Via della Luce.
The street where I live in Rome.
I click the link. It’s a poorly translated English version of an article posted a few hours ago. I type in the address for the Italian version. An amateur crime blog pops up.
My gaze goes straight to the embedded video. When I click Play, a shaky image appears, the familiar thick wood door of my building, with its huge round handle. A voice talks in Italian, so fast I struggle to follow.
It’s a man saying he’s tracked “Lucy Callahan” to this address, where she’s living under the name Genevieve Callahan. He races through his amateur-sleuth findings – I’m a music teacher and musician, though he mistakenly says I play the violin. This is my home, and he’s hoping to get access, and he’s just heard footsteps on the stairs within.
Sure enough, the door opens, and one of my elderly neighbors appears. The man asks whether she knows me. Mrs. Costa hesitates, confused. When she starts to retreat, he grabs the door. She yelps. I watch in horror as this man tries to force his way into the building, and poor Mrs. Costa calls for help. A voice sounds offscreen, a man saying, “Hey, get away from her,” in angry Italian.
I know that voice.
Oh, God, no.
The picture spins, as if someone grabbed the intruder. The videographer fumbles the camera, and when he rights it, the lens is pointing at an anger-flushed face.
Marco’s face.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Marco snarls at the man that this is private property, and he needs to get the hell out of here before Marco calls 113.
“Do you live around here?” the videographer says.
“No, and neither do you, so take that camera–”
“Do you know Lucy Callahan?”
Marco doesn’t miss a beat. His brow scrunches. “Is that the old lady you just assaulted?”
“No, it’s a woman who lives here. Around your age. Red hair. You might know her as Genevieve Callahan.”
“Did you hear me say I’m not from this neighborhood? I’m looking for a cookie shop. My girlfriend sent me halfway across the city to buy cookies at some place around here. I’d like to get there before they close. I’d suggest you move along, because if you’re still harassing old women when I come back this way, I’m calling the police.”
Marco strides off in the direction of Biscottificio Innocenti, just down the street. The videographer resumes speaking breathlessly to his future audience, filling the video clip with all the details he knows about me as the camera pans the narrow street, winning glares from tourists and locals alike.
When someone opens a door, the videographer asks about me, but the man brushes him off and retreats. The videographer rounds the corner. He takes a few steps in one direction, then does an about-face to head the other way, as if he’s lost in the cobbled streets. As he passes Via della Luce again, he swings the lens back for one more look at my building… just as Marco is walking inside, cookie bag in hand.
The videographer yells and races down, but the door shuts before he gets there. After some cursing, the videographer says to his audience. “I’m going to post a photo of that man from this clip. If anyone knows him, please leave his name in the comments. He ripped my shirt when he grabbed me.”
Bullshit. The videographer is just trying to get a lead on Marco. Fortunately, this is just some random guy who fancies himself a crime reporter. His blog traffic barely hits double digits.
That’s when I see the comment section. Other blogs – amateur and otherwise – ask whether they can post the video. The videographer requested links instead, and they obliged. In a few hours, the video has gotten five thousand views.
I’m scrolling through comments when I reach one that says, “I know that guy.”
His name is Marco Alessi. He works for Romulus Tours. I did too, until he ratted me out for flirting with the tourists. Like he doesn’t do the same. I was too much competition for him. That woman you’re asking about is his girlfriend. She goes by Genevieve, like you said. She joined a few times when a group of guides went for drinks. He likes to show her off. I always wondered why – she’s pretty enough but nothing special. Now I know. He was pleased with himself for dating the whore who screwed Colt Gordon. I hope you bring them both down. Anything I can do, just ask.
The guy leaves his email address, which includes his first name: Giacomo.
I know Giacomo. Marco did indeed report him to the tour company and had been instrumental in getting Giacomo fired, but only because Marco had agreed to complain on behalf of his fellow guides.
Giacomo says Marco accused him of doing something that Marco himself does. Partly true. Marco said Giacomo gave tour guests his phone number with invitations to coffee, which is roughly how Marco and I met. The difference? I’m twice the age of the clients Giacomo targeted. Also, Marco really did want a coffee and conversation. The high-school girls who called Giacomo back showed up at the “cafe” address to find Giacomo’s apartment instead.
I’m so busy being outraged that it takes a moment to realize Marco has just been identified as my lover. His name and place of employment are online in an article that is gaining traction by the second.
I start flipping through comments. Random people triumphantly announce that they’ve notified his employer. Someone found his address and posted that. Another posted his email. Then his cell-phone number. Finally, there’s a link to an Italian tabloid news site. When I click it, Marco’s face fills the screen. It’s his professional headshot from the tour operator’s site. I took it myself. Marco sits on the steps of the Fontaine de la place Santa Maria. He’s grinning at me, his real smile, his dark eyes alight. He looks gorgeous and charming and personable all at once. It’s no wonder Romulus Tours put it right on their website landing page.
