Giovanni stood in the doorway, a holstered handgun on his hip. “Yes?” he asked, his brows knitted together in a scowl.
“Ah, sorry for not calling,” Jess mumbled. “But, we got stuck in Rome.” As her eyes adjusted to the darkness inside, she saw two thick-set men in bullet proof vests and dark clothing standing behind Giovanni. Between them stood Nico, who smiled warmly and waved.
But Giovanni didn’t smile. He stared hard at Jess. “And…?”
She hadn’t given much thought to how Giovanni might react when they showed up on his doorstep. He had invited them, after all. She imagined an impassioned reunion, tears over the horrors of Rome. It made sense that they might show up. She didn’t expect this cold, standoffish reaction. She felt self-conscious, exposed, the stump of her leg cold. “We were hoping we might be able to stay here. You invited us.”
Giovanni stared at her. Seconds ticked by. “And who is that?” He flicked his chin in the direction of Massarra.
“A friend,” Celeste answered. “She gave us a lift.”
“And you want to come in?” Giovanni asked. “Anything else?”
Were those bodyguards behind him? That made sense, but not the way Giovanni acted. Hadn’t he asked them to come here if they needed help? What game was he playing? Jess felt her hackles rising. “We need help. That’s why we’re here. We exchanged texts, you said to come back if we had problems.”
“You need help?” Giovanni took a step back. “Then come in, by all means.”
Nico stepped forward. “Jessica, I tried talking to him, but—”
“Silence!” Giovanni turned to glare at Nico. “No more talking.” He smiled at Jess. “Please, come in.”
The feeling of a surreal break from reality intensified. Jess swung forward on her crutches, through the door. Celeste followed. Except for the two bodyguards and Nico and Giovanni, the interior gravel courtyard was empty, the lights everywhere off.
“Did you see what happened in Rome?” Jess asked, taking two loping steps in before stopping.
That had to be it, why Giovanni was acting so strange. Maybe he'd lost friends or family. Jess cursed herself for being thoughtless. For her it was a terrifying shock, but for him, it must be like a New Yorker who lived in lower Manhattan after 9/11.
Jess tried to reach for Giovanni. “I’m so sorry—”
“What do you have to be sorry for?” Giovanni asked sharply, pulling away from her. He turned on his heel and crunched across the gravel, past the gnarled roots of the ancient olive tree. “This way.” But he didn’t lead them up the main stairs to the living quarters. He walked toward an open wooden door with metal bars just off the courtyard.
Jess followed him. Nico hung back behind the bodyguards, his head hanging low between his shoulders. She heard the car’s engine start outside the walls, gravel crunching under its wheels, the sound fading.
“Do they know what happened yet?” Celeste asked from behind Jess.
Giovanni stopped at the door, indicating that Jess should enter ahead of him. “And who is ‘they’?”
Jess and Celeste glanced at each other. What was going on? Jess shrugged and turned back to Giovanni. “The media, the government, I don’t know.”
She swung forward through the open door into darkness. He hadn’t even asked what happened to her leg. Inside, she stopped and let her eyes adjust to the darkness. She expected to see a staircase, or perhaps a lobby to rooms on a lower level. These were the stables. Rough stone walls with floors covered in hay. No horses. The door swung shut behind her, a grinding ka-chunk signaling the lock closing.
“But as to what’s going on,” Giovanni continued, “that’s something I would like you to answer.”
Jess wobbled around on her crutches. “What are you doing?”
Giovanni pressed his face against the metal bars of the door’s window, pointed a finger at Jess. “The question is, what are you doing?” He disappeared.
A muffled scream. “Let go of me!” Celeste yelled. Thrashing in the gravel.
Jess hobbled back to the door. “Mom?!”
Another scream, louder this time, and then a door slamming shut.
21
DARMSTADT, GERMANY
“AN EVACUATION OF Rome has been ordered…” said the CNN news anchor.
Ben watched the TV screen in their office with dread. Still no word from the driver. Still no word from Jess or Celeste. He had yelled at Dr. Müller, vented his frustration and fear on him, but really, it wasn’t his fault. After his public tantrum, Ben went and locked himself in a bathroom stall where he cried—and prayed.
When times were good, when he felt healthy and optimistic, there was no need for God. Brought up Protestant, Ben now thought of himself as an atheist. He saw no cracks in the fabric of existence that demanded a Creator.
Not until his existence cracked around him.