Kaminski sighed and sank deeper into the cushions. Her head swam and the harbor lights blinked at her, even through her closed lids. She had smoked opium once, an oily black bead with that Tunisian boy—what was his name?—who played guitar near the Castel Sant’Angelo, and it had set her drifting like this. Floating, her worries no more than distant lights.

There was a sharp knock and she came to with a bump. She rubbed her eyes and sat up to see Faust opening the suite door. A man came in, squat and muscular, wearing jeans and a black-leather jacket. His hair was gray and cut short, and he greeted Faust in Italian, then glanced at his guest and switched to something else. Whatever it was sounded fast and harsh to Kaminski’s ears—Slavic, she thought, but otherwise no clue. Faust listened and nodded and checked his watch. He said something to the man—an order, a dismissal—and the man nodded and left.

Faust looked at her. “Another trip,” he said.

Felicia could barely find her voice. “What? Now? At this hour?”

Again the smile. “No rest for the wicked, Felicia, but we won’t be gone long. If you wish to wash up first, I will wait.”

She rubbed her hands over her face, rubbing life back into it. “No,” she said. “I’m tired of being dragged around, and now I’m done with it. Sono rifinito. Non sto andando.”

Even to herself she sounded like a child, but she was beyond caring. She looked at Faust, leaning so casually against the doorframe, his suit somehow without a wrinkle and every hair in place, as if he had stepped from a page in a fashion magazine.

He shook his head. “You are not staying here alone, Felicia.”

Anger welled in her. “No? And why not?”

“It is not safe.”

“I take care of myself.”

“Yes, I saw how well back in Rome.”

She said, “Screw you! I don’t need a goddamn babysitter.”

“You are the tough little urchin now, eh?”

“Tough enough,” Kaminski said, grinding her teeth. “I didn’t grow up in places like this, being waited on hand and foot.”

Faust’s smile widened. “You think that I did?”

“Let’s say you don’t look out of place.”

He chuckled. “You haven’t known the real romance of street life until you’ve experienced it in Buenos Aires, caught between the Montoneros and the Battalion 601 boys. Now those were charming fellows, and much more dedicated than your average Roman teppista.”

Kaminski massaged her temples, trying to get her brain to function. Buenos Aires? Montoneros? What the fuck? She’d read something once about the Dirty War, but she couldn’t remember what. “So you had it rough and now you’re up from the gutter—a real success story.”

“Something like that.”