Chapter 1
Chapter One
Serena
ROME
Rome smells like espresso, sun-baked stone, and heat held too long inside narrow streets.
By the time my taxi pulls away from Fiumicino, the late afternoon sun is low enough to turn the city gold but not low enough to soften anything.
The air slips through the cracked window thick and warm, carrying exhaust, basil, dust, and the faint sweetness of something frying in olive oil somewhere I cannot see.
Scooters cut between lanes like they are exempt from both physics and consequence.
A man in a linen shirt argues into his phone at a crosswalk with one hand lifted toward heaven, as if God might personally settle whatever grievance he has with the person on the other end.
The taxi driver catches my eye in the rearview mirror.
“First time in Roma?” he asks.
“No,” I say.
His gaze flicks to my carry-on, then to the leather notebook on my lap.
“Business?”
“Yes.”
“What business?”
“Food.”
He smiles like I have given him something useful.
“Then Roma is good business.”
“It usually is,” I say.
He laughs and taps two fingers against the steering wheel. My phone buzzes against my thigh. I do not look down.
The city presses closer as we leave the wide road behind and enter the older streets, where everything narrows and deepens.
Buildings rise on either side in faded ocher and cream, their shutters half-open, their balconies crowded with plants that look like they have survived centuries of heat and neglect out of spite.
Laundry hangs above the street. A woman in red sandals steps out of a doorway with a cigarette between her fingers and turns her face toward the sun.
A waiter in a white apron carries a stack of glasses across a terrace with the easy speed of someone who has already broken one today and refuses to break another.
Rome never waits for you to get settled. It keeps moving. It expects you to catch up. I prefer cities like that.
The hotel is tucked into a side street near the Campo de’ Fiori, discreet enough that I almost miss it until the driver brakes at a stone entrance with brass numbers polished to a quiet shine.
He gets my suitcase from the trunk, sets it on the curb, and gives me the particular assessing look of men who assume a woman traveling alone might need some form of warning.
“You know where you go tonight?” he asks.
“I do.”
“Good.” He points down the street.
“Do not eat where they show you pictures.”
“I never do.”
He grins. “Then you know everything.”
“Not everything,” I say, taking the handle of my suitcase.
“Enough to be useful.”
Inside, the lobby is cool, tiled, and scented faintly with lemon polish. A ceiling fan turns above the front desk. The woman checking me in has silver hair pulled into a sleek knot, sharp cheekbones, and the kind of black dress that makes the word uniform feel insulting. Her name tag says Lucia.
“Signora Cole,” Lucia says, looking at my passport.
“Welcome back to Rome.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“You have stayed with us before.”
“Three years ago.”
“For the spring artichokes,” she says.
I look up from the form. “You remember that?”
Lucia’s mouth curves.
“You asked our concierge where to eat carciofi alla giudia and then did not accept his first answer.”
“He sent me to a place with laminated menus.”
“He was new,” Lucia says, as if this explains both the failure and the shame of it.
“He is no longer with us.”
“That feels appropriate,” I say.
Her smile widens by half an inch.
“Your room is ready. Second floor. Courtyard side, as requested.”
“Perfect.”
“Do you need dinner recommendations?”
“I have a reservation,” I reply.
Lucia slides the key card across the desk.
“Of course you do.”
I like her immediately.
Minutes later, I arrive at my room. It’s small, bright, and exactly what I need.
Pale walls. Tall windows. A narrow iron balcony overlooking the courtyard.
Crisp white sheets. A writing desk tucked beneath a gilt mirror whose frame is more confident than the room itself.
I set my suitcase on the luggage stand, unzip it, and remove only what I need: black dress, low heels, notebook, pen, charger, small bottle of perfume, press credentials I will not use unless absolutely necessary.
The clock on my phone reads 6:37 PM.
That gives me enough time to shower, change, confirm my route, and be at the table by 8:00 PM.
I do not sit on the bed. Sitting on hotel beds before dinner is how people start negotiating with themselves.
Ten minutes becomes thirty. Thirty becomes room service.
Room service becomes a weak little lie told under white sheets while a city continues without you outside the window.
I did not come to Rome to recover from a flight. I came to work.
The shower runs hot, then hotter. I stand beneath it until the airport leaves my skin and the muscles between my shoulders begin to release.
My hair darkens under the water, then slips heavy down my back.
I wash quickly, efficiently, with the same discipline I bring to packing, deadlines, interviews, notes, everything that has ever kept me from becoming someone who waits for life to become convenient.
By 7:12 PM, I am in the black dress. By 7:19 PM, my hair is brushed smooth and pinned at the nape of my neck.
By 7:24 PM, I have checked the restaurant address twice, not because I am uncertain but because I do not believe in being late for meals that matter.
By 7:31 PM, I am downstairs, crossing the lobby.
Lucia looks up from behind the desk.
“Too early,” she says.
“Exactly early enough.”
“Taxi?”
“I’ll walk.”
“It is warm,” she reminds me.
“I noticed.”
She nods once, accepting this.
“Then take Via dei Giubbonari. It is prettier.”
“Prettier or faster?”
“Prettier,” Lucia says.
“You’re in Rome. Faster is vulgar.”
I pause at the door and look back at her.
“That is very sound professional advice.”
“I have many gifts,” she says, already returning to her screen.
Outside, the evening hits my skin like a hand laid flat against the throat.
Warm, firm, impossible to ignore. The street has shifted since I arrived.
The day’s hard glare has softened into amber.
Chairs scrape against stone as restaurants begin to fill.
Menus appear on stands. Glasses catch the light.
Somewhere nearby, garlic blooms in hot oil, sharp and immediate enough to make my stomach tighten.
I walk without rushing. The city deserves attention, but attention is not the same as wandering.
I note the bakery with the faded blue sign and the tray of maritozzi in the window.
I note the wine bar with six tables outside and no English menu posted.
I note the tourist restaurant with carbonara photographed under fluorescent lighting and mentally mark it as a public offense.
I note a tiny alimentari with cured meats hanging in the window and a stack of tomatoes so ripe their skins look ready to split.
A group of American students passes me, loud and sunburned, smelling faintly of Aperol and sunscreen. One girl says, “I feel like everything here is so authentic,” while standing directly in front of a shop selling plastic Colosseum magnets. I keep walking.
The restaurant is on a side street just far enough from the main square to make the walk intentional.
There is no host outside, no glowing sign, no aggressive performance of charm.
Just a dark green door, two small tables under a striped awning, and a brass plaque beside the entrance with the name etched cleanly into the metal.
Osteria Santa Livia.
Good.
A man in a white shirt opens the door before I touch the handle. He is in his early forties, lean, with close-cropped dark hair and the controlled expression of someone who has learned to recognize trouble by the way people approach a reservation.
“Buonasera,” he says.
“Buonasera,” I answer. “Reservation for Cole. 8:00 PM.”
His eyes move to the book on the stand. “Serena Cole?”
“Yes.”
“Table for one?”
“Yes.”
He pauses for the smallest possible fraction of time. Not judgment. Adjustment. People still adjust around women dining alone, especially in rooms built for lingering couples and family arguments. Then he steps aside.
“This way, signora.”
The room is narrow and warm, with plaster walls the color of fresh cream and shelves lined with bottles that look chosen rather than displayed.
The lighting is low but practical. Not flattering at the expense of seeing the food, which I appreciate.
Twelve tables. Maybe fourteen if they are willing to make people uncomfortable.
A large mirror on the back wall reflects the room without making it feel larger, and through a partially open door near the rear, I catch the flash of stainless steel, white sleeves, and movement.
The dining room is already half full. A couple near the window shares a plate of something fried and eats without speaking.
Two men in suits sit beneath the mirror, both leaning over a bottle of Barolo with the solemnity of a peace negotiation.
A family of four occupies the corner table, the grandmother in pearls correcting the youngest child’s grip on his fork with silent, devastating precision.
My table is against the wall, not hidden, not exposed. From here, I can see the entrance, the pass, and most of the room in the mirror. Someone knows what they are doing.
The host pulls out the chair.
“Grazie,” I say.
He gives one slight nod.
“Your server will be with you.”
I sit, place my bag on the chair beside me, and take out my notebook before I unfold the napkin.
The cover is soft black leather, worn at the corners from four years of being dragged through dining rooms, airports, cafés, and hotel beds I told myself I would not work in and then did anyway.
I set one pen on the right side of the notebook and one inside the crease as backup.