His Mafia Prince

{TYLER}

A figure comes around the corner, shadowed by the low roof of the portico, and stops dead, staring straight at us. It’s the Irish guy. It’s definitely him; his shadowy figure looks exactly the same as it did in the catacombs.

I tense to run or duck, my hand squeezing Sasha’s so tight that he might lose a finger, but then our stalker looks the other way. I hear a soft curse carrying across the water. He strolls a little further down to stop in a patch of moonlight, and unbuttons his jacket.

For a very brief moment I feel Sasha’s hand squeeze back at mine, but then the man takes out a packet of cigarettes. He takes his time shaking one out, then reaches into his inside pocket once more—only to take out a lighter.

With a soft snick, a glowing yellow flame lights up his face, and he seems to look right at us for a moment before he touches it to the end of his cigarette. Then he leans against the railing and begins to smoke, casually, calmly, all the while looking down at the water of the canal.

Sasha begins to push me further down the alley, a finger to his lips to make sure I step carefully. Once we’re through, we find a few more side streets and alleys, until Sasha judges we’re far enough away to start running without being overheard.

I run with him, but there’s no panic in our pace; it’s steady, leisurely, a matter of putting distance between us and the opera house. We hit a wider street and slow even further to a fast walk.

All the while I let Sasha pull me along with him while he looks this way and that, until he finally makes for a very dark, very narrow alleyway. He bundles me into it, then leans up against the wall, face twisted towards the brighter street as he listens out for our stalker again. We stay like that for a long time, and I’m so damn proud of myself for keeping quiet and not asking any questions that I resolve to make Sasha praise me for it later, too.

Eventually, he peels himself off the wall and beckons me back into the street. It’s deserted; we’ve come a ways from the touristy areas, which worries me a little. This is the kind of street where a vengeance-seeking Irishman might be able to get up close and personal in his killing.

But it doesn’t worry me quite as much as it should, somehow. The way my heart is beating is closer to elation than terror. Sasha takes my hand again as we walk quickly through streets, taking corners here and there randomly as we head in the general direction of our palazzo. After a few minutes, he actually begins to swing our arms and gives a chuckle.

"Well, well," he says. "That was fun, wasn’t it?" "Honestly? Yeah. It kinda was."