Chapter 12
Aida asked Trista to schedule her arrival in London for the day before her quarterly MODA report so she could feel better
prepared. It was a luxury in and of itself to spend time at the hotel, and that afternoon, Aida decided to partake in the
hotel’s famous afternoon tea. The staff seated her in a corner and promptly brought her a glass of champagne. Then followed
the tea and an array of little artistically shaped sandwiches of cucumber and lobster with the crusts cut off. Aida had become
accustomed to not taking photos, but she snuck a quick snap of the snacks in front of her. It was the kind of thing that would
make Yumi squeal in delight.
Aida sat back and sipped her tea, thinking about her upcoming report. Her gaze wandered across the restaurant, unintentionally
landing on a man who, judging by his features and attire, could only be Italian. He sat alone at a table across the restaurant,
looking at her with open curiosity. He averted his eyes when hers caught his.
Italy seemed to have a disproportionate number of beautiful people, and this man fell neatly into that pretty stereotype.
A two-day scruff of a beard, aquiline nose, and dark hair, longer on top, with a lock falling into his blue eyes. He was smartly
dressed in a dark ocean-green corduroy double-breasted suit, with a white shirt underneath, open at his chest and cuffed at
the sleeves.
Her mind wandered to Graham momentarily, a habit not yet unlearned.
They hadn’t spoken since she had moved to Italy—just a few necessary emails to untangle the last of their shared obligations.
Thankfully, he had spared her any pleas for reconciliation.
Aida was grateful for that, and to be four thousand miles away.
Yumi had been right about the clean break being good for her.
It dawned on her, as she observed the Italian’s fleeting glance, that she had no need to feel guilt over the flicker of interest in someone new.
He looked back up and this time it was Aida who averted her eyes.
When she had the courage to take another glance, he was no longer at the table, but standing a few feet away, talking to a
waitress who pointed him off in some direction. Aida hoped he might have just visited the lavatory, and she was surprised
to feel so disappointed when he didn’t return.
Before giving her report the next day, Aida intended to raise the issue of the Goethe museum closing, but Mo’s antics prevented
her.
“You are happy working for MODA, aren’t you?” he asked her the second she sat down across from them. This time, Disa was absent.
“Yes, I love my work,” she said, hoping she wasn’t coming across too defensive. She had come to learn that’s what Mo did to
everyone around him—took them down at the knees with sarcastic comments, forcing them into emotional traps like inferiority
or anger. She refused to fall for it.
“Sometimes you don’t seem so happy,” he said, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms across his chest.
“I didn’t realize you were observing me, or I would have dished out a few more smiles,” she said placidly.
“I always have my eye on you.” He gave her a cryptic half smile.
Aida only nodded, although inside, she was confused by his statement. Was he flirting? Warning her?
“Mo, you’re being counterproductive to the goals of this session,” Fran said, her voice stern. “I’m meeting with Ozie later today and perhaps it would be a good idea for you to accompany me.”
Mo scowled. “I only asked our spunky little historian if she was happy working for us. It’s a reasonable question.”
“We don’t have time for questions that don’t accomplish our objectives. If you don’t want to stop derailing the process, you
can leave.” Anger tinged Fran’s words.
“Fine, fine, fine. Carry on then.” He waved a hand dismissively.
“Please, Miss Reale, tell us about your visit to Paestum.”
Aida seized the moment. “Actually, before I begin my report on Paestum, I wanted to raise something important. The Goethe
museum is closing due to lack of funding. It’s a significant loss. I was wondering if MODA might consider providing some support
to keep it open, given how integral it is to the cultural history we’re cataloging.”
Mo rolled his eyes, but Fran responded first. “We appreciate your concern, Aida, but we move on once MODA has recorded a location.
There are countless other places that need our attention and resources.”
Aida felt a sting of disappointment. “But isn’t the whole point of our work to preserve the joy these places bring? If they
close, all that happiness we recorded just . . . disappears.”
Fran looked unfazed. “The happiness was recorded—that’s what matters. Our task isn’t to maintain it indefinitely. We document,
we move on.”
Aida pressed her lips together, trying to keep her frustration in check. She glanced at Mo, who was watching her with a bemused
expression, clearly enjoying the show. She decided to drop it—her passion for her work wasn’t for Mo’s amusement.
“Please, Miss Reale, tell us about your visit to Paestum,” Fran prompted again.
Mo didn’t say anything else during the meeting. He sat there and stared, an amiable smile tugging at the corners of his lips. At the end of the session, he stood and, like he had during the last meeting she had attended in London, offered to escort Aida out.
“Brava, little historian.” He pushed the button to the elevator. “Another happy meeting on the books.”
She considered calling him on the diminutive title but thought that would likely backfire. “Does working for MODA make you happy?” she countered. But as soon as the words were out of her mouth, she realized that was likely an even worse thing to
say.
He raised an eyebrow and huffed. “Oh, that’s a good one!” The door opened, and he ushered her in. “You dare ask me about my happiness?”
“I didn’t know it was an off-limits topic.” She stared at the numbers above the door, willing the elevator to hurry and reach
the bottom floor.
“Fair enough. For one, despite your terrible taste in fashion, and your ongoing inability to find a good hairstylist, I do
find particular happiness in this.” He gestured with his hand back and forth between them.
“And what, pray tell, might this be?” Aida’s heart rate accelerated.
“Oh, Aida . . .” His tone was a confusing mixture of condescension and charm.
The door broke the tension with an opening swoosh, and Aida hurried out, almost crashing into an older woman who was waiting
for the elevator. She was smartly dressed and looked to be in her seventies. Her golden hair was streaked with white but held
in an elegant upsweep. She greeted Mo, then stepped into the elevator. Mo winked at Aida. The doors closed and the two of
them were gone.
Aida decided to make a rare midday trip to the bar, hoping a drink might calm her nerves and help her think.
The hotel bar, named after the famous early-twentieth-century literary club, the Bloomsbury Group, was known for its ties to bohemian occultist ideals.
Unlike most London bars, which only had tables and no bar seating, this one was more like the familiar haunts Aida loved back in the States.
It was usually a popular spot, so busy that finding a seat at the bar was nearly impossible.
But it was a quiet Monday at 2:00 p.m., and the place was unusually empty, save for a robust Asian man with a very pink face nursing a glass of scotch at one end of the bar and, seated right in the middle, the mysterious Italian, a golden-brown cocktail in a martini glass in front of him.
Aida took a deep breath and crossed the threshold, past the myriad velvet armchairs and shelves full of antique books. “Is
this seat taken?” It was cheeky, considering there were five empty spots on either side of the man that were free.
He turned from his drink to her, and Aida was relieved when a smile lit upon his face.
“Please,” he said, shifting a little to make climbing into the high chair easier.
“What are you drinking?” she asked after she was settled. She couldn’t remember the last time she had ever been so bold—had
she ever? With Graham, he had been the one who made all the moves.
“The Siren Call. It’s very good.” He slid a card toward her, a tarot card of sorts, with CHARISMATIC etched across the bottom. On it, a woman with a flaming crown held a fiery heart in one hand and was emptying a cup of blood
into a river at her feet. A hyena stood nearby, laughing. Aida flipped the card over. It was seemingly part of an elaborate
cocktail menu. The drink and its ingredients were listed on the back.
“‘Drink this to increase charisma and attract favorable attention,’” she read aloud.
“It seems that it worked.” The man smiled.
His English was perfect, but he had a definite Italian accent.
“Parli Italiano?”
His eyes widened. “Sì!”
“I thought so,” Aida said, continuing in Italian. “Where are you from?” She signaled the bartender to bring her what the Italian was having.
“Bologna. But I live and work in France. I come here periodically for business.”
“I’m from the US, but I live and work in Italy now, and I too come here periodically for business.”
He grinned. “Luciano Leto.”
“Aida Reale.”
“Your parents are fans of Verdi?”
She laughed. “They were, very much so.” Occasionally, people asked her about the famous opera, but with the name becoming
more common, it happened much more infrequently. “How do you like France?” Aida wanted to know what he did for a living, but
it was a very American thing to ask that off the bat, and she didn’t want to appear rude.
“I love it. There is so much history, so much culture. I find myself very happy there. And you? What brought you to Rome?”
“A job. I’m a historian of sorts. But I’m also a novelist,” she said, realizing with a heavy heart that she couldn’t really
tell this charming man what she did for a living.
“What kind of novels?” Luciano asked, intrigued.