Chapter 5 - Shadows In The Eternal City
The Maybach glided silently through the rain-slicked streets of Rome, the ancient cobblestones blurring past the tinted windows in a smear of golden streetlamps and baroque architecture.
Inside the climate-controlled cabin, the air smelled faintly of expensive leather and subtle sandalwood. Maya had fallen back asleep with her head resting comfortably on my lap, her soft, rhythmic breathing the only sound keeping my escalating panic at bay.
Marcus sat across from me, having unbuttoned his suit jacket and loosened his tie. He was looking at a thick leather-bound briefing folder on his tablet, but his eyes kept drifting up to watch me stare out the window at the passing Colosseum, shrouded in a romantic twilight mist.
"You're shaking," Marcus noted quietly, setting the tablet aside.
"I'm fine," I lied, my voice tight. My fingers traced the edge of my phone in my pocket, completely dead since I had pulled the SIM card out at the Columbus airport to ensure Richard couldn't track my cell tower pings.
"You're terrified," Marcus corrected gently. "And it has nothing to do with the paparazzi back at the terminal. That reporter didn't get a clear shot of your face, if that's what you're worried about. Miller made sure the flash washed out the angle."
I swallowed hard, turning my head to meet his sharp, intelligent gaze. In the dim ambient lighting of the car, his steel-gray eyes held a profound depth that made it difficult to look away.
"If my ex-husband finds out where I am, he will take my daughter," I whispered, the confession slipping out before I could stop it. The exhaustion of the past four days—the frantic packing, the sleepless flights, the constant looking over my shoulder—finally cracked my defenses. "He has money, he has connections in local law enforcement back in Ohio, and I... I have €274 and a distant cousin whose couch we're supposed to crash on in a neighborhood I can't even pronounce."
Marcus didn't offer empty platitudes. He didn't tell me everything would work out fine or that justice always prevailed. Men of his stature knew better; they knew the system was often built to protect those with power, not those with clean hands.
"What's your cousin's name?" Marcus asked calmly.
"Gina. She runs a small bakery near Trastevere," I answered, pulling a crumpled piece of paper from my pocket with the handwritten address.
Marcus took the paper from my fingers, glanced at it for half a second, and memorized the details before sliding it back to me. He pressed a button on the armrest, opening the glass privacy partition separating the cabin from the driver.
"Vance," Marcus instructed the driver. "Change destination. Drop the security detail off at the via Veneto residence, then take us to Trastevere—Via della Scala, number forty-two."
"Sir, that's not part of the official itinerary," the driver replied smoothly through the intercom. "The Italian Foreign Minister's dinner is at eight."
"Tell the Foreign Minister my flight was delayed," Marcus replied without a trace of hesitation. "And cancel my morning meetings until noon."
The partition slid shut with a soft click.
May you like
I stared at him in utter disbelief. "You don't have to do that. You've already done more than enough by getting us past the reporters."
"Clara," Marcus said, his voice dropping into that rich, commanding tone that had negotiated international trade treaties. "You saved my son from screaming himself into a hernia while every professional in first class stood around judging me. The least I can do is make sure you and your daughter don't walk into a dangerous neighborhood in the middle of the night with a single suitcase and €274."
