The street narrowed to an alley, then narrowed again. Something skittered in the shadows. Rome was notorious for its feral cats living in the old ruins and the alleys, under bushes, inside gutter pipes, and tucked between walls. This was different. The animal let out a small yelp, not very catlike, and presented itself in a patch of gray light. It was one of those small dogs that had been popular for a while, a toy dog tiny enough to fit in your purse: a bug-eyed creature, hungry and without a collar. Lost, maybe, or abandoned by one of the street peddlers who hawked the ones without pedigrees. I cooed at the little beast, trying to make friends, but that only agitated him. I tried to walk by. He kept at it, yelping and nipping. Finally I lunged toward him and he scuttled back, teeth bared, barking, his chest puffed and his feet clattering on the stones. I hurried by. He followed, darting at my heels—then suddenly fell silent, his attention distracted by some bit of offal.

The alley darkened ahead.

I was lost.

I walked until I came to a small piazza, dimly lit, where I heard people talking. Voices fell silent. Two men lingered at a table. I hesitated because I know how men regard women alone in such situations, especially a woman dressed as I was dressed, stuttering along the cobblestones in her heels.

There was a church in this small piazza—and, as it happened, another dog, a bit larger than my little friend, nosing behind the pillars.

I asked for directions.

The men looked at me stupidly.

“I just came from a party. At Senator Orsini’s.”

I emphasized the name, thinking it might offer some security. But as soon as I spoke, I realized my mistake. Something in the way the men shifted, their change of posture. The moonlight stark against their faces. The one closest to me was a lanky marionette of a man, unnaturally thin. The second man, the one in the back, with his chair tilted precariously against the wall . . . the high forehead . . . the slicked hair . . . the slack-jawed smile that wasn’t really a smile at all . . .

I recognized him even in this light.

I laughed awkwardly. It was because I was afraid, that laugh, and because I hoped somehow I was mistaken. The coincidence of it—of running into Lodovico, Isabella’s bodyguard . . .

My little dog reappeared, scampering onto the church steps. He paid me no mind but rather greeted the other dog, putting his nose up its private parts. The two of them continued snuffling along the church wall.

“So you’ve left the party?”