It was sometime after the Tagliere that Emily finally just couldn’t stand it. “Dreyfus, you look ridiculous.”

Dreyfus, who was actually the only one of the three of them who had extra clothes, had chosen to wear the red “Italia” sweatshirt he’d bought on the first day in Florence.

“I’m a tourist” he said, pulling the Italia logo.  “And don’t throw stones.  You and your girlfriend look like a couple of cougars from Blackpool.”

Emily’s face registered the surprise insult.  “It’s not as if anybody would let us go shopping.”

But then the Tagliatelle fungi came with another bottle of wine and Emily dismissed him with a chop of her hand.

Dreyfus had gathered Emily and Janet from the hotel.  Now, as night fell, they were sitting at an outside table in a nearly deserted restaurant (a couple of Swedish boys, Gerry and Laurie from Ohio, and a tour group of five who were eager to get the bill before dark) on the Piazza Something-Or-Other, across from a dance club (ironically one of the Ciampi’s) that was just cranking up the music.  Long-day tired, they were relaxed and relieved and feeling the days of tension slipping away.  The wine helped and the food helped, and the music was just tough enough to suggest a party.  Then the music stopped and waited and started again and …

“Oh. My. God!  Jans!  Listen!”

“Call him Mr. Wr …” Boom! Boom! Boom!

“Remember?”  Emily’s eyes were bright with excitement as the techno music beat across the Piazza.  There was a studied look and suddenly Ms. Miller grabbed a spoon and, with a makeshift microphone, was singing along, karaoke style.

“I know what I wa …”  Boom! Boom! Boom!

And Emily was singing too, pushing her face forward to share the microphone spoon.  And the beat changed to Rap and the two women pushed their chairs back and, hair flying, they Shuffle danced into the piazza.  Dreyfus laughed and pushed his own chair back, but he was too late: the Swedish boys — who were clearly interested in two cougars from Blackpool — had already jumped into the dance.  Then Brittany, walking by, thought “Swedish boys!” dropped her knapsack and stepped in, as well.  Not to be outdone, Dreyfus caught Laurie from Ohio’s eye and gestured.  She feigned reluctance but … a quick glance at Gerry, and she was on her feet.  She was of an age to remember the song and although a little rusty (she hadn’t danced in years) had some moves.  Gerry wasn’t sure what to do, so he sat there.  And the music played and the three of them danced — like primitive warriors sharing their victory with strangers.  Boom! Boom! Boom!

And, at about the same time, a couple of streets away and here and there all over Firenze, Albanian hard boys were being attacked, beaten and, in a couple of cases, killed.  Sometimes, the carabinieri intervened, but mostly they didn’t.  This was Martina Ciampi’s dish – eaten cold.   And the two men who could have (and would have) organized retaliation were driving hard for the coast.  They’d run with two cars, a small bag of weapons and a smaller bag of money.  They’d left the lawyers, the wives and the mistresses to deal with the mess and were headed for Ancona and an anonymous ship across the Adriatic to Durres.  The hope was the cars would pay for the passage — and if they didn’t, one of the two bags would.  But the real hope was they could disappear into the Albanian countryside before Martina Ciampi, the Italian Federal police, the British Secret Service or that madman Dreyfus Sinclair caught up with them.

The music faded, grew — Boom! Boom! Boom! — faded again and stopped.  Emily and Janet jumped at each other and hugged — and in the general chaos – people, tables and chairs – they were suddenly all together like old friends when the chef showed up with the biggest, rawest Bistecca alla Fiorentina any of them had ever seen.  There was general oohing and approval and then just confusion as everybody talked to everyone else.

“Are you two together?” Laurie asked, almost hopefully, “That’s okay.  I don’t judge.”

“No, Mr. Bad Taste is mine.  Jans and I are just old friends.  We used to dance to that song when we were teenagers.”

“Yes, we are from Lund, but we are going to school in Malmo.  And you live in London.”

“Not anymore.  The Midlands”

“We are going to London.”

“So, insurance eh?  Well, let me stop you right there.  I’ve got Whole Life – a million, five,” Gerry nodded, knowingly. “And we got Laurie Term — saves us a bit of money – but we’re pretty well taken care of.”

“No price on peace of mind, Gerry.”  Dreyfus said kindly.

And then the steaks came and Brittany, realizing the Swedish boys were occupied and no one else was interested in her adventures, grabbed her knapsack and said goodbye.  Ms. Miller fed most of her steak to Lars (or was it Gars?)  And they poured her more wine, a lot more wine.  Gerry explained his position in the Lions Club and suggested Dreyfus join a local branch while Laurie talked about her kids and was a little too touchy for Emily’s taste.  And the evening went on – through to the cantuccini with vin santo — until finally Emily caught Dreyfus’ eye, and the unexpected party in an ordinary piazza in Florence was over.

Later, with Gerry and Laurie safely back at their B and B and the somewhat destructible Ms. Miller gently snoring on their bed, Emily and Dreyfus sat together alone in the rooftop garden of their hotel.  Emily had her shoes off and her feet up on a chair.  Dreyfus slouched and stretched out with his ankles crossed.  They were tired, weary tired, with no ambition to move, and the last glasses of wine were nearly gone.

“I thought Ms. Miller was going to grab the Swedish boys and teach them the ways of the English countryside.”

Emily smiled, “Men have it easy.  A little heat, a little friction.  Girls need a lot more heat and a lot more fiction.  Besides, it’s the wrong phase of the moon.”

“Oh.  Still leaves the question, where are we going to sleep?”

Emily chuckled, “I don’t know about you, but this cougar’s going to kick Jans over to her side of the bed and I’m done.”  There was a pause.  “Are we done?”

“Yeah.  It’s over.” Dreyfus said solemnly, “The brothers Kovaci are probably back in Albania by now.”

“Is that who?  No, I don’t want to know.  Don’t tell me.  I just want them gone.”

“They’re gone.  And they’re going to spend the rest of their lives looking over their shoulders.  It’s not going to take them too long to find out what frightened feels like.”

“Good,” Emily said, with a touch of acid.  She reached over and touched Dreyfus’ fingers. “Thank you.”

Dreyfus shook the solemn out of his face and smiled. “But I still get the sofa.”

Emily picked up her glass and drank the last swallow of wine. “Yes, you still get the sofa.”

Florence is a tourist town, so nobody noticed when a couple of extra ones got out of a car behind a hotel.  And nobody bothered to pause and eavesdrop on their conversation.

“But, Sinclair …”

“No!  Just stay in the hotel room.  It’s only for a couple of hours.  It’s not going to kill you.”

“But I don’t …”

“Listen to me.  Janet’s already there.  This isn’t an argument.  Do as you’re …”

“For God sake, Dreyfus!” Emily’s patience was over, “Shut up for five seconds!”  They looked at each other.  Emily exhaled, “I don’t know the room number.”

“Oh.” Dreyfus’ head bobbed.

“I was never in the room.  Kidnapped!  Remember?”  Emily stuck her face forward.

“Alright, alright.  Sorry – uh – 402.  Elevator,” Dreyfus lifted his index finger and pointed it, “Straight ahead”

Emily laughed and shook her head.  She reached up and put her palm on his cheek.  “Go do what you’re going to do.  I promise I’ll stay in the hotel.  Janet and I’ll get drunk.” She gave him a short, sharp slap, “Just make sure you come back and pick up the pieces.”

Dreyfus instinctively grabbed her wrist and bent down and kissed her, pushing his tongue between her lips.  But before she could respond, he pulled his head back and half-smiled.

“Stay – uh — relatively sober.” He nodded, knowingly, raising his eyebrows, “When I get back, this thing is going to be over and we going to go out and see what we can find.”

Emily smiled, “I look forward to spending your money.”  She turned on her heels, and Dreyfus watched her walk away.

In the hotel, Emily walked through the lobby and stopped at the bar.

“A bottle of something red.”  The barman touched a bottle. “That’ll do.  Room 402.”  Emily took the bottle and went to the elevator.  Three flights up and 402 was straight ahead.  Emily knocked on the door with the base of the bottle.

“Jans.  It’s me.  Let me in.”

Suddenly the door was flung open, Emily was hauled into the room and surrounded by Janet Miller — who was hugging and rubbing and crying and hanging on as if her friend was the last lifeboat off the Titanic.

“Jesus, Jans!  Let go!  Let go!  I can’t breathe!”

Janet let her go as the door closed behind them. “Sorry.  Sorry.” Janet sniffed and swallowed, “Hormones.  But I was so worried.  I …”

Emily held up the bottle of wine.

“Never mind.  Look what I found.  Get some glasses, and I’ll tell you all about it.  It was terrible: no orange juice!” Emily smiled slyly.  God, this felt good!

Behind the hotel, the car pulled away, and Dreyfus handed the driver another torn paper napkin.

“We need to get close to here without getting under the CCTV.”

The driver looked at the address. “No CCTV.  It’s a brothel.” The driver looked in the rear-view, “Dedicated to the rich and famous.”

“How rich and famous?”

“Local deities but the kind who don’t want to be seen.”

“Security?”

“Some.  But it doesn’t open until later – around midnight.  This time of day, it’s probably empty, maybe a frontman to chase the tourists away, or,” The driver shook his head, “Maybe cleaners?  That’s all.”

Dreyfus looked down at the bag at his feet.  This would work.

“Get me close enough to see.”

Dreyfus took the cheap flip phone out of his pocket and tapped in a number.

“Pronto?”  It was a woman’s voice.

“The brothers are going to run.  If you send your friends into the streets tonight, you’ll own them.”

“How do you know this?”

Dreyfus ignored the question. “I’m going home.  Consider it a going-away present.  Maybe sometime you can return the favour?”

“Maybe?”

“Ciao.”

“Ciao.”

Martina Ciampi sat at her desk and looked down at the black screen telephone.  She was relieved.  She hadn’t known many men like this Sinclair, and they frightened her.  She was glad he was leaving.  Don’t come back.  But the gamble had been a good one, and she needed to finish it before her son knew what was going on.  She reached forward for her other telephone and tapped a number to summon her people.  Riccardo could tell her all about it in the morning.

A couple of minutes later, Dreyfus looked out the car window at an ordinary street.  There were a few people, window boxes, shutters, a stone curb and a grocery stall down the way.  The number he was interested in had heavy doors, but even that didn’t look out of place.  Dreyfus reached down and tore a fist- sized piece of C-4 off the cake in the bag.  He rolled it in his hands like a small cigar, put on his hat and got out of the car.  As he walked over to the building, he took a detonator out of his pocket and stuck it into the explosives.  At the doors, he jammed both into the gap at the bottom and broke the pencil at the red mark.  As he walked away, he took the telephone out of his pocket, stood at the car and counted thirty seconds.  Then he tapped in a number.  There was a hollow ring and man answered in a language Dreyfus didn’t understand.

“Hi, there.  My name is Dreyfus Sinclair.  The next sound you hear is me blowing the doors off one of your brothels.  In a couple of hours, the police are going to tell you which one.”

There was a flood of English threats and obscenities.

“No, be quiet.  It’s your turn to listen.  Here’s the deal.  I’m tired of playing with you people.  You’ve got a friend of mine, but Lady Perry-Turner wants to come home, now.  So tonight, at nine o’clock you’re going to leave her in the Piazza di Santa Trinita, and she better be …”  There was a loud explosion and — even though Dreyfus was some distance away — he felt the shock wave.  Hmm, too much Semtex!  “I’m pretty sure you heard that.  So, nine o’clock, tonight, Piazza di Santa Trinita.  And we all walk away and forget about it.  Just that easy.  And a word of advice.  Don’t ever cross my path again.”

Dreyfus closed the telephone and reached into the car for the Dolce Gabbana bag.  He lifted it out and walked over to the burning entrance – camouflaged by the confusion.  He looked in.  There was a man lying on the floor, clearly alive but seriously bleeding from the wooden shrapnel.  Dreyfus turned the bag upside down and dropped the unused C-4 at his feet.

“Tell your boss, nine o’clock – tonight.”  He said pointing his finger.  The sirens were already gathering as Dreyfus walked away, folding the bag in his hands.  He got in the car, put the empty bag on the seat and took off his hat and sunglasses.

“Let’s go back to the hotel.”

The air was sweet and the high, afternoon sun was warm.  To Emily, walking down the tiny hill, away from the villa, it was as if she’d been ill and this was the first day nanny had let her go out and play.  Dreyfus walked behind her with a good view of the iron gate just in case the two men who’d ran earlier decided to retest their courage.  They hadn’t.  And the gate was open and the car had been turned around on the narrow gravel road and, even though it wasn’t over, it felt like it.  At least the light at the end of the tunnel wasn’t going to be the paramedics, anymore.  Through the gate and Dreyfus opened the passenger door.  Emily got in, half sat down, leaned and reached behind her.  She brought up a bundle of detonators (although she didn’t actually know what they were) and handed them to Dreyfus.  He just as casually took them and put them in his jacket pocket as he got in the backseat beside her.

“This is …” Dreyfus realized he didn’t know the driver’s name.

“I’m the driver, Signora.” He said looking at them through the rear-view.

“Of course you are.”  Emily replied, as he started the car.

Emily curled her arm around Dreyfus’ elbow.  “Did you miss me?”

Dreyfus laughed, “Well, I did have the indestructible Ms. Miller to keep me company.”  He stopped and turned his head to Emily, “The woman has skills.”  He turned his head back and faced forward.  “She does a thing with honey that would make your eyes water,” he said and shook his head slowly.  But before Emily could say anything Dreyfus reached his hand forward and shook the back of the driver’s seat. “Stop.  Stop, here.”

The men at the gate had left their car.  Or there was a car, or … it didn’t matter … the car was there and it was an unexpected opportunity.

“Pass me the Dolce bag.” Dreyfus pointed.  Emily handed it across without a word.  Dreyfus reached in and came out with what looked like a large cake of tofu. 

“I’ll be right back,” he said, got out of the car and matter-of-factly walked over to the black four-door whatever-it-was.  The door was unlocked.  Dreyfus opened it, stopped, took a detonator out of his pocket and stuck it halfway into the cake.  Then he broke the cap at the blue mark, put it under the driver’s seat and closed the door.  A half kilo of high explosive in a confined space would rip the pleasant out of this pleasant little valley and, more importantly — bring the carabinieri.  And they’d be very interested in this turn of events, especially after they discovered three dead Albanians up at the villa.

Dreyfus got back in the car.  “Alright, five minutes.”

The car pulled away, quickly but not with any suspicious speed and less than a minute later, at the village by the river, turned into the traffic on the main highway.  Maybe someone would remember the car, but even if they did …

The road was smooth and Emily, leaning into Dreyfus’ shoulder, let her eyes close and half-close and close again.  And the car motor was steady, soft noise.  And she could feel Dreyfus breathing and he was warm and three days of wary and careful and watching slowly dissolved away and Emily’s eyes were too heavy to … closed again … and maybe … and then she was asleep.  And a few minutes later when the air opened up behind them in a long angry rumble of faraway thunder, she didn’t even move.  And that’s the way they drove back to Florence.  Emily sleeping – deep and dreamless.  Dreyfus motionless watching the Tuscan countryside and ignoring the pins and needles tingling in his shoulder and arm.  And the nameless driver, driving carefully with the traffic and seriously wondering — what kind of a woman would a man kill that many people for.