“Tell that to my lawyer!” Zanetti pivots, and marches up the stairs.

They return to Byron’s car in silence. As Alana opens the passenger door, she senses a presence behind her. She looks over her shoulder to see a young man in a hard hat. As he shifts from foot to foot, Alana recognizes him as the anxious-looking teenager whom she saw leaving the trailer yesterday. He’s not sweating today, but he doesn’t seem much calmer.

He glances around and then asks in barely above a whisper, “Sei un dottore?”

“I don’t speak Italian.”

“A doctor?”

“Yes. How can I help you?”

He looks nervously over either shoulder again and then slips her a damp piece of paper.

“What’s this?” Alana asks as she unfolds the crumpled note, but the young man is already rushing away. She resists the urge to call out after him as she watches him disappear behind a cement truck.

She looks down at the note and sees the name “Emilio” with a phone number scrawled beside it.

Chapter

Fifteen

How much did I drink? Marianna Barsotti wonders as she rolls over in bed. She only remembers a Chianti. It’s possible there were a few bottles. Nothing too out of the ordinary for a Thursday night. But her head pounds so hard it feels as if someone is using her skull for a drum.

Marianna pats the spot beside her. It’s still warm and indented from where he was lying, but he is nowhere to be seen. What was his name again? Alberto . . . Adamo . . . no, Adriano! He was funny, that one. And good-looking in a Sicilian way. But the cologne! She can still inhale the vanilla and spice. They always overdo it with the scents.

She bundles the blanket tighter around her. The chill in her apartment is unusual for April. Maybe she will have to turn on the heat today.

She wonders if her guest is in the kitchen or if he’s already gone. It doesn’t really matter. Marianna won’t see him again. She never does. Since her divorce, she prefers it that way—brief intense encounters. The initial eye contact and slow mating dance that, if all goes well, reaches a frenzied conclusion in her bedroom. At thirty-five, Marianna has no problem attracting new men, but a couple of flings a month is plenty.

Adriano was good in bed. She came twice with him, almost effortlessly. Sometimes, it takes all her energy to climax even once with the awkward or selfish ones. She didn’t mind that Adriano smoked, but his cough was off-putting. It almost prevented her from taking him home. But he assured her it was only a smoker’s cough. Now she wonders. And with her trip to Paris less than a month away, she cannot afford to take any more sick time from work.

Marianna’s head throbs as if the imaginary drummer dropped his sticks and started to just whack her scalp instead. Oh, Mother of God, don’t tell me Adriano gave me the goddamn flu!