
“They look like you’re about to run track at college. If I were your boss, I’d have you out of them instantly. Heels suit you better than flats. Make you stand taller, look more confident, not hunch your shoulders like that.”
“Well, lucky for you, you’re not my boss or my stylist, so get off my ass, would you?”
He moves on like I haven’t spoken. “What are you doing here in Rome? Apart from advertising your awful taste in shoes.”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m here to pick up a dress.”
“Courier services exist.”
“I know that.”
“So why send you all the way out here for one dress? You work for royalty or something?”
“Are you always this nosy?”
“Humor me.”
The elevator opens, and we step out into the lobby. The Italian police are waiting for us. About a dozen of them. One with a mustache seems to be in charge, giving a speech in Italian to the others. He stops dead when he sees my colleague.
The group parts like the Red Sea, letting us walk through the middle of them. “Signor Lombardi,” the chief says as we pass by. “Sara trattato.”
“Grazie, Benito.”
We walk outside. “Who are you?” I ask as we head down the steps to where a waiting limousine is holding up the traffic behind it.
“Hunter Lombardi,” he says as his driver steps out to open the car’s back door. “I presume you’ve heard of me.”
“Nope. Should I have?”
“I guess not.” He steps to one side, waiting for me to climb into the back of the car. As I get in, I get the uncomfortable feeling he’s looking at my ass.
I’m used to men being perverts. It’s what they do. They’re all the same. All heading down the road that eventually leads to Oswald. I saw the cops looking at my tits in the lobby.
