Chapter Seven #2
Traffic moves past us. A bus exhales at the corner. Someone honks when a cyclist cuts across the intersection. The wind lifts a newspaper from the gutter and carries it halfway down the block.
Marco doesn’t check his watch.
He doesn’t sigh or remind me that his own vehicle is sitting ten feet away.
He simply waits.
When a yellow cab arrives ten minutes later, he speaks to the driver through the open window and gives him an address.
“The hotel is called The B,” he tells me. “It’s in the Seaport District. Armando and I will meet you there.”
I glance toward the SUV.
“You aren’t coming with me?”
“I thought you might prefer to ride alone.”
I do.
That may be why I finally get into the cab.
The drive gives me enough time to regret my decision several times.
I sit close to the door, watching the route through the window and checking the mirror whenever a dark vehicle appears behind us. Boston changes around me. Older brick buildings give way to construction cranes, broad streets, and towers of steel and glass.
I don’t know this part of the city.
Everything appears new and expensive. Wide sidewalks. Glass buildings reflecting the afternoon sun. Hotels with uniformed doormen standing beneath polished awnings.
Women in business clothes hurry between buildings. Men carry leather briefcases instead of grocery bags. No one looks as though they have ever needed to search the internet for instructions on how to exist.
The hotel rises twelve stories above the street, its fa?ade made of pale limestone and glass. A single brass letter B hangs above the revolving doors, understated enough that I almost miss it.
The cab pulls beneath the entrance canopy.
A valet in a charcoal uniform steps forward before we stop.
When the door opens, the hand waiting outside belongs to Marco Catenzio.
The valet stands just behind him, looking mildly confused.
I hesitate before taking Marco’s hand.
His fingers close around mine only long enough to steady me as I step onto the curb. Then he releases me.
“Thank you.”
He guides me through the doors without touching me.
The lobby smells of cedar and expensive coffee. Pale marble floors stretch beneath warm, quiet lighting. Low cream-colored chairs are arranged around dark tables, and a long gas fireplace burns behind glass along one wall.
There are no enormous flower arrangements or sparkling chandeliers. Everything is immaculate and restrained, as though the building has nothing to prove.
A slim blonde woman behind the front desk smiles when we approach.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Catenzio.”
“Good afternoon, Grace. Is the room ready?”
“It is.”
“Miss Marino will be staying with us for a few days.”
I look at him.
He gives nothing away.
Grace taps several keys and slides a key card across the counter.
“If there’s anything you need during your stay, please don’t hesitate to ask.”
“Thank you.”
Marco takes the key card with a smile.
He walks me to the elevator.
The doors close.
“Miss Marino?” I ask.
He swipes the key card and presses the button for the twelfth floor.
“Viktor will search for Rossi and Romanov. Marino is common enough to be forgettable.”
“Who is Miss Marino?”
“The woman at the front desk.”
I turn toward him.
“She let you use her name?”
“Yes.”
The numbers above the door light one by one.
“What does she know?”
“Only that she’s lending you her name.”
A woman I have never met before agreed to let me disappear behind her identity.
“Why would she do that?”
“Because I asked her to.”
The elevator slows.
The doors open onto a short, well-appointed hallway.
My donated leggings and sweater suddenly feel even shabbier. I’m fairly certain the carpeting costs more per square inch than the number of dollars currently in my pocket.
A narrow table stands beside the elevator with a lamp, a telephone, and a vase of fresh white roses. An ornate mirror hangs above it.
One glance confirms that I look exactly as out of place as I feel. My hair has tangled in the wind. The cardigan hangs unevenly from my shoulders, and the donated shoes are half a size too large.
Marco doesn’t look at the mirror.
Two doors stand at opposite ends of the hallway.
He walks toward the one marked B.
“You’re in here.”
He opens the door with the key card.
I look toward the other room.
“Who’s in A?”
“No one.”
The suite beyond him is larger than the boardinghouse’s entire ground floor. Tall windows overlook the city. A pale sofa faces a fireplace, and an open doorway reveals part of a bedroom dressed in white and muted blue.
Marco remains in the hall.
It takes me a moment to realize he isn’t going to follow me inside.
“What now?”
“You rest.”
“That’s it?”
“For now.”
He offers me the key card.
I take it.
“I know you don’t have much,” he says. “I’ll have some things sent up.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
His head tilts as he studies me.
“I know.”
The answer leaves me with nothing to say.
“If you call the front desk and tell Grace your size, she’ll have clothes sent up.”
“I can’t repay you for any of this.”
“I’m not asking you to.”
“Then what are you asking?”
“I’m asking you to breathe, order dinner, and get a good night’s sleep. That’s all.”
“And then?”
He removes a business card from his pocket.
“And then, if you still want answers, we’ll talk in the morning.”
I take it.
The card is made of cream-colored linen paper. Two lines are printed in raised black ink.
Marco Catenzio.
A telephone number.
Nothing else.
“Good night, Miss Marino.”
“Good night, Mr. Catenzio.”
He turns toward the elevator.
I close the suite door and wait for the familiar beep of a lock engaging from the outside.
It never comes.
I remain still until I hear the elevator arrive, followed by the soft chime of its doors closing.
Only then do I test the handle.
The door opens beneath my hand.
Just like he promised.