20. Amiyah
Chapter twenty
Amiyah
My phone screen glows with a thread of Jae’s texts.
He flew out to Seoul two weeks ago—the morning after we said goodbye—and his messages arrive with the unhurried rhythm of someone managing a seven-hour time jump.
When it's late afternoon in Florence, he’s already stepping into midnight.
A photo of the moon over Mapo-gu. A quick text complaining about his sleep schedule.
Me: lol go to sleep then, dork.
I set the phone face-down on the hotel nightstand and turn back to the cream linen blazer laid flat across the narrow bed.
I arrived in Florence yesterday afternoon, and the city is already a mouthful of hot marble and trapped humidity.
My window is cracked exactly two inches—not enough to invite the oppressive heat in, just enough to let the whine of Vespas and the distant tolling of church bells filter through the gauzy curtains.
The air conditioning unit hums at a high, mechanical pitch designed specifically to fray human nerves.
I’ve been sweating through my silk camisole for twenty minutes, and I haven’t even put the jacket on yet.
Claudette Moreau does not sweat.
Claudette Moreau is a senior associate at a Milanese luxury goods firm with a graduate degree from Bocconi and a skincare routine that costs more than most people’s rent.
Claudette’s business card sits on the nightstand—thick cream cardstock, deep embossed lettering, the kind of card that makes a quiet, authoritative snap when you press it into someone's palm.
Tonight isn't for the kill. Tonight is Phase One: landing in Renato Caruso’s field of vision and letting his vanity do the rest of the work. The lethal compound from the Underground's Procurement Division stays locked in the room's hidden safe until the deployment window opens.
I pick up the kitten heels from the desk chair and run a thumb along the buckles. Polished. No scuffs. The gold hardware is the precise shade of muted brass—not too bright, not too pale—the kind of quiet luxury that screams generational wealth.
My secure laptop pings. Penelope’s avatar—a purple-haired cartoon fox—pops into the corner of the encrypted display.
“Testing, testing, one two, is this thing on—oh, there you are. Jesus Christ, your hair. Did you actually style it or did you just threaten it into submission?”
Penelope’s voice fills the hotel room, crisp and clear through the micro-earbud nestled in my right ear.
On screen, she’s slouched in her gaming chair in LA, an Aperol Spritz clutched in one hand, her silk robe slipping off one shoulder to reveal a faded band tee underneath.
Her dark hair is piled into a messy topknot, purple highlights catching the late afternoon light.
She takes a long, theatrical sip through her straw.
“It’s ninety-five degrees outside,” I say, dabbing a bead of sweat from my collarbone with a tissue. “My hair is exercising its constitutional rights.”
“Your hair has a job, and its job is to look expensive while you convince a fifty-something Italian billionaire with more vanity than sense that you’re the answer to his midlife crisis.
Speaking of which—the rooftop gala at the Palazzo Corsini is tonight's target zone. Caruso’s RSVP is confirmed.
Camera wipe schedule is locked. Building security runs on a twelve-hour rotation.
The front desk guy takes his smoke break at 2:17 AM exactly—lasts seven minutes. Keep it clean.”
I slide my arms into the blazer. The cool linen touches my shoulders for approximately three seconds before the Florentine heat claims it.
“Caruso’s digital footprint?” I ask.
“Wide open, and his ego is paper-thin,” Penelope says, swirling the ice in her glass.
“Claudette Moreau’s profile is fully active.
I’ve seeded six hundred verified LinkedIn connections, a Bocconi alumni history that holds up under deep scrutiny, and a taste for Barolo that matches his exactly.
I even gave her a gluten intolerance so you have a built-in excuse to skip the bread basket. ”
“Thoughtful.”
“I’m a professional,” Penelope smirks. “Pro tip: let him find you. Don’t approach. Men like Caruso think every beautiful woman who glances their way is a stroke of fate. Let him believe he’s the hunter.”
I stand and face the mirror above the desk.
Muted gold hoop earrings. A delicate gold chain resting against the hollow of my throat, thin enough to be understated, heavy enough to be genuine.
The dusty rose silk blouse catches the dim light, softening the sharp angles of my shoulders.
My blonde hair is swept into a low, immaculate chignon, not a single flyaway escaping despite the humidity.
Claudette Moreau stares back at me—cool, elegant, lethal.
“Go get him, bitch.”
The screen cuts to black. The hotel room falls dead silent, saved only by the high hum of the air conditioner and the distant rattle of a Vespa backfiring down on the cobblestones.
I pick up my phone, dropping it into my clutch alongside Claudette’s business cards.
Claudette Moreau adjusts her cuffs, checks her lipstick, and steps out into the Florentine heat to begin the hunt.
Wrought-iron lanterns cast warm, low shadows across the stone floor of the Palazzo Corsini terrace, the Arno River gleaming like oil in the dying twilight below.
The wine in my glass is a 2015 Barolo—dark, heavy, tasting faintly of crushed cherries and oak.
I hold the crystal stem lightly between two fingers, taking my first sip only after I’ve watched three other guests drink from theirs.
Renato Caruso finds me exactly where Penelope planned for him to find me—leaning against the balustrade, my profile angled toward the softest light on the terrace.
He approaches from my left, preceded by a cloud of cologne so thick it practically leaves a film in the air.
A heavy, suffocating blend of sandalwood, bitter nutmeg, and synthetic musk.
It hits my nose with the force of an allergen, triggering a sharp prickle at the back of my throat that requires every ounce of my training to ignore.
“You’re new,” he says, stepping entirely too close. His Italian-accented English is smooth, delivered with the easy confidence of a man who believes he catalogued every woman in the room the second he walked in.
“Claudette Moreau.” I turn slowly, extending a hand. His fingers are warm, his grip firm enough to demonstrate authority without crushing mine. “Milanese luxury goods. I’m in town for the trade conference.”
“Renato Caruso.” He doesn’t offer a title or a firm name. He doesn't need to. In this city, his surname is the currency.
“I’ve heard of you,” I say softly. I haven't—not until Penelope’s dossier dropped into my inbox. But I deliver the line with practiced reverence, like his reputation preceded him across northern Italy.
I watch his shoulders relax—a subtle, microscopic shift as his vanity absorbs the compliment.
The conversation flows effortlessly because I make it easy.
I ask about Florence, letting him lecture me on his favorite trattoria, his private art collection, his view of the Duomo—all places I’ve already mapped, all opinions I’ve already memorized.
I nod at the right moments, laugh at the exact right volume, and let him believe he’s orchestrating every second of our chemistry.
It is almost absurdly simple. A man so completely wrapped in his own ego doesn't question good luck; he assumes he deserves it.
The plan moves forward without a single hitch. Three nights later, when I meet him at an exclusive private gallery showcase in the Oltrarno, he’s already acting like my presence is guaranteed.
We stand before a featured Caravaggio—Judith Beheading Holofernes—the painted blood spray hanging in dark, thick crimson against the stark white wall.
“Remarkable, isn’t it?” he murmurs, stepping into my peripheral vision. “The raw violence. Most painters show the quiet aftermath. Caravaggio captures the precise second the blade meets flesh.”
I know this painting. I know Caravaggio painted it in 1599, that his mistress Fillide modeled for Judith, and that the arterial spray follows the exact physics of a severed carotid artery.
Instead of offering any of that, I turn to him, tilting my head slightly, letting my eyes widen with quiet, captivated wonder.
“I hadn’t thought of it that way,” I murmur, my voice dropping an octave. “That’s... remarkably perceptive, Renato.”
I watch the pride bloom across his face—unmistakable, transparent, almost embarrassing in its simplicity. Men like Caruso are painfully easy to operate. They don't want an equal; they want an audience. Give them an audience, and they will hand you their keys, their trust, their lives.
Four days after the gallery, we’re sitting in a dimly lit bar on Via della Vigna Nuova.
The low cello music feels like a physical vibration against my spine.
Caruso has finished two negronis; my Aperol spritz sits mostly untouched, the ice slowly melting into the orange liquor.
His silver pillbox rests on the dark mahogany table beside his water glass.
On his phone, a countdown timer glows faintly on the lock screen before going dark—a health app reminder set for 10:00 PM sharp.
I have five minutes before his phone chimes.
“Renato,” I say softly, leaning in just enough to draw his focus toward the shadowed alcove near the courtyard entrance. “Is that Senator Rossi?”
Caruso turns his head immediately, his eyes narrowing as he scans the crowd to verify the presence of someone more important than himself.
It takes him three seconds. Three seconds is an eternity.
My pulse doesn't spike; my hands don't shake.
With the replacement capsule already palmed between my thumb and forefinger, my fingers slide across the table beneath the heavy drape of my silk sleeve.
Flip, swap, drop. The latch snaps shut with a quiet, metallic click that vanishes beneath the swelling cello music.
When he turns back, disappointed—“No, just a gallery owner from Venice”—I offer a sympathetic, intoxicating smile.
Five minutes later, right at 10:00 PM, his phone screen lights up with a quiet chime. Caruso doesn't even break eye contact as he reaches out, pops the silver case open, tips the capsule into his mouth, and downs it with a swallow of sparkling water.
I watch the movement of his throat as he swallows his own mortality, completely oblivious.
“I should get back,” I say, gathering my clutch from the mahogany counter. “Early start tomorrow.”
Caruso moves in closer, his sandalwood cologne making my stomach turn as he offers a smooth, practiced smile. “Skip the early start. Have breakfast with me at my penthouse. I'll have my driver bring you back afterward.”
“A dangerous proposition,” I answer, letting a soft laugh escape my lips. “Let me sleep on it.”
I step away before he can push further, leaving him with the false impression of a chase he’s actively winning.
The synthetic capsule triggers the arrhythmia shortly after midnight the following evening.
By the time his housekeeper raises the alarm on Thursday morning and the local authorities sign off on a natural heart failure, I am fifty miles south of Florence.
The news alert Pen just sent flashes across my phone screen as my train barrels toward Rome at two hundred kilometers an hour—a brief obituary featuring a decade-old photograph of Caruso looking young, bronzed, and invincible.
I dismiss the notification with a flick of my thumb. The Claudette persona is filed away, her existence like it never even happened. In the train's sunlit window, my reflection returns to normal—Amiyah Lane, taking a deep breath as the single obligation of her summer vanishes behind her.
Rome receives me with the utter indifference of an ancient city used to passing strangers.
I eat carbonara at a quiet trattoria in Testaccio where the waiter calls me bella without a hint of performance.
I stay in a small hotel near Piazza Navona, the sheets crisp and cool against my skin.
I walk until my calves ache, tracing the smooth, worn cobblestones of Trastevere.
No covers.
No targets.
Just two weeks of pure, unscripted vacation before I have to board a flight back to LA.
I tell myself I am not thinking about Jae Kim.
It is a lie I maintain right up until I’m standing on the Spanish Steps at four in the afternoon.
The summer sun hammers the stone into a blinding, radiant white, crowds of tourists lounging across the travertine steps.
I take a quick photo of my gelato—pistachio and dark chocolate—and send it to Jae without a single word of text.
My phone vibrates three minutes and forty-seven seconds later. A voice memo. Thirteen seconds long.
I lift the phone to my ear and press play.
Jae’s voice comes through—low, almost a whisper, the familiar lazy cadence muffled as if he’s trying not to wake an entire household. In the background, there's the faint, distinct metallic click of a stove burner trying to ignite, followed by the quiet rustle of a noodle packet.
“I’m currently attempting to make late-night ramen without alerting my entire family,” he murmurs.
A beat of quiet, and then he lets out a low, breathless laugh into the mic.
“I just dropped the seasoning packet under the counter, hotshot. It’s a tragedy.
Anyway…hope Europe isn't too boring without me there. Send me some of that gelato before I starve.”
The clip cuts off at thirteen seconds.
I play it twice.
The casual, whispered familiarity of his voice lands right beneath my ribs, spreading a heavy, inconvenient warmth through my chest that has nothing to do with the Italian heat.
I step off the travertine steps and walk back toward my hotel through the cooling evening shade. My free hand swings loosely at my side as I lift the phone to my ear once more, pressing play, and let the sound of his voice fill the quiet air around me for the third time.