Chapter 14 #2
“I was—but I’ve suddenly lost my appetite.”
“If Cec is so worried about this place, then why are we going there?” I ask Bes. “I imagine there are dozens of places we can go for a bite to eat.”
“There are, but none that I know the layout of and can guarantee our safety while we’re there,” Bes reasons.
As he says this, the throng in front of us starts to slow down. Standing on my toes, I peer over the tops of people’s heads. I spot a pair of men in gray-green shirts, with distinct flaming grenade badges on their collars, slowly wading through the crowd.
“That’s the Carabinieri,” Bes murmurs, “performing random checks of people’s national identity cards.”
Worry hollows my stomach. “Of which we have none.”
Not waiting for Bes to come up with a plan of how to get us out of this, I glance around, finding an alleyway directly to our right. Wordlessly, I grasp Bes’s hand and lead both of them down it.
Unfortunately, it dead-ends.
Time to improvise.
Exercising some force, I gently shove Bes against the brick wall. Then, I swing Cec around to his other side, so that Bes blocks his cousin with his slightly larger size.
Bes’s eyes widen, mouth dropping open. “What the bloody hell are you—”
Before he can finish that query, I step into him, placing my hand on his chest. He cuts himself off and his gaze slides to my mouth, lips parting slightly.
His heart hammers beneath my touch, matching my own.
The last time we were this close, Bes held me on the deck of the boat after saving me from going overboard.
But now, this moment… I swallow hard. It’s utterly different.
“Place your hand on my cheek and pretend to kiss me,” I murmur, arching my neck until our lips nearly touch.
Cec gently clears his throat but doesn’t say anything.
Bes pauses for a second longer than he should, brow furrowed in thought. I’ve never before wanted to know what Bes is thinking, but I’d give anything to know it now.
Finally, he reaches up to cup my cheek, effectively hiding our lips.
His hand is hot against my skin and I can’t help leaning in another inch or so.
Our breaths mingle softly, and my fingers curl around the fabric of his shirt on their own, knuckles pressing into the muscle of his chest. His Adam’s apple bobs gently as he swallows, deep brown eyes flicking to my lips again.
Slow warmth pools in my stomach at his proximity, and I bite the inside of my lip to stop the ache growing inside me.
God, I want to kiss him. The urge hits me so acutely that I’m barely able to breathe from it.
Remember why you’re in this position, I practically yell at myself.
Tearing my attention from him, I flick my gaze toward the street—right as the two Carabinieri walk by without giving us a single glance.
Once they’re out of sight, I take a step back and let out a breath. My pulse hammers in my chest and my neck, and I’m having difficulties settling it.
“Looks like they’re gone,” I say, voice hoarse.
“If only they’d stayed a little longer,” Cec quips, winking when I glance over. “Who knows what would’ve happened.”
“That was quick thinking, Miss Hawkins,” Bes admits roughly, not meeting my eyes as he grips the back of his neck.
Heat rises to my cheeks. “I was bound to do something right eventually.”
With the Italian police moved on, Bes wordlessly leads us out of the alleyway and over worn cobblestone, down one street after another, until we slip away from the crowd.
Heat lingers in my veins as we pass dozens of storefronts, though most have shut their doors for the night. Or closed up shop altogether, their windows boarded up with weathered plywood. The few souls who pass us now rush by with their heads down. As if they’re hoping we overlook them too.
And still, I haven’t managed to shake off how I felt in that alleyway. I’ve never wanted Bes to kiss me before, but the way he was looking at me, the way my body warmed and ached at his presence… I became temporarily desperate for him.
Now’s not the time nor the place to get distracted, I remind myself, looking for Ingrid in every face we pass.
I open my mouth to ask Bes if we’re close, when he pivots down a narrow corridor. Cec and I stumble to keep up.
The cobblestones become more uneven here, and my feet have trouble adapting, ankles and knees trembling like a newborn foal.
Luckily, it doesn’t take long for Bes to choose another, narrower passageway that spits us out in front of a darkened shopfront.
It sits silently across from a faceless, cracking building, not another soul in sight.
“Cozy,” I note. “So, is this a place you come to often? Will anyone here recognize either of you?”
Bes pushes his glasses up his nose. “It’s rare we find ourselves in this port. Likely only the owner remembers us.”
Likely? That’s reassuring.
“And you don’t think it’s too much of a risk? Considering we’re trying to keep a low profile because we’re, you know, being hunted?”
Bes’s tone grows impatient. “Every choice we make is a risk. I trust Uncle Arturo’s contacts.”
Must be nice.
“I don’t like it,” I announce.
Cec buts in. “Hawkins might be right, Bes. If our movements are being tracked, then going to Gino’s will put him in danger as well.”
Bes turns to us. “Then go back to the boat; no one’s stopping you.”
My nostrils flare and my jaw clenches, the only outward show of my rising anger I allow.
Don’t forget why you’re here, I tell myself. You need to learn as much as you can about the amulet and the God Men. You might not get another opportunity like this.
I stare at the pizzeria with new eyes. The place is certainly worse for wear: the metal sign above the door—which reads “Pizza Segreta”—is rusted and dangling precariously from a single hinge, the glass smudged and scratched so badly it appears frosted.
I grimace. “You’re telling me this place has good pizza?”
Bes wipes the sweat from his brow. “The best outside of Roma.”
“You have to qualify that?”
“Yes,” they both say seriously.
Cec groans, his lower lip pouting. “You had to pick Gino’s.”
Bes sighs. “You know it’s the only place near this port I can guarantee our safety. You’ve got to leave the past in the past, mate.”
“I have,” Cec argues. “Gino’s the one with the long memory and the stubbornness of a bull. That man could be rotting in his grave and still manage to hold a bloody grudge.”
Bes pushes through the front door. “I suppose we’re about to find out.”
I brush my fingers against the scarf, ensuring that my hair and neck are covered. No going back now.
The hinges squeal and a bell tinkles overhead, announcing our arrival.
I thought a place so tucked away and beaten within an inch of its life would be empty—a ghost town.
So, I’m surprised to find Pizza Segreta as crowded as I imagine a speakeasy during Prohibition was: boisterous, wine-fueled laughter and people enjoying each other’s company fill nearly every table, completely cut off from what’s going on in the outside world.
Without a word to either me or Cec, Bes makes a beeline for the back.
There’s barely enough room to squeeze past the overcrowded tables, and my hips knock into a couple of people.
Venetian walls slathered in terracotta and decorated with painted grape vines in the corners surround us, reminding me of Nonna’s house.
A faded-red brick back wall greets us, a large stone pizza oven at the center framed by a halfmoon circle. It reeks pleasantly of basil and garlic the closer we get to it. The deep flames dancing inside heat up the crowded space, causing sweat to pop up on my forehead.
A bout of melancholy scrapes at my chest. The last time I had one of Nonna’s homemade pizzas was over a year ago. I miss it more than I can say in this moment.
With the door shut resolutely behind us, the middle-aged, large-bellied man behind the counter looks up and grins. Bes raises a hand in greeting.
“Gino.”
“Bes,” the man bellows, quieting the room and bringing everyone’s attention to us.
They quickly go back to their conversations, though, once they see we’re not a threat.
So much for remaining conspicuous in the Port of Civitavecchia.
I pull the scarf closer around me, discomforted by the fact that a couple dozen people just heard Bes’s name practically shouted through the restaurant.
Bes doesn’t seem to notice, though. In fact, Bes smiles fully for the first time since meeting him.
It lights up his entire face: both sides of his lips tug up like they can’t help themselves to reveal perfect teeth, and his deep brown eyes warm, sparking the dull flecks of gold in them.
Nothing like the churning silver I swear I’ve seen once before, but just as entrancing.
The sight of it stops my heart and flips my stomach over. And I thought Cec’s smile was infectious.
The stranger who’s drawn out this blessed smile reminds me of a man Nonna calls my uncle, but who’s actually a family friend from church.
Visibly inebriated, he boasts a rounded belly and grins from ear to ear with red-stained yellowing teeth and ruddy cheeks.
An apron—which was probably white at some point, but has since gained a myriad of permanent smudges in red, black, and green—is tied over faded beige slacks and a flour-dusted black shirt.
His partly-bald head shimmers on top with sweat, while the rest of his hair poofs out from the sides in gray streaks like a crown.
“O mangiar questa minestra o saltar questa finestra.”
“What did he say?” I whisper to Cec. Who, strangely enough, is the only other person here besides me who appears uneasy. His shifty, milky eyes and furrowed brow mirror my own reservations. What’s got him so damned nervous?
Cec nibbles on his thumbnail. “This is how he and Bes say hello. It’s an Italian proverb that literally means ‘Either eat this soup or jump out of this window’.”
I chuckle. “Italians always say it better.”