FOURTEEN
Chiara
I’m glad we tested that ‘true love’s first kiss’ thing. It’s nice to be able to cross it off our list.” Even to my own ears, my voice sounded loud and unconvincing.
I glanced at Jack in the rearview mirror. He stared at the rain lashing his window, his expression some mix of pensive and amused. After days of relentless sun, Mother Nature had let loose with buckets of warm rain. My poor little windshield wipers struggled to keep up.
“You do realize that’s the fifth time you’ve brought up our kiss in the past three hours, right?”
Trust Jack to throw that back at me.
But . . . I couldn’t help it.
The images of Jack and I kissing wouldn’t leave my fevered brain. They played in a constant loop.
The romantic, lush setting of the villa and Tuscan countryside. Me bent backwards, Jack’s hand in the small of my back pulling me up to him, his other hand cradling my head. Like I was precious. Like I mattered.
The images were sweepingly cinematic.
Jack and I were wind-swept lovers. Black and white film classics suddenly turned vivid color. Rick and Ilsa in foggy Casablanca. Scarlett and Rhett against a fiery sunset sky. Holly Golightly and Paul on a rain-drenched New York street.
The sleazy paparazzo might have been a lech, but he was talented with a camera, I would give him that much.
No wonder Inspector Paola had ordered me to find a new hiding place. The images were too dramatic to not make a huge splash in the media.
It hadn’t taken more than a couple hours to arrange a getaway. I had called and booked us a room—under assumed names, of course—in a small hotel in the mountains north of Florence. It would be as good a place as any to lie low. Busy enough that one more tourist wouldn’t be news, but still small enough that anything too out of the ordinary would be noted. Even Dante had agreed it was a good choice.
Jack and I were headed toward Florence first. As we had to drive through the city to get to our destination, I planned to stop at the family palazzo downtown and retrieve those poorly scanned pages of Cesare il Pompaso. His vague notes hadn’t been much, but perhaps the missing scanned pages would provide more insight. We wouldn’t know until we looked at them.
In the meantime . . . Jack had gone quiet on me.
I cleared my throat. “I can’t help but bring it up. I mean, how could it have worked anyway? By definition, in order for something to be true love’s first kiss, both parties actually have to be in love . . .” My voice trailed off.
Jack raised his eyebrows, swinging to meet my gaze in the mirror. “Of course. That is exactly it.”
But his words lacked oomph. Like I had somehow offended him.
I replayed my words in my head, trying to see where I had been rude. For once, my mental scan turned up nothing.
I didn’t think I had been unnecessarily rude.
I pulled up behind a slow moving semitrailer on the narrow highway toward Florence, tapping my brakes to prevent myself from hydroplaning.
Why was Jack upset? He was the one who had suggested the true-love’s-first-kiss thing.
I was the victim here.
He was the one who kissed me first.
He was the one who said the kiss had meant nothing.
I mean, it had to mean nothing, right? Because kissing a ghost couldn’t mean anything.
My thumping heart acted like it thought differently.
Stupid heart.
Stupid heart to beat for an even stupider man.
There was a break in the traffic, so I pushed my little MINI Cooper out and around the slow semi.
Besides . . . how would you even carry on a relationship with a ghost? Would it just be lots of talking and angst-ridden looks? Would he go corporeal for a few minutes once a week so we could hold hands or kiss or . . . whatever? I spent a solid fifteen minutes running through scenarios before it really sank in.
I was fantasizing about kissing and cuddling and . . . stuff . . . with Jack.
That was weird. Jack was my ghost guyfriend.
But . . .
As I studied his face in the rearview mirror, I realized something.
Jack was more than just my ghost guyfriend.
He was snarky and maddening and high-handed and a bit of an arrogant ass.
But he was also loyal and funny and capable and . . . yes, sexy as hell. And I genuinely cared about him. I wanted him to be happy.
Preferably with me.
My heart tumbled in my chest, finding a hole and sinking straight through to my heels.
I didn’t just like Jack.
I maybe like-liked Jack.
And that was . . . problematic.
Because the more I thought about it, the more powerful the emotion became. That fluttery, scary sensation in my chest grew new feathers and fluffed itself outward, constricting my breathing and catching in my throat.
Forcing me to finally acknowledge it for what it was.
Romantical, emotional, lovey-dovey feelings for Jack.
I swallowed.
Well, I knew what that meant.
Jack must be psychotic after all.
Because my dumb heart only ever got involved with unbalanced, emotionally-stunted men. It was like they excreted specific Chiara-attracting pheromones.
Poor Jack. He had seemed so stable.
I swallowed back a lump of hysterical laughter. Oncoming cars continued to swish past me, including a string of tour buses.
What should I do about this new-found understanding?
Nothing. There was nothing to do about it.
Jack was a ghost.
I was not.
It wasn’t as if a relationship between us was going to end well. All I needed was a sign labeled ‘psycho girlfriend’ and two thumbs pointed at my chest. I was obnoxious and controlling and snooping—
Jack deserved so much better than me.
“You okay up there?” Jack asked. “You’ve gone terribly silent. And you are engaging in that odd lip-chewing thing you do when you’re thinking far too hard about something.”
He knew my tells. Of course he did.
The man watched me. While. I. Slept.
If that wasn’t the definition of psychotic boyfriend, I didn’t know what was.
Yep.
We were so doomed.
“Chiara.” Voice warning.
“I’m good.” I gave him my most chipper smile in the rearview mirror. “Just driving.”
Jack’s head snapped to attention, eyes pinning me. “Okay. Now I’m terrified. Something is definitely up. You have your crazy eyes on.”
Ugh. How could he know me so well?
“Uhmmm.” I bit my lip.
What should I say? What should I do?
This was unprecedented. I’d never had a guy go from enemy to ghost guyfriend to ghost boyfriend before.
It was a weird progression.
Besides, did Jack even want to be my boyfriend? He hadn’t indicated his feelings one way or another with me. But . . . perhaps I could use this as practice. I could try to not be obnoxious and psycho with Jack.
In a bid to be less controlling, I changed the subject. “Let’s talk about you, Jack. Tell me about your family growing up.”
The rain eased slightly, going from downpour to simply drizzly. Which was a good thing, as I sneaked up on another slow moving semi.
I glanced into my rearview mirror, trying to gauge Jack’s emotional state. He arched an eyebrow at me, clearly not buying my change in topic.
I wasn’t ready for a serious conversation about us. I didn’t think I would ever be ready for that conversation. It wouldn’t end well.
So avoidance was my only hope.
Jack’s expression said he saw what I was doing, but he would let it go for now.
A fast moving car swooped in behind us, tailgating me so closely I couldn’t see its fender.
Why were Italian drivers like this sometimes? So uber-aggressive? I couldn’t help the fact that the semi in front of me was going slowly.
I slid toward the middle of the road, trying to gauge if there was a break in oncoming traffic so I could pass the truck.
Nope. Just a string of cars coming at me. Mr. Antsy-Pants behind me would just have to wait.
“C’mon, Jack.” I encouraged. “Less thinking, more spilling the beans about your childhood fears—”
Thunk!
My MINI Cooper lurched forward.
What the hell?!
“What happened?” Jack sat upright, nearly sending his head through the roof.
I stared into the rearview mirror. “I think the car behind us just tapped my bumper!”
He turned around. And promptly swore.
“Get down!” he yelled. “The passenger has a gun pointed this way.”
Crap!
I ducked my head, peering at the road through the steering wheel.
Crack! A bullet hit the back of the car.
“Is it the Tempeste?” Jack asked, voice surprisingly calm.
“I don’t know. It could just as easily be a bad case of road rage.”
I swung out from behind the big truck, trying to see a break in traffic.
Not a chance. Just car after car.
I swerved back into my own lane.
Crap, crap, crap!
“I’m taking care of this.” His voice was way too matter-of-fact.
“Jack, don’t do something dumb.”
“I never act precipitously.”
I swerved out again, shoulders hunkered down. “I got this. I’m going to shoot the gap here.” I gestured to a small break in traffic. I could do this.
“Do what you have to, but I can’t be hurt. You, however, can. I’m leaving now. Pull onto a side street when you feel you are no longer in danger and I’ll find you.” A pause. Another pinging bullet. “Be careful.”
I met his eyes in the rearview mirror. “You too.”
He grinned. Of course.
Men.
I punched my accelerator, moving into oncoming traffic.
Jack launched himself out the back window.
And onto the hood of the car behind me.
Jack
The startled terror in the murderous driver’s eyes was priceless.
It had to have looked like something out of a horror movie. A shadowy form suddenly flying out of the boot of the car in front of him and landing on his hood.
I glanced behind me just in time to see Chiara fly between an oncoming car and the front of the lorry. I breathed a sigh of relief. For now, she was out of range of these ruffians’ bullets.
And ruffians they were. I stared them down through the windshield, noting their guns, leather jackets and oozing macho attitude.
These guys were professionals.
Though, judging from how the car was swaying back and forth, not to mention their panicked looks, professional might have been a bit of a stretch.
I still didn’t quite understand how my physicality worked. But basically, if I thought myself as being on something, I stayed on it. Floors, chairs, tables, beds . . . and, as it turned out, the hoods of fast moving cars.
Beyond that, the general laws of gravity just did not apply to me.
So when the driver lurched the car from side-to-side in an attempt to dislodge me, I grinned at him and pushed half of my body into the hood, just to freak him out. Being a ghost did have a few benefits.
It worked. The passenger fired off more bullets, all of which passed harmlessly through my face and embedded themselves in the back of the lorry. I may have laughed and taunted them, motioning with my hands for them to come get me.
The men yelled at each other, each gesturing wildly.
This was surprisingly more fun than I had anticipated.
I puffed myself up and lunged forward, moving straight for the driver’s head. Predictably, he screamed and swerved, sending us all off the road.
The car flew down a short embankment before colliding with a stone wall. The airbags deployed but the driver’s head still hit the windshield, knocking the man unconscious.
The passenger fared better, but the car was wedged against the wall, pinning that side of the car shut. The passenger with his gun was trapped for now.
I was completely unaffected by the crash. I simply remained standing in the hood of the car, now crumpled and steaming. I walked into the interior of the car, looming over the hyperventilating passenger.
“Who are you?” I hissed in Italian, making my voice as ghoul-like as possible.
“W-what do you want?” The man pressed himself against his door. “We were just following orders.”
“Whose orders?” I barked.
“The S-storm.” La Tempesta.
Of course. As suspected.
“What do they want?”
The man flinched.
“Tell me!” I lurched forward, my nose mere inches from his.
The man shrank backward. “The woman. She has to die. She heard too much.”
I nodded.
“Tell your boss that if one hair on Chiara D’Angelo’s head is harmed, I will haunt him throughout eternity.” My eyes flared as I spoke, my face creeping even closer, my voice low and spectral. “Anyone who comes after her will be damned. Anyone who issues orders to hurt her will be damned. Your boss had better hope that Chiara lives for a very long time. Because I am an Enemy. To. Be. Feared.”
The man’s face paled.
“Do you understand?” I asked.
He nodded.
“Say it!”
“I-I unders-stand,” he panted.
“Your word is your bond,” I intoned. “I expect the entire Tempeste organization to abide by this agreement. Goodbye.”
I didn’t wait for the man’s reply. I simply walked right through him, into the rock wall beyond, his terrified yelp ringing in my ears.
Sirens sounded in the distance. Witnesses to the accident had parked their cars on the shoulder of the road and were calling to the men. One intrepid soul was even scrambling down to them.
For my part, I crept around the mayhem, sticking to the shadows until I came to the road again. From there, it was easy to throw myself into the back of another lorry, carrying me north toward Chiara.
Chiara
I drove for several miles after passing the semi, putting space between me and the men.
They didn’t reappear behind me. My mind knew that Jack would be okay, but my heart put up such a racket, it was hard to hear the logical side of the argument.
He’s a ghost. Nothing can hurt him. I repeated the phrase over and over.
I pulled onto a nicely hidden side street, debating how long I should wait before going back to find Jack. Obviously, I needed a much stronger sense of self-preservation. Fortunately, I was only five minutes into my internal struggle when Jack dropped off a passing semi and loped up the lane.
It took all my reserves not to throw open my car door and race toward him, throw my arms around his neck and cling to him like velcro. The scene looked amazing in my mind. Roll-the-credits theatrical.
But in reality, I would flow right through him and land in a heap on the muddy road.
So . . . yeah.
Having more-than-friend feelings for a ghost kinda sucked.
Instead of a movie-worthy reunion, I sat tight. Jack slid into the car—literally ghosting through the trunk into the back seat.
My eyes hungrily drank him in, scanning for changes.
“You’re okay?”
“Thank heavens, you are unharmed.”
Our voices overlapped.
I laughed, trying to break through the tension.
“What happened?” I asked.
Jack caught me up-to-date. Car. Bullets. Thugs. Crash.
Wow. The Cosa Nostra really had put out a hit on me.
Let’s face it. It was bound to happen sooner or later. But still . . . my heart lurched into my throat and my pulse pounded and my vision darkened at the edges.
Keep it together, Chiara.
From there, I made a series of phone calls.
Inspector Paola was predictably furious, telling me I needed to tuck myself away in a hideout and keep my face out of the limelight.
My brothers were horrified and suddenly ridiculously overprotective. It was sorta nice once I overlooked the ridiculously overprotective part.
Jack felt confident that his threats to the mobsters would deter them from coming after me. The mafia were a superstitious lot.
None of the rest of us were so sure.
Dante called a friend who then called another friend who called in a favor from another friend, eventually landing us a vacation apartment in the Cinque Terre—the Five Earths—a colorful series of fishing villages sprawling down cliffs along the Ligurian coast, north and west of Florence.
Tucked against the rugged coastline, Riomaggiore was the very definition of a charming, Italian seaside town. Small and difficult to access, it would be the perfect hiding place. We made our way north, skirting Florence and winding along back roads.
We arrived late. Streetlights flickered past, painting the inside of the car in rapid-fire streaks of tie-dyed orange and yellow.
Driving into the top of the town, I parked my car in the private garage that came with the apartment. From there, I shouldered my luggage and a bag of groceries and began the long slog down to the apartment itself. Jack drifted along beside, grumbling about not being able to help me.
Riomaggiore as a town had grown organically over thousands of years, moving up the steep mountain slopes from the ocean’s edge. For most of its existence, the village had ignored the reality of wheeled vehicles. This meant that the streets were mostly stairs and alleyways with no rhyme or reason. The ultimate labyrinth. Fortunately, it was late and dark, keeping Jack well-hidden.
After getting lost not once but three times, we managed to find the tiny alleyway and entrance to the apartment. I was exhausted and ready to collapse into bed.
I fumbled with the lock and stumbled into the apartment only to be greeted by an enormous poster of Ariel from The Little Mermaid.
I blinked.
And then slowly rotated.
Belle. Cinderella. Elsa. Ariel. Tiana.
The house looked like a Disney cruise gift shop had been sick all over it. Vaguely, I remembered Dante mentioning something about the apartment being dedicated to the owner’s small grandkids.
Jack spun in a circle, eyes snagging on the array of princess-themed bike helmets, life vests, beach floats and other accessories stacked against one wall.
Our eyes locked.
Him: This is kinda creepy.
Me: Beggars can’t be choosers.
Him, eyebrow raised: Oh, but we can. It’s something we learn in Lord School.
Me: I’m too tired for this.
There had been too many revelations today. Too many emotional ups and downs.
I needed sleep.
I fumbled through the luggage, digging out Jack’s tablet. I set the tablet on the coffee table and propped it up on its stand, unlocking the screen for him.
“Thank you,” he said. The tablet had voice activation and would enable him to watch television and continue to research the D’Angelo archive.
“You’re welcome. I’m off to bed and a very long sleep. That is, unless the building is on fire or a meteor hits the city.”
It was a testament to my exhaustion that I passed right by a Sleeping Beauty dream catcher without a single comment.
“I’ll be here, Chiara. Sleep well.” Jack’s warm voice followed me down the hall, carrying comfort with it.
I changed into some pajamas and managed to brush my teeth before collapsing face first onto a Princess Elsa bedspread.
I blame Riomaggiore and all the cutesy kiddy-kitsch for the dream that followed. Though it wasn’t so much a dream as a memory.
I was ten-years-old, sitting next to my dad as we drove along the Amalfi Coast. Just me and him. A daddy/daughter autumn getaway, he said. He even let me sit in the front passenger seat.
“I don’t know if you’ll ever be big enough to ride up here, mia passerotta,” he said. “So we’ll just have to bend that rule.”
Babbo never let my size hinder my ability to accomplish things.
I felt so grown-up. The wind was in my hair from the open window, miles and miles of blue ocean stretching before me.
The Amalfi Coast was a white-washed version of the Cinque Terre. Instead of buildings plastered in every color of sunset, houses along Amalfi were all painted shades of white. They stacked up the towering slopes like Lego blocks, a winter scape nestled between green hills and blue Mediterranean sea.
I was in my Mulan phase because she was just like me—dark hair, dark eyes, petite, lots of spunk, determined to hold her own in a man’s world. I desperately wanted to move to China to begin my life as a warrior princess.
My dad took me to Amalfi instead.
We sang songs from the Mulan soundtrack and stopped for gelato in Praiano. We wandered across the cathedral piazza, me clutching my little cup of ice cream. Leaning against the stone railing overlooking the sea, I ate my chocolate nocciola gelato far too fast. Babbo didn’t care. He simply handed me his half-eaten strawberry and pistachio to devour.
“Look at the seagulls there.” He pointed toward the birds hovering over the water. “They’re searching for something to steal.”
“No, they’re not, Babbo,” I giggled, watching the birds swoop up and down. Seagulls didn’t flock like sparrows or meadowlarks. They had more individuality. “They’re telling us to be careful. Dark times are coming, but there will be happiness and light after the storm has passed.”
I had been superstitious even then.
Babbo had certainly noted it. He had stared at me for a long time, eyes suddenly pensive.
“When did you become so wise, mia passerotta?” he asked.
I giggled again, shoulders shrugging in careless indifference. I had learned to shrug like that after watching my friend, Mary-Charlotte Rossington, do it over and over when she talked with the sixth graders. Mastering a world-weary shrug seemed an important stepping-stone into teenagerhood.
Of course, my giggling laugh kinda killed the whole effect.
But I didn’t care.
A little brown sparrow suddenly darted down from the cathedral tower above, landing on the railing beside us and pecking at tiny crumbs.
Babbo smiled at the bird and then turned his head to me. His dark eyes lit with love and warmth, sun rimming his head in golden light.
“I will always love you, mia passerotta,” he said. “No matter what. Never forget it.”