A few steps out of the building, I’m greeted from behind by rich Moscovian-laced Russian words.
“Enjoy yourself?” he asks in what sounds to be his native tongue.
I turn, letting my defenses drift away as I shake his extended hand. “Hey, Paco.”
He starts to walk, or pace, and I follow, circling but not really heading anywhere. “I’m a fan of your work.”
A laugh bursts from me before I can stop it. “That’s what Dimitri said the first time we met.”
“I mean your other work,” Paco says, leading me along with the charm of what’s undoubtedly a solid-gold carrot.
“What do you need?” I ask. I’m not rude. Getting to the point is how we operate in a world of action.
“Your skills, from time to time. Can I see your phone?”
Unconcerned, I hand it to him. How he unlocks it is beyond me, and I’m fascinated, but I don’t ask. I’m sure the feat is a natural result of every one of his secret-squirrel parlor tricks, but if I’m meant to know, he’ll tell me.
“I’m under P. If you see my call, I hope it’s one you take.” His sly smile widens. “After the third ring. Two rings means your work will flow through Mav.”
Without paying attention, we’ve ended up back at my car, and his pristinely manicured hand gives me my phone and a key. It’s small. Rustic. And very old.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“A wedding gift. Find the lock.”
“Thanks,” I say, taking barely a second to process the obvious clues.
The design is distinctly Florentine, and yet the few words on it are Latin, a tantalizing combination that isolates its origin to a tight geographic area. Between the rich architecture, priceless art, and endless assortment of flavorful pastas, fresh breads, and distinctive wines Evie will love trying, I come to terms with the man standing before me.
He’s right. He’s no Mav.
Nope. This son of a bitch is a thousand times more cunning.
Gracious, I extend a hand, trying to tamp down a growing thrill at what working with this guy might hold in store for me.