His Mafia Prince

(SASHA)

Snoring beauty awakes a few hours later, complaining of a dry throat and a stiff neck.

"Go shower," I say, stroking my fingers through his hair on the pillow where he’s still lying, "and then we’ll go out for dinner."

He stretches, yawns, and shuffles off to the bathroom. I’ve unpacked and I’ve answered all the emails from Miles, saving my replies to draft as well—still no word from La Contessa, according to him—so I amuse myself with television until Tyler is dressed and ready to go.

There’s an elevator, but we take the stairs instead, and then we’re out on the streets of Rome, two anonymous lovers in a city where no one is trying to kill either of us.

Not immediately, anyway.

"Where do you want to go?" I ask Tyler, slinging an arm across his shoulders.

"There’s a restaurant area a few streets away," he says, gesturing. "We could walk over there and find a place."

"Perfect."

The nightlife in this part of Rome is almost as busy, but somehow without the same sense of urgency—and definitely more sky. I’m so accustomed to being towered over by buildings that the more open skyline takes a little getting used to.

I wonder, as we’re seated at an outside table at the restaurant we chose, who over the millennia has passed over exactly the same spot I’m sitting in now. All around us, the air is filled with chatter and laughter, the smell of red wine and garlic as table staff pass by, and when I catch Tyler’s eye, he’s smiling softly at me.