covering the sun. A long shadow seemsto blanket the wide thoroughfare we are standing on, sweeping down its face, across the exteriors of all the graceful buildings crowded on either side, like a river of darkness. In the distance, through the man-made stone canyon, I catch a glimpse of the Piazza del Duomo — the Duomo Square — the Christmas tree and the softly gleaming cathedral rising at its far end like a mirage.
We’re quite some distance from the recessed circular drive of the hotel’s official entrance. According to plan, there are three glossy black luxury sedans with dark tinted windows illegally parked against the kerb, engines idling, each sporting a silver hood ornament in the shape of a delicate winged lady in flight. The cars are longer and wider than normal, with two rear doors instead of one, and they seem to be riding a little low to the ground, as if they might be armoured.
I wonder again how one lone skinny female could merit all this protection, be the centre of so much attention. I don’t know how Irina can stand living like this. It’s beginning to give me the creeps, the way everyone stares and whispers and desires.
Standing beside the first car is a heavy-set older guy in a tailored navy overcoat, who can only be Angelo. A younger coat-wearing giant, with a head ofshort, tight dark curls, who must be Carlo, is holding open one of the back doors to the third car. The eyes of both men light up when they see me, but then they dart anxious looks at the leaden ominous sky.
‘Is about time!’ Angelo calls out, looking back at me longingly.
‘ Subito! ’ Carlo snaps, though he, too, cannot look away from me for long.
The fierce gusting wind tears at the ends of my hair so that it ripples out behind me like a bright banner. All the fancy awnings and shutters along the street snap and creak, as the wind buffets them. The sky is an unnatural colour — steel grey with a hint of yellow in it — and the arctic conditions are enough to stop Gia in her tracks so that I almost collide with her back. With an oath, she knots her fancy scarves tightly around the lower half of her face before zipping her leather jacket right up under her neck. Vladimir and Jürgen scowl as they hunch their heavy shoulders against the bitter conditions and pull on matching pairs of black leather gloves, scanning opposite ends of the street continuously.
Vladimir moves forward and opens the back passenger side door to the second car, gesturing urgently for me to get inside as the wind throws gritin all our faces and threatens to snatch the stylish cloche hat right off my head and over the rooftops. Still, I hesitate, unwilling to be dragged back inside, back into Irina’s claustrophobic, over-protected, hothouse little life. I close my eyes and tilt my head back as if I could drink in the approaching tempest, transcend it.
‘What are you doing? Get moving!’ Gia yells through her veil of scarves as she stumbles in the direction of the third car. ‘See you at Giovanni’s. Just be prepared. ’
‘Wait!’ I scream, raising my black-gloved hand in her direction.
Gia stops, looking back at me quizzically, and I shriek ‘Ryan!’ into the teeth of the wind. It’s not a question.
Gia hesitates as Carlo plucks at her arm. She throws his hand off and pivots on one heel, back in my direction. Carlo snarls in guttural Italian, but remains where he is, watching me, because that’s what he’s supposed to do, and what he can’t help doing.
Gia leans in towards me as I yell, ‘Bring him to me. As soon as you can.’
In reply, she shouts: ‘ Mercy is alive and badly needs your help — have I got it?’
I nod vigorously and she gives me a thumbs-up, then shoves me in the direction of the second limo before stumbling back towards the third car and climbing into the back seat. Jürgen gets in beside her and Carlo swings into the seat facing theirs. The two rear doors slam shut in unison and I can no longer see them all
We’re quite some distance from the recessed circular drive of the hotel’s official entrance. According to plan, there are three glossy black luxury sedans with dark tinted windows illegally parked against the kerb, engines idling, each sporting a silver hood ornament in the shape of a delicate winged lady in flight. The cars are longer and wider than normal, with two rear doors instead of one, and they seem to be riding a little low to the ground, as if they might be armoured.
I wonder again how one lone skinny female could merit all this protection, be the centre of so much attention. I don’t know how Irina can stand living like this. It’s beginning to give me the creeps, the way everyone stares and whispers and desires.
Standing beside the first car is a heavy-set older guy in a tailored navy overcoat, who can only be Angelo. A younger coat-wearing giant, with a head ofshort, tight dark curls, who must be Carlo, is holding open one of the back doors to the third car. The eyes of both men light up when they see me, but then they dart anxious looks at the leaden ominous sky.
‘Is about time!’ Angelo calls out, looking back at me longingly.
‘ Subito! ’ Carlo snaps, though he, too, cannot look away from me for long.
The fierce gusting wind tears at the ends of my hair so that it ripples out behind me like a bright banner. All the fancy awnings and shutters along the street snap and creak, as the wind buffets them. The sky is an unnatural colour — steel grey with a hint of yellow in it — and the arctic conditions are enough to stop Gia in her tracks so that I almost collide with her back. With an oath, she knots her fancy scarves tightly around the lower half of her face before zipping her leather jacket right up under her neck. Vladimir and Jürgen scowl as they hunch their heavy shoulders against the bitter conditions and pull on matching pairs of black leather gloves, scanning opposite ends of the street continuously.
Vladimir moves forward and opens the back passenger side door to the second car, gesturing urgently for me to get inside as the wind throws gritin all our faces and threatens to snatch the stylish cloche hat right off my head and over the rooftops. Still, I hesitate, unwilling to be dragged back inside, back into Irina’s claustrophobic, over-protected, hothouse little life. I close my eyes and tilt my head back as if I could drink in the approaching tempest, transcend it.
‘What are you doing? Get moving!’ Gia yells through her veil of scarves as she stumbles in the direction of the third car. ‘See you at Giovanni’s. Just be prepared. ’
‘Wait!’ I scream, raising my black-gloved hand in her direction.
Gia stops, looking back at me quizzically, and I shriek ‘Ryan!’ into the teeth of the wind. It’s not a question.
Gia hesitates as Carlo plucks at her arm. She throws his hand off and pivots on one heel, back in my direction. Carlo snarls in guttural Italian, but remains where he is, watching me, because that’s what he’s supposed to do, and what he can’t help doing.
Gia leans in towards me as I yell, ‘Bring him to me. As soon as you can.’
In reply, she shouts: ‘ Mercy is alive and badly needs your help — have I got it?’
I nod vigorously and she gives me a thumbs-up, then shoves me in the direction of the second limo before stumbling back towards the third car and climbing into the back seat. Jürgen gets in beside her and Carlo swings into the seat facing theirs. The two rear doors slam shut in unison and I can no longer see them all
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