Chapter 19
“Apologies, explain how you’re related to us again?”
Cec and I both groan from the cramped backseat of the faded green Fiat we’ve been stuffed into like sardines in a can for the past two and a half hours.
This is the third time Bes has asked our driver the same damn question. In fact, it’s practically all we’ve talked about since he flagged us down amid the bustle at the Port of Genoa after docking the boat.
The moment he approached us, Bes put up his guard. Admittedly, so did I, given my past history. Cec, however, wasn’t ruffled by the stranger’s name, so I figured we weren’t in any danger. No doubt this man is another one of Arturo’s “friends.”
Now that we’re traveling by car, we must be getting closer to Arturo’s safehouse.
While I hope this means I won’t have to face any more fascists for at least a few days, I’m also looking forward to knowing more about what’s going on here.
Because this is starting to look more like an entire spy network rather than a few friends supporting each other, with the resources to back it up.
I thought something similar in the pizza place when Bes suggested I make a deduction based on all the evidence.
I believe I called it an organized, well-funded anti-fascist resistance in my mind.
And that holds even truer now. Ailsa brought the boat from God knows where.
Gino, though he gets paid for his services, owns a pizzeria.
Francesca runs and operates a costume shop.
The Maestro owned an underground club. And this man, Anders, came to pick us up in a car.
Not a nice car, mind you—but a working car all the same.
Well-connected doesn’t even begin to describe Arturo’s close acquaintances.
On the boat ride here, I fully committed to the idea that the person who’s put themselves in charge of my fate since landing in Cairo is Bes’s uncle, and that he holds a great amount of power and influence to keep so many people under his thumb.
Including our driver.
Bes was so insistent on probing this man straight away that I haven’t even had a chance to enjoy Milan. And it’s not like I can ask Cec to be my tour guide and point things out to me.
In all fairness, we’re not exactly at the heart of the city: mostly browning farmland and a scattering of houses surround us. I can’t even recognize a single tall gothic spire in the distance, and my mood has yet to improve because of it.
Or, perhaps it’s because, though I’ve chosen to do the noble thing and keep the Amulet of Amun safe from the clutches of the German Third Reich, I have no idea if Arturo has plans for me and the amulet.
I trust Bes and Cec, but I don’t know Arturo.
No matter how much faith Nonna has in him.
Who’s to say he doesn’t intend to use it for his own nefarious means?
My sour mood can also be attributed to the fact that, every time I draw breath, I take in the unwelcome stench of gasoline, clove cigarettes, and a hint of what can only be described as male body odor, prompting the thumping ache between my eyes.
It could be because I’m exhausted from never stopping—never feeling like I can rest—since getting on that plane to Egypt.
Or… it might be the mounting perplexity I feel in regards to all things Bes.
I’ve been with men before, and even a few women, but none of them have frustrated me the way he does.
Sometimes, he treats me like a stranger, as if we haven’t faced life and death together; other times, he looks at me like I could hang the moon.
He literally took the sharp end of a blade for me from the man I attempted to dance with last night, but snapped at me for not leaving him there to fight alone.
Whatever it is that’s soured my mood—likely all of it at once—I’m damned irritable. My only solace is this isn’t a British car, which means Bes is sitting directly in front of me. There’s no logical reason why it should make me feel safe, but it does.
I close my eyes for a moment, remembering how Bes stood up for me against the Blackshirt, who ended up trying to murder him in the tunnels. While I could’ve stood up for myself, the fact that he cared enough to intervene ignites the butterflies in my stomach, even now.
The way it felt when he touched me, how his arms wrapped around me… It was the first time I truly felt like he would protect me, like he promised he would back in Egypt. It sets me on fire simply thinking about it.
Ever since he put himself between me and that knife, I’ve realized something: Bes cares for me more than even he would ever be willing to admit aloud.
And although I’ve been at least mildly suspicious of him from the moment we met, I can’t help feeling something for him too.
Something deep and—if I’m being honest—frightening.
I undo another button from my shirt and crank my window down a few more inches. I wish I’d thought to bring shorts with me. It’s my own damn fault for not preparing for the worst.
The backside of the Amulet of Amun sticks uncomfortably to my chest once more.
From the moment I pulled it from its resting place in the Osireion, it’s been nothing but a nuisance.
But, my God, it’s fascinating. A part of me wishes we could’ve gone straight to Arturo’s.
Though I have no idea what his true intentions with me might be, the promise of perusing his library and finding more information on the amulet makes it worth taking the risk.
When it warmed against my back in the club, I knew I wasn’t imagining it. Something otherworldly plagues the amulet, and I’m going to find out what.
“Not by blood. I’m Nonna Alessa’s sister’s husband’s son’s wife’s son,” the young man, Anders, reiterates in what I believe to be a Norwegian accent?
Danish? Maybe Swedish? It’s hard to say; from what I remember, their languages are so similar they’d be able to understand each other if they conversed in their own native tongues.
Luckily, he speaks English more than well enough.
“If you’re Nonna Alessa’s sister’s husband’s son’s wife’s son, then wouldn’t you just be Nonna Alessa’s sister’s husband’s son’s son?” Bes wonders.
My headache worsens with trying to keep up, and I pinch the bridge of my nose.
“What the bloody hell is happening?” Cec mutters.
Headache abating slightly from the pressure, I crush my lips together to hold in a laugh. I don’t think Cec meant to say that out loud.
“My mother had me when she married my father,” Anders continues, “after Nonna Alessa’s sister’s husband’s son, my mother’s first husband, died in a motorcar accident.”
Cec scratches his head and blinks his milky eyes. “They’ve broken my brain, Hawkins.”
I pat his shoulder. “I don’t think you can reasonably blame them for that, old chap.”
Cec smirks.
Bes tucks his hair behind his ears, unrelenting. “But then wouldn’t—”
Enough of this.
“Bes,” I bark.
He turns around in his seat, wincing from the sewed-up stab wound in his chest he earned the night before.
Luckily, the boat kept a robust emergency kit and a bottle of vodka stocked.
I’ve never sewed flesh before, and I hope to never experience it again.
He flashes me the shiner he received too.
It’s healing quicker than I would’ve thought possible, somehow already splotched with yellow.
“It’s too damn hot for this,” I tell him. “And I swear to God, I will leap out of this moving car if you ask Anders about his connection to your family one more time.”
Bes purses his lips, choosing the silent route. Knew that’d do the trick. He learned from our quarrel near the Port of Civitavecchia that I don’t make idle threats.
Cec leans into me and speaks softly. “I can’t believe that worked. I’ve threatened to harm myself hundreds of times if he didn’t shut up, and it’s gotten me nowhere.”
“I could attempt to teach you, but unfortunately it’s a natural talent.”
Cec nods sagely.
The driver sighs at the sweet peace of Bes’s silence. “Thank you, Miss Hawkins.”
I sniff, falling back on the worn leather seat and trying not to sound bitter when I say, “I didn’t do it for your benefit.”
Cec leans forward now. I silently beg him to let it go, knowing he won’t.
“Come on, Bes, leave the poor bloke alone. He knew the password, knows where Arturo’s place is. I even met him the last time I was there. What could possibly make you think he’s not a part of”—he glances in my direction—“our cause?”
The cause of anti-fascism, I presume.
Desperate to find a way to stretch out in this tin can of a car, I shift my legs awkwardly for the dozenth time.
“I thought Gino and Francesca were a part of your cause,” I start, “but then one of them betrayed us.”
“Betrayed us?” Bes demands. “Why do you think one of them betrayed us?”
“How else did Ingrid find out where we were?” I ask, wondering how he, of all people, could possibly be so na?ve.
“Francesca couldn’t have,” Cec reasons.
“How could you possibly—” I look over to find him cocking an eyebrow near me. “Never mind. I don’t want to hear another lie.”
I shrug. “If that’s the case, then it must’ve been Gino.”
“Tread lightly, Hawkins,” Cec murmurs, but I ignore him.
“The only person besides Francesca who knew we were in town was Gino, a man who you pay to make you aware of any Blackshirts lurking at his establishment.”
Bes bows his head. “You don’t know him like I do. He’s been like a father to me and—”
“Then maybe you should talk to your actual father instead of trusting a stranger.”
Cec sucks in a breath.
Bes’s teeth click together audibly. “You know better than anyone that just because someone’s your father by blood, doesn’t mean they love you like a father should.”
So, Bes knows about my father too. Why does that not surprise me? Arturo must’ve imparted plenty of information from my nonna about our family onto his nephews. She certainly knows how to overshare.