“I’m sorry I let you down,” she whispered to her grandfather, who died before she was born.
She grabbed hold of herself and tried not to be agitated.
Across the building she caught sight of a younger man dressed in low-slung jeans, a collarless black shirt, and a pale jacket. He moved with the sinewy ease of an athlete and approached one of the Italian customs officials, flashing a badge. He was maybe late twenties, blond hair cut short, but shaggy on the edges, the face clean-shaven and warmed by a wide, toothy smile. He had a military look about him and was trying to gain entrance to the terminal, but the guard resisted. Eventually, though, he managed to make his way inside. Definitely American, and from the way he strutted in those boots, the Southern variety. Maybe even a little redneck. She knew the species, an odd offshoot of the American male.
The newcomer walked straight toward her.