That Little Bookshop in Rome Where it's Easy to Murder Someone. Really Easy!!!

Dusk had settled when Adrian Montana stepped off the plane at Rome’s Fiumicino Airport, dressed in wrinkled jeans, a rumpled t-shirt, and sporting a bedhead from the long flight. He pushed his luggage trolley through customs into the arrivals lounge and spotted a tall, clean-shaven man in a black suit and unbuttoned white shirt waving a placard with the name Adrian Montana written across it. He approached the man. ”Hi, yes, that’s me. You must be Carlo.”

“Benvenuto, Signor Montana. No. No. I am his driver. Please to follow me. If you please I will take your luggage.”

They stepped out of the airport and walked toward a sleek, black limousine parked in the drop off and collect zone and as they approached the vehicle, a stout man climbed out of the back seat and waved. “Signor Adrian! Welcome to Italy!” he said, spilling the glass of champagne held in his other hand. “I am Carlo, Clarissa’s lawyer. Please, get in. Get in!”

Adrian’s knees almost gave out from the plushness of the black leather seats. “Thank you. This is quite the welcome.”

“Of course! Of course! Your aunt would have wanted nothing but the best for you. Champagne?” He had already poured the glass.

“Why not? When in Rome, right?” Adrian lifted the glass to his mouth.

“Indeed! When in Rome.”

The champagne bubbled on his tongue as he glanced around the interior of the car. Another moment, he thought. Not a life-changing moment, but a moment nonetheless. “Is it always this fancy?”

The lawyer waved a hand dismissively. “Ah, not always. But today is special!”

“I guess you could say that.”

“You look like her,” he said, and then did something that caught Adrian off guard—

— he touched Adrian’s eyebrows.

“You have Clarissa’s eyebrows. Thick, in a classy way, and she also had green eyes, but yours are deeper,” he said intimately, like a lover handing out compliments. Adrian flinched, startled by this intimate gesture from a total stranger.

Adrian last saw Clarissa at his mother’s funeral five years ago, a tall, slender woman dressed in black with a netted veil concealing her sorrow. She pronounced “can’t” as in “ant” and “dance” as in “pants”, in a false American accent.

He remembered proudly declaring that one day he planned to write a book about a talking tomato. She laughed so hard that she snorted coffee out of her nose and said, “With that kind of imagination, you’ll make a wonderful writer.”

“Forgive me,” Carlo said, breaking the memory. He suddenly touched Adrian’s arm and Adrian moved his arm away instinctively. “I am sorry,” the lawyer said, “I see you are uncomfortable. It’s your skin. It is as soft as Brigitte Bardot’s skin. My father had an affair with her you know before she became famous. You have a marvellous tan. I suppose it’s the South African sun, si?”

Bridgette Bardot? Fuck me.

Carlo continued, “Your family has good genes. Do you lift weights?”

“Nope.”

“Too many Italians living the good life in this city are like this,” he said, opening his arms in a wide, sweeping movement, “and their skin is always white. I would love to visit your country one day. Get a tan like yours. Maybe lick champagne off a bambino or two.”

The limo turned onto a narrow street where the buildings crowded in on either side amid ancient ruins, bustling cafes, and cobblestone streets filled with Vespas. The sun had set and the city lights created an antique yellowish aura along the route.

“Rome is beautiful,” Adrian said.

“Indeed, it is,” Carlo replied. “And now, it is your new home!”

Your new home.

Adrian’s thoughts drifted back to the sunlit streets of South Africa. To the wild open spaces and the familiar laughter of friends over a braai and beer. Rome, for all its beauty, could never replace that. “Home?” Adrian echoed, his heart thumping wildly. “Rome is just a stop. I won’t be staying.”

Carlo glanced at him, horrified. “Sometimes, homes are found where we least expect them. Besides, you were not making money in that detective agency of yours. We both know that.”

“You did your homework,” Adrian said, grinning.

Carlo smirked, tapping his fingers on his knee. “Of course, I did. You’re not exactly subtle. I know your detective agency was hanging by a thread. I know you had a habit of taking cases no one else wanted. And I know all about that ex-boyfriend of yours. How he swindled you into believing he loved you but it was all a lie. Now here you are, inheriting a bookshop. Quite the career change.”

Adrian leaned back, crossing his arms as if shielding himself from the words that hit a little too close. “What else did you find, Carlo? My shoe size? My favorite brand of whiskey? Toothpaste? He let out a sharp breath, shaking his head. “That part of my life is dead and buried. And I’d appreciate it if you left it that way.”

“I didn’t mean to hit a nerve,” he said, “Look, I—” He reached out as if to touch Adrian again, but Adrian tensed.

“Don’t,” Adrian warned. His eyes, usually full of quiet amusement, were now dark. Angry. “Just don’t.”

Carlo’s hand froze mid-air before he let it drop to his knee. He nodded. “Fair enough.”

“So, tell me more about this bookshop.”

Carlo’s eyes sparkled. “La Libreria is, how do you say, a book lover’s heaven. Hundreds of books. Books everywhere from floor to ceiling, and of course, delightful staff.”

Adrian laughed. “I can’t wait to meet them.”

“Oh, you will meet them, Signor Adrian. You will definitely meet them.”

Was it Adrian’s imagination, or did he hear a snake slithering all over Carlo’s words—like the calm before a storm?