Chris said, “What about you? Who were you calling?”
“Hotel in Florence.” He started the car and pulled away. “It’s high season, best to book ahead.” They didn’t respond, and a moment later he said, “That was a little joke there. Just trying to lighten the mood.”
Chris threw him a look of contempt. “After what we just saw you do, you expect us to laugh at your stand-up routine? When do you get to the jokes about shooting people?”
Lucas glanced across at him. “What did you see me do? Tell me. What did you see me do?” His voice was threatening, and Chris didn’t answer.
Maybe he’d saved them, but Ella couldn’t shake the memory of what she had seen, Lucas taking a step forward, shooting the main in the head.
Treading carefully with her tone, she said, “Lucas?” She caught his eyes in the rearview and felt confident enough to proceed. “Why did you shoot him in the head?”
“He was wearing body armor.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he didn’t bleed enough when I shot him the first time.”
Again, it sounded as if he was going to say something else, but he didn’t. He seemed to have a way with awkward conversation-ending pauses. None of them spoke for the rest of the journey.
It was after ten by the time they got to Florence, the traffic still fairly heavy and volatile, crowds of people spilling across the streets. Lucas parked on a side street and told them to get out, then opened the trunk. Inside were a large knapsack and an overnight bag. He gave the knapsack to Chris and reached into the other bag.
“Take these.” He handed them both a passport. “False passports, for the hotel. Okay, let’s go.” He picked up the bag, locked the car, and led them along the street. And they’d walked a good twenty paces before Ella thought of looking at the passport in her hand, bearing her picture but with the name “Emma Wright.”
It was a relief to get to the hotel and off the crowded streets. This was no longer a friendly place, the people no longer just tourists. The hotel was on the fourth floor of a building near the Duomo, a budget hotel but clean, the rooms with bathrooms, even TVs, a lot better than the one they’d booked for themselves.
Lucas introduced himself as Mr. Wright. He’d reserved two rooms, but once the manager had left them in the corridor he said, “We all stay in the double.” They didn’t respond, just followed him into the room.
Chris dropped the knapsack on the bed and Lucas immediately opened it and took out a gun, then something else that he attached to the barrel, a silencer. His movements were spare and methodical, but somehow he looked unpredictable, dangerous.
Ella felt her stomach tighten, a sense that maybe Lucas had set a trap and now they were in it. But with the gun assembled, he turned to Chris and said, “I have to go out. I won’t be long. When I get back, I’ll knock once and say, ‘It’s Dad.’ Anyone else knocks, don’t answer. Anyone comes in, you shoot them. Safety’s off. Just aim it at the middle of their chest and shoot. If you’re in any doubt, shoot again, keep shooting till they go down, and then shoot them in the head.”
Ella said, “You think we’re still in danger?”
He turned to her and smiled, his face coming alive, taking on form, warm, friendly. His eyes were startlingly blue, something she hadn’t noticed before. “No. It’s just a precaution.”
He turned back to Chris. “Okay, you understand what I’m saying? You want to hold the gun to get used to it?” Chris shook his head, looking lost, like a child. “I’ll put it here on the table.” He walked to the door but stopped before leaving and said, “And remember, no phone calls, no nothing.”
That was it, he was gone, and the two of them were left standing in the confined hush of the room. It was as if for the first time since it had happened they suddenly had the space and the quiet to take it all in. Ella wanted to cry and for Chris to hold her, but he still looked lost, distracted.
“I need a piss,” he said, as though becoming aware of his own body again. He went into the bathroom and shut the door.
Ella sat down on the edge of the bed and looked at the gun, sitting there on the night table like it was the most natural thing in the world. She didn’t want to cry now, she just wanted Lucas to come back.
Chris was a long time in the bathroom, and when he came out his eyes were red. She’d never seen him cry, had never even seen him upset, and she wanted to hold him and comfort him the way she’d wanted to be comforted a few minutes before. He looked embarrassed, though, and laced with hostility, all anger she couldn’t help but feel was directed at her.
“Are you okay?”
He didn’t answer, saying instead, “How do we know who this guy is? I mean, How do we really know what’s going on here? You never told me your family was this rich.”