Page 196 of Mine Again
I pick up my bag, its weight settling over my shoulder. My gaze skims the edges of everything. Two fishermen glance up and then look away, and there’s a battered truck at the far end of the pier that hasn’t moved since we approached.
We walk in step, Luca’s arm brushing mine every few strides. The air smells of salt and diesel, with a thread of something warm, cinnamon maybe, drifting from the market inland. Every few seconds he glances at me, as if taking my measure. I answer with a small nod each time so he knows I’m fine.
Each look is quick, almost casual, but it lands like a steady hand at my back. I tell myself not to lean on it, not to relax, yet part of me does.
A narrow street swallows us, shadows stretching long between buildings. Luca’s attention settles on a cluster of men outside a shuttered café. Mine catches the glint of a phone in one man’s hand until we turn the corner and lose sight of him.
Every sound pulls at me; boots on stone, a shout from somewhere above, the clink of metal out of sight. Adrenaline keeps me upright despite the fog of sleeplessness.
Halfway down the next street, I catch my foot on the edge of a broken cobblestone and stumble. Luca’s hand catches my elbow before I can fall. He doesn’t comment, just steadies me for a beat before letting go. I straighten my posture, tightening my grip on the bag. I’m not going to make this harder for him.
Luca’s hand presses lightly on my back as we navigate a tight bend in the street. I fall into his rhythm, adjusting my steps so I stay on his right, giving him the advantage to shield me when needed.
When the path narrows again, his fingers find my elbow, guiding me ahead. He never touches me longer than necessary, but I feel theconstant thread of it.
“Two more blocks,” Luca whispers into my ear.
I nod, pulse steady but senses sharp. And yet, the longer we walk without incident, the more my muscles relax. If I didn’t know better, I’d think nothing here could threaten us.
We take an even narrower alley, its cobblestones slick, the walls close enough for my shoulder to brush flaking plaster. The weight of the bag shifts and bites into my shoulder. Before I can adjust it, Luca’s hand slips under the strap to take the weight for me while I settle it back in place. Again, no comment, just a glance that asks if I’m good. I give him the smallest smile I can manage.
Luca slows, his gaze lifting to the rooftops. I follow and see it too, a faint scuff in the dust along a gutter, newer than the rest. My grip on my bag strap tightens, but I say nothing.
We continue on and stop at a weathered blue door recessed into an archway, half-hidden behind a stiff, faded rug. Luca listens first, his hand hovering near the timber.
“Clear,” he says, though the word carries a coil of readiness.
Inside, the air is cool, smelling faintly of sea and old stone. Light filters through high, narrow slits, dust drifting in slow suspension.
This is only the first barrier. Beyond a plain interior door is the real defense, a double-walled, windowless room, its reinforced frame buried under chipped plaster.
Luca unlocks it with a key hidden in his watch strap. The second door opens into a smaller, stripped space with a waist-high steel locker bolted into the far wall. The air is different here, like the room is holding its breath.
“Is it always this quiet?” I whisper.
“When it’s untouched,” he says, crouching at the lock. “Let’s hope it stays that way.”
The locker opens with a click. Inside, wrapped in oilcloth, is a matte-black tower unit.
“This is it.” His voice holds something close to reverence.
I brace it while he checks it over.
He slips the whole thing into a plain, scuffed duffel bag he’d brought, the kind that could hold anything from laundry to groceries. A couple of the food items we picked up earlier go on top, masking the shape. Even I’d believe it was just an ordinary bag if I didn’t know better.
Instead of heading back to the street, Luca takes me deeper into the building, down a narrow hallway that smells of dust and motor oil.
At the far end, a small steel door opens into a windowless storage space. Against the back wall, under a sun-faded tarp, sits a scooter the color of old charcoal. Its frame is scratched, but the tires appear new.
“You had this here the whole time?” I ask.
“I always leave myself a way out,” he says, folding the tarp. “Cars stand out here. A scooter gets us through streets we can’t reach otherwise.”
He places the duffel bag onto the scooter’s flat floorboard, the narrow platform where his feet rest, securing it with a bungee cord.
He wheels the scooter to a narrow rear exit and pushes the steel door open. Heat and noise spill in at once, the hum of voices, the stutter of engines, the smell of sun-baked stone and aromatic spices.
“You sit behind me. Hold on to me and keep your head down.”
