I.
“I still advise against this.” Father’s voice was sandpaper, disapproval fortified behind his thick moustache. His fingers tapped the wooden armrest, small, staccato protests against a choice that had, for all intents and purposes, already been made. I took a deep breath and kissed the top of his head.
“I promise I’ll be careful.”
“But will they?”
“There are still some of our kind there, father.” Father’s response was a grunt, and I smiled, wry. “You know, humans have done worse things.”
Another grunt, but this time, laced with concession.
8:45 AM. The Mediterranean sun was already boisterous, dappling the humble streets outside my window. Punctual, that’s what I’d said on my resume. Punctual, detail-oriented… my university tote bag, crammed full of last night’s sleepless preparation, watched me silently as I slipped into my shoes. My phone rang.
“Hey, Emilia. I’m getting ready to leave!”
“Oh my goodness, sorry! I just wanted to wish you luck. Are we still on for our girls’ night tonight?”
“Yes, of course!”
“Okay, see you later!”
Finally, armed with a securely packed sandwich, a baby-toy-offering and far too many antibacterial wipes, I exited my apartment and took a deep breath.
“Maria Rotondo?”
Shielding my eyes, I glanced down the concrete steps. A man stood, impossibly tall, his long, black hair slicked neatly behind his dark suit. His eyes were a startling blue, ice glimmering through the Italian daylight. Slightly unnerved, I noticed the luxury vehicle, comically embedded in the narrow streets and wondered how on earth he’d managed to slide between the buildings.
The man turned to survey the street, his eyes glinting slightly, before refocusing on me. “Is this 150 Vittorio Emanuelle?”
“Sorry—yes. I’m Maria. Maria Rotondo.” Quickly regaining my wits, I hurried down the steps to shake his hand. With an amused expression, he took my hand and motioned to the car.
“My name is Alessandro Abati. Madame Le Roy has instructed me to escort you to Villa dei Fiori.” His gaze was locked onto mine and his face, as if chiselled from porcelain, was exceedingly calm. My wits exited the scene once more, and I, with all the self-control afforded to me, restrained a smile as I filed away the memory. Emilia was going to explode.
Ushering me into the vehicle, Alessandro shut the door securely and settled into the driver’s seat, glancing at my reflection from the rearview mirror. “Is the temperature comfortable?”
“Yes, thank you.”
With a nod, he reversed through the street. I gripped my seatbelt, a sudden concern for the safety of the car’s exterior, but Alessandro’s skills were impressive, and we were soon on the wide road, headed towards Ravello.
