“I’m sorry,” I say, stepping back. “You had blood on your face.”
He slides his tattooed fingers across his cheek but maintains eye contact with me. There’s a subtle shift in his expression when he lowers his hand.
“She is not my mother,la signoraBellacci.”
“I see.”
“You are not surprised?”
Am I? The news does not come as a revelation. After seeing them in action tonight, even if they are not related, they are clearly a tight unit.
“You work well together.”
“Yes, we do.” He hesitates, appearing to weigh up whether to tell me more. “We shall speak more later when we have breakfast with Romano.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to use the shower?” I ask again. “I have a fresh towel, and I promise I’ll stay in the bedroom and not spy on you—however tempted I might feel.”
Once again, his expression gives nothing away, but I am sure he’s assessing me, wondering if he can trust me. For a moment, Iwonder if I might have broken his resolve when a tiny curl forms into a sexy grin on one side of his mouth .
At that moment, Mrs Bellacci’s voice calls his name from below the stairs, breaking the spell.
“Sleep,” he says before turning away and leaving.
No evidence of anything untoward is visible as I head towards the lights of the kitchen. No sign of bodies lined up outside or of blood on the tiled floor, everything cleaned up with ruthless efficiency.
After Lorenzo left, I lay awake for a long time, wondering if he might return. Eventually, I masturbated to thoughts of Lorenzo, spilling the tension away in a small pool on my stomach before cleaning up and sleeping for a few hours. Once awake, I considered calling Josh, but decided to find out more about what had happened the night before.
As I near the kitchen door, I reach to rub my wrist and falter a moment, realising I’ve forgotten to put on my watch. Instead of retreating, I continue towards the light and company. Breakfast is served inside at the long oak table. Dr Romano is already seated, sipping coffee. When I join them, I sense that words have been spoken. Apart from a brief nod, no explanations are offered. Coffee odours pique my appetite, and I help myself from the large pot Mrs Bellacci pushes my way. Bread rolls, preserves, fresh fruit and some cold meats are laid out. Nothing has been cooked this morning, but even so, lingering scents of old meals hover in the kitchen air. The table fare looks colourful, but I cannot help noticing the dull grey metal of firearms, three piled on the stone floor and one sitting at the end of the table. Nobody else pays them any attention.
We eat breakfast in silence, which should seem odd considering everything that has happened, but this morning feels companionable, and my appetite is undiminished by the night’s dramas. Moreover, I am in no rush for any rationalisation, content to remain patient and let them explain. At one point, when he has finished eating, Dr Romano stands from the table.
“I—we—owe you answers, Gabriel. Lorenzo and I will first go to check on our guest. Another of the men is still alive but unconscious. I have patched him up as best I could, but he will need medical treatment at a hospital after I have dealt with our awake guest. Smart thinking of you, allowing one to survive relatively unharmed. As a rule, our instructions are to erase any intruders. We will speak more when I return.”
Dr Romano murmurs something in Italian to Mrs Bellacci before he heads out into the breaking light of morning with Lorenzo in tow. Mrs Bellacci begins tidying until most of the surfaces are clear.
“This is an interesting choice of weapon.” I indicate the assault rifle collected from one of the men, which is still sitting at the end of the kitchen table.
“It is Italian—”
“I know what it is. A Beretta manufactured circa mid-nineteen-eighties. But I’m surprised they were carrying such outdated weapons.”
“You know about rifles?” she asks.
“I know this one.”
I move over to the device and, in a series of twists and sharp tugs, I systematically dismantle the weapon. My hands move on their own, a memory that isn’t mine guiding them. I pause to inspect each piece as I do, releasing the magazine, hand guard, launcher and tube, trigger housing assembly, charging handle, firing pin and extractor, and handle lock assemblies. Seeing theparts laid out neatly on the table in front of me is supremely satisfying. But this firearm hasn’t been maintained well, was overly stiff to disassemble, and the barrel was clogged with residue. I look up to see Bellacci staring at me.
“How do you learn to do this?” she asks.
“I don’t know. But it felt like second nature.” I know the explanation sounds inadequate, but the series of manoeuvres to dismantle the weapon felt as instinctive as pulling my phone apart to replace the SIM card. Mrs Bellacci smiles her approval before beginning to reassemble the rifle just as quickly. Now it’s my turn to be impressed. When she has finished, I pick up the gun and check over her handiwork before replacing the device on the table.
“You are remarkably adept for a housekeeper.”
Still smiling, she shakes her head at me. “And you are impressively skilled for a tourist. Romano will tell you this soon enough, but Lorenzo is my colleague, not my son. We are not menial workers. At least, that is not our principal role. We are part of a security detail that cooperates closely with other international agencies. I am forbidden from detailing exactly what we do, but after the end of our last assignment, we were posted here for two years to stay under the radar.”
“That begins to make sense. Why here?”
“Why do you think?”