Chapter 272
(TYLER}
I’m not sure I’m an opera buff,” Sasha says doubtfully after we’ve made our way to the bar at intermission. He clapped politely at the
curtain, but he had to stifle yawns all the way through.
“Yeah, like I said, The Magic Flute would have been better to start with. Opera’s an acquired taste,” I tell him. “Like olives p>
“I love olives,” he points out.
“You want one in a martini, baby?” I raise my finger to get the attention of the bartender.
“I do not. I’ll have water, though, if you are p>
“We’ll have a large bottle of sparkling water and two glasses,” I tell the bartender in my best Italian.
“At once, sir,” he says back in English. I guess my best Italian is still not going to fool any actual Italian.
We take our drinks over to one of the standing tables in a corner of the bar, which smells heavily of cigarettes and perfume in the wake of the crowd, and look at each other.
“So what now?” I ask. “Is it dangerous to go back in? If they know who we are, I mean p>
“I’m not sure if they’re the issue,” Sasha says.
“What do you mean p>
“While we might be tailing Magda, someone else has been tailing us.” He lifts his glass, which I’ve just filled, and clinks it against mine. “Cin cin p>
I can’t return the toast. “What the hell do you mean? Is it p>
“I mean that same persistent young man who got the jump on me at the Colosseum is here tonight at the opera. I saw him down in the stalls p>
Sasha looks perfectly calm, but I have to ask. “You’re—you’re sure? You’re not just, you know, seeing things p>
He turns his attention from the bar entrance back to me. “I’m quite sure, angel.” He tilts his head to one side. “You don’t believe me p>
A few months back, during the heights of his paranoia, I might not have. But I would also have been wrong then, as it turns out. Because we were attacked. And—as much as I like Luigi—he was lying to us, like Sasha kept insisting at the time. And we were being followed in Rome, just as Sasha said. After what happened there, I’d rather not take any chances, even if my husband is hallucinating.
But I don’t think he’s hallucinating, which is even worse.
“Of course I believe you,” I tell him. “So we retreat for tonight, back to the palazzo p>
He sighs. “I had the most delicious fantasy of you on your knees for me during the second half, keeping me on edge up until the climactic scene, and then letting me blow down your throat right when the soprano hit the high note p>
“Holy fuck. We can do that p>
He grins. “My desire to keep us alive is slightly stronger than my desire to come in your mouth in public. No; we’ll have to leave that for another time p>
Nervously, I crane my head towards the lobby, but it’s empty now. Everyone’s gone back into the theater proper. “If he wants to get rid of us, why not just, you know, start shooting p>
“Because he wants to make it personal, baby bird. He wants to avenge his brother. He wants to look at me close up when he kills me, to watch the spark leaving me.” I let that pleasant thought trickle down my spine while Sasha drains his glass, and then takes my hand. “Let’s see if this bartender can help us p>
We make our way back over to the bar and Sasha asks, in Italian, “Is there a way to exit out canal-side from here p>
The bartender obviously thinks better of Sasha’s Italian, because he responds in the same. “Not during the performance, sir. You’ll have to go out the front p>
Sasha pulls a few euro bills out of his inside jacket pocket, placing them on the bar, and smiles. “Are you sure p>
The barman glances at the cash, does a double take, and puts down the glasses he’s clearing to wipe his hands on a dishtowel.
He takes the money, pockets it, and then comes out from behind the bar. “Follow me p>
The back stairs of La Fenice lead through the now-darkened memorabilia section, with several portraits, and descriptions of the three major fires the opera house has suffered over the years.
“The phoenix lived up to its name,” I murmur to Sasha, stopping to look at one of the photographs.
“Please, signore,” the bartender says anxiously, coming back to hurry us along. “I cannot be away too long p>
And then we both hear it—footsteps following coming closer. The bartender beckons us nervously, standing at the top of a set of enclosed, narrow stairs.
“It’s just down this staircase?” Sasha asks the bartender, who nods. “Do I need a key p>
“No, it can be pushed open from the inside, but you cannot re-enter p>
“Then go. We’ll make our own way p>
“But p>
“Go,” Sasha says softly. “And take a different route if you don’t want trouble p>
The bartender’s mouth drops open and he backs away, hurrying off in a different direction.
“Come on,” Sasha says, seizing my hand.
I go with him, but I can’t help throwing a look over my shoulder to try to catch sight of our pursuer. “We’re running?” I say, as we do, indeed, run down the stairs to the door at the bottom. Sasha shoves at the bar across the middle and it opens to the outside just like our brief friend said it would.
“What would you rather do?” Sasha asks, shoving it shut behind me, and looking left and right.
My heartbeat has been speeding up ever since we heard those footsteps, and at first I assumed it must be fear. But it’s not.
It’s excitement.
“Fight?” I suggest. “Two of us, one of him p>
“It would be the height of bad manners to shed blood at the opera,” Sasha says reprovingly, as he takes off to the left, around the corner. “I assume,” he throws back over his shoulder.
“You assume correctly, although it wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened.” I trot with him around the corner. It takes us right up to the canal’s edge, but there are no handy gondolas or motorboats to jump into. It’s too early for the water taxis to be arriving to ferry patrons away from the opera.
“Come on,” Sasha says, grabbing my hand. We run on to the little bridge just ahead, and through to the other side. There’s a small alley there, and Sasha stops abruptly, pulling me into it when I try to keep going. “Wait,” he murmurs, standing in front of me in the protective manner I recognize from all my bodyguards. We’re deep in the shadows, but we still have a partial view of where we just came from, back over the bridge.
I hear them again: the footsteps, hurrying along, then slowing cautiously as they approach the corner we just came around ourselves. We have a perfect view of the corner.
What if whoever’s coming has a perfect view of us, too? “Sasha, maybe we should p>
“Wait p>