Chapter Eleven
As Carly slipped through the glass doors of the Cesari Amento, Michelangelo touched his lips, remembering her sweet, soft, skin. He couldn’t resist kissing her, yet every logical thought he had screamed to him to let her be.
She’d come too close to the truth tonight, asking why he left his winery to be a tour guide. If he wasn’t careful, she’d put two and two together, and then he’d have a lot of damage control to do.
He checked his watch. She’d be done in about three hours, so he had enough time to go back to the hotel and create an alibi.
His phone vibrated, and he checked the caller ID. Ms. Maxhammer.
A vision of poor Edda being tortured by a dominatrix-clad Ms. Maxhammer for information on his whereabouts came to mind.
It couldn’t be that bad.
He pulled over and answered. ‘Hello?’
‘Michelangelo? This is Ms. Maxhammer.’ Apparently she wasn’t aware of caller IDs or was just used to using her name like in the good old dial-up days. Whatever the case, she didn’t sound like her normal, cheery self.
‘Hello, Ms. Maxhammer. How are you? Is everything okay?’
‘Thank goodness I got a hold of you. We have a situation. Please meet me in the lobby as soon as you can.’
Michelangelo looked at his watch as his heart sped into overdrive. ‘I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.’
Obviously it didn’t concern his flirtations with Carly or she’d ask to see him privately. Although he was relieved, he also worried that somehow his tour had taken a dire turn.
He made it in ten minutes and threw his keys to the valet. Ms. Maxhammer stood with a crowd of other orchestra members whispering to each other just beyond the front desk. Everyone’s faces were drawn, and one of the violinist’s wives had tears running down her cheeks.
They parted before him, and he ran into the circle. ‘What happened?’
Ms. Maxhammer leaned on her cane with a grim expression on her face. ‘It’s Trixie Sanders.’
Trixie? Oh yes, the emo girl who asked him that rude question in the Basilica. ‘What about her?’
‘No one’s seen her since the tour of St. Peters. She and her brother were supposed to meet us back here for dinner.’ The violinist’s wife, Trixie’s mother, grabbed his arm. ‘You have to do something.’
A jolt of concern slashed Michelangelo’s chest. Yeah, Trixie looked tough, but she was just a little girl in a strange city where boys hid in alleys and stole purses, and worse. At that age, kids thought they lived forever, and all too tragically they were proven wrong. He scanned the crowd. ‘What about her brother?’
‘I’m here.’ Darin moaned from the sofa behind them. Michelangelo approached him. ‘Do you have any idea where she went?’
‘I already told them I don’t.’ He wrapped a string from his torn jeans around his finger. ‘It’s not my fault.’
‘You were supposed to watch her.’ His mother clutched a picture of a much sweeter Trixie—before the dark makeup, blue hair, and black leather—to her chest.
‘Yeah, you try telling her where to go and what to do.’ Darin shouted way too loudly for the lobby.
‘All right.’ Michelangelo put his hands up to stop the argument. What was the normal protocol in a situation like this? He had to come up with something fast. ‘The police won’t start looking until she’s been missing for twenty-four hours. This means we need to search this hotel and the surrounding area.’
He gestured for everyone to circle around him. ‘You, you and you check every level of the hotel. You two over there, go next door to the restaurant and see if anyone’s seen her. You four, split up in twos and walk down the street in both directions and go in every building you can.’
‘What are you going to do?’ For the first time since he’d known her, Ms. Maxhammer looked her age. The wrinkles in her face closed in around her eyes, and her cheeks looked dark and sunken in the dim light. He wanted to put his arm around her, like he used to do with his own grandma, and tell her everything was going to be all right. But he couldn’t promise anything.
‘I’m the only one here with a car.’ His mind skimmed through all the possible local hangout spots. ‘I’ll check every open bar and nightclub within a five-kilometer radius, then keep fanning out.’
He turned to Trixie’s parents and placed a reassuring hand on each of their shoulders. Seeing that scraggly thief had triggered all of his memories of Ricco. Many nights he’d looked for Ricco once his father had thrown him out on the street. ‘I’ll do everything in my power to find her. You stay here in case she comes back.’
Trixie’s mom nodded. Her husband held her close and buried his face in her hair. ‘Thank you.’
‘No need to thank me.’ Michelangelo nodded to Ms. Maxhammer, then left for the valet.
If I was a hundred-pound emo teenage girl with problems with authority, where would I go? He waited for the valet to retrieve his car, thinking of all the ‘cool’ hangout joints.
Emo. Hmmm. He pulled out his phone and Googled emo bands Rome with today’s date. Panic Attack was playing at the Serpent. He Googled the band’s website. They had the same sideswept hair as the guys on her shirt. But didn’t all those bands look the same?
The club was twenty minutes from the hotel, and a good hour’s walk from where he’d last seen her. Michelangelo ran his fingers over the band’s faces on his screen. He’d told everyone inside he’d fan out slowly, but a gut feeling told him that’s where she’d be.
The valet drove his Fiat right up to the curb, and Michelangelo remembered he’d given his last ten euros to the boy.
‘Put five euros on my room number for your tip. I’ll sign the receipt when I get back.’ Michelangelo hopped in and sped toward the Serpent.
Driving through the streets of Rome on a Friday night was like trying to push a pen through a rock. Michelangelo wove his small Fiat around the trucks, swerving as a pedestrian rode a bicycle the wrong way. He knew all of the shortcuts and how to beat most lights. It took him forty-five minutes to reach the nightclub and find a parking spot a block down. He paid the entrance fee with his credit card and walked into the prismatic light spread by a gigantic disco ball.
A slow backbeat emanated from the stage, where a young man sang some sort of whiny ballad about love. A few angst-ridden teens in layered sweatshirts and skinny jeans gave Michelangelo wary looks as he passed. He was way overdressed in his suit, making him look like some type of talent agent or mafia member.
Should have left the overcoat in the car. Some good he’d be in an undercover operation. He ditched the coat on the back of a chair, unbuttoned his shirt, and messed up his hair. Now he looked like some Italian soap opera stand-in, which was more approachable than a mafia hitman.
He scanned the crowd.
Groups of teens loitered by the stage, some of them dancing, and others kissing. Couples sat in booths lining the walls eating fries and drinking beer. Trying not to look too weird, or too old—because a twenty-six-year-old was like ancient history to these kids—he walked the circumference of the room.
Maybe he’d been wrong. A sick feeling spread through his gut. Maybe something had happened to Trixie and she hadn’t run off. His pushed those thoughts away. Just keep looking.
An oily haired boy wearing a black sweatshirt with an ear full of metal earrings leaned against a column in the corner of the room, blocking the view of the girl he was talking to. He laughed, moving to the side, and lo and behold, there Trixie was, sipping what looked like a margarita.
Bingo. Michelangelo texted Ms. Maxhammer, hoping she’d be able to understand how to open it. He didn’t want to cause a scene or draw attention to himself by speaking on the phone. Surprisingly, she texted him back saying they’d be there as soon as possible and to keep Trixie in sight.
The boy put his arms around Trixie, leading her toward a shady hallway backstage. Michelangelo followed them, feeling as though he was in a James Bond movie. They turned into a back room filled with smoke of all kinds and people making out on sofas. A memory of Ricco rolling marijuana in the back of the distillery flashed though his mind.
This had gone too far. No minors drinking and doing drugs on his tour.
Michelangelo approached the pair, cutting in before the boy could offer Trixie anything. ‘Excuse me, but I’m going to have to remove this young lady.’
The boy stared at him in confusion, then turned to Trixie. ‘Your older brother?’
Trixie crossed her arms, looking as though she could melt him on the spot with her gaze. ‘No. My chaperone.’
The boy grinned teasingly. ‘Busted.’
Michelangelo stood in between them, blocking the boy with his back. ‘Your parents are on their way. Either they can catch you in here, or outside waiting to be picked up.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s up to you.’
She sucked in her lower lip as she considered his words.
For a second he thought she’d run. ‘There’s nowhere else for you to go.’
‘You think all Americans are delinquents, don’t you?’ She sneered. ‘You think I came all the way to Italy to get high?’
Michelangelo blinked, taken aback. At one point, before this entire tour had started, maybe he had questioned American integrity. After all, they were the ones buying his land to build luxury condos on. But, after meeting so many wonderful, hard-working people—Carly, Bertha, Trixie’s parents—he’d changed his mind.
‘It’s not you I don’t trust.’ He gestured back into the room. ‘It’s them.’ If Ricco hadn’t fallen in with a bad crowd, maybe he’d still be here today.
‘Fine. I’ll go.’ She threw her arms down and walked into the hallway. Michelangelo followed her out of the club to the street corner, where she crossed her arms and pouted. With her head down, only half of one eye peeked out under her slanted blue hair.
Michelangelo checked his watch. It would take her parents another fifteen minutes to get there, so he had to keep her busy until then. ‘Don’t like the tour?’
She shrugged and tapped her fuzzy Vans on the sidewalk.
He dug into his pocket and offered her a piece of gum.
She looked at it as though it was diseased, then she smirked. ‘I don’t take candy from strangers.’
Yeah, but she’ll take other things. ‘Take it. That way they won’t smell the alcohol on your breath.’
Gauging him with a new level of respect, she took the gum.
He leaned against a street lamp, trying to look chilled but being ready to run after her at a moment’s notice. ‘I know Italy’s not the most exciting place for someone your age.’
She shrugged. ‘It’s not that. It’s just…my parents always drag me around with them and take me to the places they want to go; they never let me choose, or do my own thing. It’s like I’m their little puppy dog.’
Puppy dog was not what he was thinking. More like a crazy kitten. ‘You don’t look like a puppy dog.’
‘You’re telling me. I’m practically grown-up—heck I can order alcohol here like all the adults. Yet, they insist on treating me like a baby.’
Edda’s tour bus rounded the corner, and Michelangelo breathed with relief. The whole responsible ‘dad’ thing was a bit premature for him. Mio Dio. He needed a girlfriend first. Then he could start to think of marriage, and of having kids running around on the vineyard.
‘I’m not going to tell your parents about the drugs or the drink.’
Trixie nodded and bit her lip.
‘But I think you’re too smart for that shit. Believe me; it can get you into a whole lot of trouble.’
He didn’t care if she thought he knew from his own personal experience. He wasn’t going to go into detail about his long-lost adopted brother. Teenagers never went for sob stories. ‘I want you to think twice next time.’
She nodded distractedly as the bus pulled up. ‘Yeah, whatever.’
The doors opened and her parents ran out, throwing their arms around her. Trixie covered her face in embarrassment. ‘I’m fine. I’m fine.’
From the bus driver’s window, Edda gave Michelangelo a thumbs-up.
As he waved back to Edda, his phone vibrated in his pocket.
Must be Ms. Maxhammer checking in.
The number was unidentified, from the United States.
Carly! He’d almost forgotten.
Feeling like a teen again, Michelangelo ran to his car and tried to curb the excitement rushing through him. Now he’d find out how good a teacher he was.