A night out

I couldn’t believe that Vic was here in Italy—and at the airport, of all places, to pick me up. He looked entirely out of step with the hurried travelers and the stern airport security, leaning against a sleek sedan with that same effortless, irritating confidence he carried everywhere. It was a confidence that felt like a physical weight in the air, anchoring him while everyone else was in a frantic rush to be somewhere else. He was still a sexy motherfucker no matter what country he was in and no matter what language he spoke, and the worst part was that he knew it.

"Close your mouth, La Duquesa. You’ll catch a Vespa," Vic said, a crooked smirk playing on his lips as he pushed off the car. He didn't move with any urgency; he moved like he owned the very pavement he stood on, each step measured and deliberate.

"What are you doing here?" I finally choked out. My brain was still trying to process the logistics of him crossing borders this quickly, or why he’d even bother. "Last time I saw you, I told you to go home to your wife and that I wanted nothing more to do with you.”

He took a step toward me, the shadow of his sunglasses hiding his eyes, though I could feel the intensity of his gaze right through the dark lenses. "Change of plans, darling. Before you say anything else, let me explain why I’m here.”

“I don’t want to know nor do I care to know,” I snapped, turning away as I adjusted the heavy strap of my duffle bag. My eyes were already scanning the line of vehicles for a sign of escape, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I was ready to whistle for a cab and disappear into the winding, ancient streets of the city before he could utter another syllable.

“Sera knew I was in France for the nude beaches," he said with a half-smile that didn't reach his eyes. "She’d been tracking your flight path after you told her your flight plan. Apparently, she didn’t trust you to navigate the arrivals terminal without starting an international incident. Again."

I just glared at him, my blood beginning to simmer. "Sera needs to mind her own business and stay out of my GPS."

Determined to end this, I stuck two fingers in my mouth and whistled loudly. The sharp, piercing sound cut through the cacophony of shouting travelers, the roar of departing planes, and the low, rhythmic thrum of idling engines. A sedan acting as a private hire began to peel away from the curb down from us and came toward me.

"She texted me," he said, unfazed by my dismissal. "She told me to go to Italy and make sure that you behave for the next forty-eight hours. She seems to think you’re a magnet for trouble the second you step off a plane."

I scoffed, smoothing my clothes as the sedan pulled to a stop. "I am perfectly capable of staying out of trouble for two days. And since when does Sera coordinate with you of all people?"

To be honest, I was surprised. Sera had never been subtle about her opinions; in the past, she had been incredibly clear when she stated that Vic wasn't good enough for me. She had listed his faults like a grocery list—too reckless, too rude, and too tethered to a life that didn't involve me. And the worst part? I agreed with every word. It didn't matter how perfect his dick was, how much he made me cum, or how easily he could read the thoughts I try so hard to hide.

"She’s desperate to keep you safe, I guess," Vic said, shrugging his shoulders. "Or maybe she just knows I’m the only one who can keep up with you when you decide to go rogue."

“I’m not on a mission, Papa,” I told him, my voice sharp and final, cutting through the humid Italian air. “Those days are behind me.”

Vic stepped closer, the scent of his expensive cologne and lingering cigarette smoke invading my space. He reached out as if to touch my arm, but I flinled back, the movement sharp and defensive.

"Don't," I hissed.

"You're shaking," he noted, his voice dropping to that low, gravelly register that used to make my knees weak. "Is it the jet lag, or are you actually happy to see me?"

"It’s the urge to commit multiple felonies in front of Interpol," I retorted. "Get out of my way, Vic."

"You always were a terrible liar," he murmured, leaning in just enough that I could feel the heat radiating off him. "I'll give you your space for now but don't think for a second you're actually getting away. I know your moves better than you do."

I looked at him one last time against the backdrop of the vehicle he’d rented and the sprawling skyline. He was a ghost from my past and a current complication I didn't need, especially not now. Yet, here he was, acting as my self-appointed shadow, looking like he had all the time in the world.

"Forty-eight hours, Vic," I warned. I didn't wait for the driver to help; I grabbed my own bags and threw them into the car myself before sliding into the back seat, the leather hot against my skin. "That’s how long you have to find me. If not, that’s on you. After that, you're back to France, and I'm back to being invisible!”

I slammed the door before he could respond, but through the glass, I saw that smirk widen into something predatory.

"Whatever you say, La Duquesa," he replied, his voice loud enough to penetrate the window as the driver pulls away. “I’ll find you. You know that I always do.”

Vic was going to find me. Eventually.

That thought was a rhythmic drumbeat in the back of my skull, steady and inevitable. He always did. He had this way of using our mutual connections – usually my brother, Bob. But this time, Sera was the leak, the soft spot in my perimeter. The love was still there between us, but she was currently nursing a martini in a different time zone with her wife, playing puppet master.

As the car accelerated, I didn't just sit back. I performed a standard sweep of my person. Sera was clever, but she had a signature style—she liked to hide trackers in the lining of things. I felt the slight, rigid abnormality in the seam of my duffel. I didn't pull it out yet; that would alert her that I’d found it. Instead, I waited until we crossed a bridge over a massive storm drain. I palmed the small, adhesive disc, rolled the window down two inches, and flicked it into the darkness.

"Step on it," I told the driver. I needed distance between my current position and the last ping on Sera’s screen.

I settled deeper into the back seat of the sedan, the interior smelling faintly of pine freshener and old, stale tobacco. The driver, a man with tired eyes that had seen too many late-night runners and desperate tourists, didn't look back as I rattled off an address of a hotel that was so far off of government employees’ radar on the far side of the city.

"How fast can you get here?" I asked, my voice sounding more tired than I wanted it to. “I know it's about a thirty-five minute drive without traffic.”

He glanced at me through the rearview mirror. "Traffic’s fairly light at this time of day. Maybe forty minutes, signora."

"I’ll double the fare if you do it in twenty," I said, my pulse still racing. "And I'm not looking for a scenic tour. I need to get somewhere away far from my past.”

The driver shifted gears, a glint of recognition appearing in the rearview mirror. I could tell by the way his posture straightened that he was a tsarist who knew exactly who I was. "Twenty minutes it is, ma’am. Hold on to your bags."

He drove like a man possessed. He treated red lights as mere suggestions and took corners with a screeching, centrifugal force that would’ve thrown me against the door if I hadn’t worn my seatbelt. Every time we jerked through an intersection, I checked the rear window. No sight of Vic's sedan. I made him take three hard lefts and a U-turn—a basic SDR (Surveillance Detection Route). If Vic was back there, he’d have to break cover to keep up. The road behind us remained empty.

We hit the curb of the address I gave him—a decoy hotel—in exactly nineteen minutes. I handed a stack of bills over the center console—a few more bills than double. "Stay here for five minutes with the engine running, then leave," I instructed.

I waited until he was idling, then slipped out the side door and into the shadows of a nearby piazza. I didn't go inside the hotel. Instead, I shouldered my bag and headed a block west, cutting through a narrow alleyway slick with debris. I performed a "cleaning" run—walking through a high-end department store with multiple exits, checking my reflection in the glass to see who was following. Clean.

My real destination was a third-floor walk-up that didn't exist on any public registry. The building was a "dead" asset, registered to a shell company in the Caymans that hadn't seen a tax return in a decade.

I used my fingerprint to gain entry, and the heavy security door immediately shut and locked itself behind me with a reassuring mechanical thud. The air in the hallway was stale, smelling of floor wax and silence. Despite how drained I was, I climbed the three flights. I didn't take the elevator; elevators were boxes that could be remotely disabled.

I reached the door of the apartment and checked the hair I’d left across the frame six months ago. It was still there, undisturbed. My fingers hovered over the digital pin pad. I punched in the eight-digit code—a sequence that rotated based on the date.

Click.

The door swung open to a vacuum of perfect order. My contact knew my neuroses. The air was chilled to exactly sixty-three degrees—optimal for keeping the server stack in the closet from overheating. There wasn't a speck of dust on the charcoal-grey sofa.

I let my duffel bag hit the floor, but I didn't relax. I went straight to the window and check the street from behind the reinforced blinds.

I stripped off my clothes in the middle of the living room, leaving a trail of "the old me" on the hardwood. I checked my body for any new marks, any bugs Vic might have planted during our "near-touch" at the airport. Nothing.

I stepped into the shower and turned the handle until the water was scalding. As the steam filled the room, obscuring the mirror and the world outside, I leaned my forehead against the tile and let the heat wash away the city, the sedan, and the lingering scent of Vic. For tonight, I was invisible.

As I was showering, I used my burner phone to access a localized dark-web forum for the Roman underground. I wasn't looking for news; I was looking for the "color of the night." I needed to know which clubs were being raided and which were safe for a "ghost" to haunt. The consensus was "neo-grunge"—a look that allowed for loose layers, perfect for concealing a small blade or a secondary burner.

I went to the closet and pulled out the gear I had cached. I found jeans that fit my waist perfectly but were baggy and strategically ripped throughout. I put on a pair of neon green thongs, slid on the ripped jeans, and applied pasties to my nipples. I followed that with a neon green mesh shirt—the kind that confused low-res security cameras with its high-contrast pattern. I layered a hunter green and black plaid flannel shirt over the top.

Since my hair was still damp, I worked in some mousse, blow-dried it for volume, and styled it into messy waves. I reached into my jeans and adjusted the straps of my thong, pulling them up high over my hips to be seen at the top of my waistband, creating a sharp “Y” to mimic a whale’s tail. It was the perfect distraction; most men would be looking at the neon string rather than my face.

I searched the hidden compartment in the desk for my passport and driver’s license. I checked the holograms under a UV light. Still good. I grabbed a signal-blocking pouch for my phone and slipped out.

I moved through the streets using "gray man" tactics—staying in the shadows, leaning into the crowd, never looking directly at a camera lens. I reached the first club, an unmarked steel door. Before entering, I tied the flannel shirt around my waist, just below the neon whale tail.

The bouncer took one look at me—the mesh, the thong, the sheer audacity of my presence—and simply stepped aside.

"Welcome back, Duquesa," he muttered. I threw him a look.

“Keep it down, dude,” I hissed. I didn't pay. In this world, the Duchess was currency enough.

When I entered, the bass hit me like a physical blow. I didn't go to the bar. I went to the back, found a corner with a clear view of the entrance and the fire exit, and waited for my eyes to adjust. Only then did I let Mario approach me. He was young, loud, and the perfect human shield.

Mario and I spent the hours drinking and dancing. I used him to move through the floor, always keeping him between me and anyone who looked too closely. But eventually, the kid ran out of steam. I kissed his cheek, checked my watch, and slipped away.

I exited through the front, passing the bouncer. "Forget that I was here tonight," I told him, my voice low and commanding.

He looked at me for a long beat. "I'll forget that you were here," he replied slowly. "But I won't ever forget who you are. I was born near the Ipatiev House, Duchess. I know a Romanov when I see one."

I didn't answer. I just headed to the next club. This time, I used the back entrance, moving through the kitchen. I traded a pack of cigarettes for a clean exit path later.

I entered the main area of the second club, a deep crimson cavern. I dove into the crowd, using the strobe lights to mask my movements. Luca and Matteo caught me—two locals who were clearly looking for a thrill. I let them flank me at the bar. They were handsy, but I kept my "work" hand free.

"Home is wherever the music is loud enough to drown out the silence," I told Matteo. He leaned in for a kiss, and I used the moment to check his pockets—nothing but a wallet and a lighter. No wire, no badge. I let myself go then, the three of us a blurred knot of motion. I flirted, I drank, but I never once stopped scanning the room for a tall man with a smirk and a hidden agenda.

I stayed on the floor until 6 AM, when the music died and the house lights stripped away the glamour. I walked out into the dawn, my flannel shirt back on, my posture shifting back to that of a nondescript tourist. I had survived the first twelve hours. Only thirty-six to go.