“In Tuscany. Where I was going to send you and RJ for a little vacation. Her parents have a vineyard there. Run a little B&B. It’s safe and tucked away and…if they got away from Martin, they’d head to Lucca. I’m sure of it.”

“Back to Italy.”

“She’s there, York. I feel it in my bones.”

“I hope that’s not the bratwurst talking.”

He shoved the beer at York. “You just stay alive long enough to get there.”

Chapter 3

If she was going to be lost, hiding and holding out hope that York would find her, this would be the place to hole up.

RJ stood in a borrowed white tee-shirt, barefoot, a sheet wrapped around her and stared out the window as the moon cast over the rolling green hills, the impossibly star-strewn sky, the smell so rich with greenery and life that she could almost forget.

Almost forget that she’d abandoned the man she loved.

Almost forget that she’d been betrayed by her own stupid sense of grand purpose.

Almost forget that someone had nearly been killed protecting her, again.

But surely, they’d be safe, here, at Ziggy’s family villa.

Or, estate. The sprawling two-century old home sat atop a hill, the drive long and winding past lush chianti grape vines, and low, twisty olive trees until it reached the apex, a hilltop stone home surrounded by spiring cypress trees, and an aura of history.

She’d slept most of the way to Vienna while RJ, of course, stared out the window as the blackness retreated to dawn.

They’d stayed in the train station for their layover, with Ziggy purchasing a tray of wiener würstels and mustard from a street vendor and a couple bottles of soda water. RJ picked up some personal toiletries.

They ate and then boarded the morning train to Florence, an all-day trip..

The trek wound them through mountains, with steep hills that careened to deep azure lakes. Quaint villages cast upon the green foothills, dotted with wildflowers, renaissance steeples rising from central churches amongst red-tiled roofs.

As the train drew deeper into Italy, the mountains fell away, giving over to an undulating landscape of rows and rows of grapevines that climbed up hillsides upon which perched grand clay-tiled roofed homes with arched windows and sprawling terraces.

Hana sat quiet, her eyes wide as the Tuscan countryside unfolded, the last rays of the day gilding the rolling hills. As far as RJ could see, tiny villages squatted on the hilltops, many of them cordoned by tall stone walls, iron gates and watchtowers.

“Those were tiny empires, built in medieval times, were often controlled by the local priests or bishops. A massive catholic church usually sits in the center square, and many have monasteries. A few have castles, too.” Ziggy sat in the front seat, turned around like a tour guide.