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“I can imagine. Anyway, if anyone’s looking for me, I’m going to check out front. After that, I’ll be on station.”
The parked van has gone, giving me a clear view of the frontage. La Dolce Vita, on a quiet street, is set in a very pleasant spot, doubtless one of the reasons Emilio can charge what he does.
Only a few yards away, as one road merges into another in a vee-shaped junction, some foresighted town planner planted a triangular island of grass and trees. There's even a small fountain, trickling water.
Pigeons flock onto the bowl of the fountain, then descend on some old woman breaking up bread for the birds. The trees flutter dappled shade over the white stuccoed restaurant walls and the wide sidewalk, set out with tables and casual seating. In good weather, the diners often finish their meals with coffee outside. A side alley conceals trash bins and the paraphernalia of business.
Across the street, a parade of stores is topped by a double layer of apartments, roof gardens above. If you want city living, it would be hard to find a nicer spot.
The door swings open, Emilio with his granddaughter, a paper bag in her hands. The old man guides her out. “Now, be careful as you cross the road, Sofia.”
I nod down to the little girl. “Want me to take her across?”
His face creases into a smile. “Grazie. Sì.”
Holding her hand, I accompany her across to the fountain. She’s a pretty little thing. But then most little girls are, aren’t they. While she breaks up bread for the swooping pigeons, I scan for possible trouble. Nothing looks out of kilter.
Does she enjoy being ‘The Mistress’?
Surely, most women would want more than that?
Or is she a professional?
It doesn’t feel like that. Not even in the sense of Katya being a high-level courtesan.
You’re better than that…
Sofia tosses down the last few crumbs.
“All done now?”
“Sì. Tutto finito.”
Accompanying her back to the door, I send her inside.
She gives me a gap-toothed smile. “Grazie, Signor Hickman.”
“My pleasure, Sofia. Now go find your grandfather before he starts to worry.”
Pacing the street, I measure my eye against the restaurant window and any possible line of sight for a marksman. But Romano’s table is chosen for its position toward the rear of the dining room. He and Katya are well out of the view of possible snipers.
Strolling back inside, I patrol the dining area itself, drifting close enough to them to overhear snatches of conversation…
“… but if the Right get in at the election…” she’s saying… “… it could signal the end of freedom for many women. The denial of rights to…”
Romano nods, but it has the look of polite agreement, not real interest.
It’s much warmer inside than outside and Katya has shed the wrap she was wearing. Her hair pinned high, the nape of her neck displays an intricate tattoo; a dragon in shades of bronze, ochre and umber, the tail coiled between her shoulder blades. It’s a lovely piece of work. True body-art…
Must have cost a hefty sum…
As she moves, the canvas of skin and muscle flexing, the dragon moves with her, as alive as she is, eyes of gold and green which follow me as I cross the room.
She could have anyone…
Take her pick…
Perhaps she enjoys the thrill of being the mistress?
