Chapter 31
Thirty-One
Mark
It’s Wednesday morning already, and I can’t throw off the dark, heavy blanket of jet lag. My alarm buzzes, and I tap the snooze button without opening my eyes. Sic ’em, muscle memory. In seconds, I’m back to the hazy, half-formed villa gardens at the reception under the twinkle lights—
A phone ring yanks me awake. The citrus grove dream is well and gone.
With a sigh, I reach to my nightstand, groping for the phone but knocking a Brandon Sanderson paperback and my glasses to the floor. This call better be on the level of Roman-Forum-is-on-fire-again news.
“Helmf?” Weird, that started out in my brain as hello.
“Mark? Sorry, did I wake you up?”
Mariella. With way too much pep in her voice. I pull the spare pillow over my head. “Is this an emergency?”
“Uh, depends.”
“Fire? Blood? Hospitals?”
“No, nothing like that.”
“So call me later. I’ll do whatever you want.”
“Deal.” She hangs up.
I gaze at the dark screen. I didn’t expect that to work. Dropping the phone onto the mattress, I close my eyes but now I’m racking my brain trying to guess what Mariella is up to. There goes any chance of drifting back off to sleep.
I end up staring at the potted jade on my desk that Mariella insisted my minimalistic room needed, waiting for the plant to clue me in on her agenda. It drops another couple leaves.
The phone rings again. I put Mariella on speakerphone.
“It’s later. Are you ready to talk?”
I sigh. How could twins be so opposite? One laid-back to the point of avoiding conflict and the other so able to get her way it’s scary. “Yes, Master. What do you need?”
“The palazzo owners want to meet you at half past noon this morning for a business lunch.”
I sit up, wide awake. “What? Is there a problem?”
“They’re requesting meetings with all the larger bid contenders.”
“They didn’t give us a lot of notice.” I glance at the strong morning light piercing the thin curtains at my bedroom window. A few hours to prep, not that I would even know how.
“I think that’s the point. They want raw reactions instead of practiced presentations? I don’t know.”
I kick the blue duvet cover off my legs and prop my knees up. “So their decision isn’t going to be only about the numbers, but about our vision and personality.” Worst-case scenario. Numbers I can do. Geometry and blueprints I can do. Conversation and personality? Meh.
“This is a very personal project for them, so they’re looking for the best match. Nonno had vertigo this morning, so he’s resting.”
Nonno has Ménière’s disease, where fluid builds up in his ear. It’s not life-threatening, but the tinnitus, unpredictable bouts of dizziness, and gradual hearing loss are a ticking clock on his ability to work on construction sites. “Is he okay? Should I stop by the house?”
“He brushed it off, and I guess it wasn’t too bad. Good luck to Nonna keeping him in bed for a few hours. But since you’re the in-house architect, that means this interview . . .”
I stretch over the low platform bed and grab my glasses off the floor, sliding them onto my face. “Is on me. No pressure.”
“You’ll be great. You seemed to hit it off with Lexi fine at Luca’s restaurant.”
We can’t compare my reaction to Lexington with anyone else. As for how she feels about me, jury’s still out. “I don’t know where you’re getting that. She bolted from the table the minute our food was finished.”
Mariella huffs. “So did you. Don’t doubt my woman’s intuition. I saw her expression when you left our table. She watched you all the way into the kitchen like a hurt puppy.”
I worry about my genes. This delusional woman is related to me.
Lexington has done nothing but run away from me, except for yesterday at the Spanish Steps.
Even with my attempts to repair our relationship, all I got was a text late in the afternoon with a thank you for the lira.
I’m guessing once we’re done with the bet tomorrow, we’ll be out of contact forever.
I cross the room to the pile of clothes draped over my desk chair and pull a half-clean, crimson UMass T-shirt over my head. “Where’s the meeting?”
“Brace yourself.”
I pick up the phone and put it to my ear, tugging the bottom of the shirt down to my waist. “There’s worse news than an impromptu meeting three days into jet lag with strangers who have my whole future in their hands?”
She snickers. “That’s a lot of grumpy drama.”
“That is literally the name of my band. We play before eight o’clock every day. What’s the location?”
“Colosseum.”
Padding down the hall to the kitchen, I release a sound—I want to say it’s a laugh-groan, but it’s closer to a dying platypus. “A pre-bid meeting at a tourist site? That isn’t going to work. It’ll be a madhouse. Loud, hot, expensive chaos.”
I’m guessing. I haven’t been inside for years because I avoid it like the plague. Which is what I’ll catch from the thousands of people around me.
“Not in it. A restaurant right across the street. That’s what they want. Twelve thirty. Call me when you’re done. We’ll all want to know how it goes.”
I groan again.
“You’ve got this. Ciao.”
After breakfast and a shower, I take the metro to the Colosseo station and emerge at the famous amphitheater. Tourists cross the street, slowing the cars, and though it’s only midmorning, the heat is ramped up to showering-was-useless level.
I fight the urge to grumble again at the ridiculousness of requesting a meeting this close to one of the busiest tourist attractions in the middle of the summer. Dig deep and find your friendly, cheerful words, Mark. I’m doing this for Nonno and Dad.
Mariella’s text with the name and address of the restaurant points me to the other side of the Colosseum.
In the shadow of the amphitheater’s curves and arched windows, I’m dwarfed by the weight of its size, history, and the architectural masterminds behind its design.
It was ahead of its time on several levels—for crowd control, genius engineering in the hypogeum’s trapdoors, ramps, and lifts, and the mix of materials to help it weather earthquakes.
Fitting we have this interview in the area. I feel like I’m walking to my execution. For a quick second, I can almost hear the sound of fifty thousand people shouting at a gladiator contest.
But that’s just a group of wild kids, running toward the entrance.
I cross the street where the restaurant sits on the corner.
Fewer people here. The popular outdoor seating has a front-and-center view of the Colosseum, but I pick a table inside where it’ll be quiet, cool, and nearly deserted.
I need every advantage to nail this interview and get the bid, because Dad has to come back to Italy.
Before Nonno can no longer hear his son’s voice.