He nods.
‘No one is coming with us?’ I ask because it is such a novel idea.
He shakes his head.
‘No Noah?’
He shakes his head again.
‘No Yuri or Boris?’
He repeats the movement of his head.
‘Not even the driver?’
‘Just you and me, rybka.’
‘Actually it sounds awesome.’
‘I think so too,’ he says softly. He reaches into the drawer again. I lift my head up to look. ‘What’s that?’ I ask curiously.
Taking my finger he slips a platinum ring with a massive stone on it.
‘That’s a diamond by the way,’ he says casually. Then he adds a plain band on top of the first ring.
My lips part with a strange emotion, but neither the gesture nor the moment has any real significance to him.
‘There, it fits perfectly,’ he says.
‘Yes,’ I whisper. I take a deep breath. I have to act normally. I have to be cool. Maybe a little humor. ‘You do realize that you won’t be getting these babies back after the vacation, don’t you?’
‘They’re yours,’ he says, an odd inflection in his voice.
I swallow hard. Does he even realize what he is saying? Quick change the subject, Dahlia. ‘Are you sure travelling with fake passports is safe? What if we get caught?’
‘These are real passports. The owners died in a car crash and their families sold them on to forgers. These here are exactly the same type of documents used by Mossad agents. There is absolutely no way anyone can tell the difference unless they investigate deeply, but nobody’s going to investigate us deeply. We’re just going to spend the weekend in Rome.’
‘OK, but if we end up in prison …’ I warn.
He drops his voice to a whisper. ‘It’s an adventure, little fish.’
His hands start spreading my thighs. I glare at him. ‘I’m still angry with you.’
He slips a finger inside me. Of course I have to be soaking wet. ‘No, you’re not,’ he says with a chuckle.
Ah, what the heck. It’s hard to pretend to be angry when you’re having such fun, anyway.
Seventeen
Dahlia Fury
(Happiness)
I’ve been to Venice before, but never to Rome so it is all, as Stella would say it in a fake post accent, ‘terribly exciting’. We are just like two tourists. I really get into character. I catch myself wondering what Dahlia Zhivanescskaya would do right then. Even in my wildest dreams I never imagined travelling on a fake passport with a Russian mob boss.
I must admit my heart races like a bullet train when we are asked to show our passports, but Zane doesn’t even bat an eyelid, and quite right he was to be so chilled about it all. We were waved through after a cursory examination of our passports. The adrenaline spike dies down and at this point I am beginning to really appreciate the adventure I’m on. I’ve just broken God knows how many international laws and you know what? It feels absolutely brilliant.
Maybe even a bit Bonnie and Clydeish.
Like any other tourists we go pick up our luggage like everyone else and walk to Customs. We don’t hold hands. That would be silly at this stage of the relationship … until that is, he takes my hand and then it’s panic stations … Oh my God: we are holding hands!
The weather outside is beautiful. Bright and pleasantly warm. We get into a taxi and Zane gives him the address. Twenty minutes later we’re in fabulous Rome. Wow! What an amazing city. I stare at all the wonderful buildings full of history and beauty. We pass the Coliseum and I crane my neck out of the taxi to stare at it.
‘We’ll see it tomorrow,’ Zane says.
I turn to him. ‘Great. I’ve always wanted to see it.’
‘It is one of the most fascinating places on the earth,’ he says quietly.
The villa is located in Formello about twenty kilometers from Rome, and is surrounded by lush trees and greenery. The wrought iron gates are opened by a small, white-haired man who nods at us formally as we drive through to a gorgeous house painted in burnt orange. It has a white stone balustrade and slated wooden shutters painted duck-egg blue on the windows. There is an ancient green Mazda parked by the side of the house.
We step out onto the dusty road and a tiny woman comes out of the large wooden door and smiles in greeting. The man who opened the gates comes up the driveway as the taxi driver is taking our bags out of the boot.
‘Benevenuto Senor e Senora Zhivanecskaya,’ the woman says. Her face is full of wrinkles and her eyes are brown and rheumy, but her smile is real and full of spirit.
‘Grazia, Senora Rossi,’ Zane says.
I smile at her.
By now the sprightly old man is upon us and his weathered face is split into a large welcoming grin. He reaches forward and grasps Zane’s hand in both of his. To my surprise Zane starts talking to him in fluent Italian. After a while the man lifts his hand and bids us both goodbye. The woman, presumably his wife, nods at us, and they both get into the rickety car and drive off.