The Professor

by Rachel Renee

  The door is slammed the moment my final body part is inside of it. The man, whom I still have not been introduced to, is practically sprinting to the driver’s side. His door opens, shuts, the car is put into first gear, and we’re pulling out into traffic in less than twenty seconds after I entered the completely blacked-out Fiat.

  The black leather underneath me is smooth and cool and feels rather nice against my sweaty neck. I lean back further and take a moment to let it all sink in. After a few seconds of silence and still nothing from the man in the driver’s seat, I sit up, reaching my arms over the headrest in front of me. “Hey man, I’m sorry I didn’t notice you right away.”

  His light eyes dart up, glowering at me in the rearview. I have no idea what he’s thinking or why he is so upset, but I don’t want to make things any worse. I smile without thought and sit back in my seat. Just as I reach over to buckle myself in, I catch those same angry eyes turn kind in a matter of moments.

  “I’m sorry, too. I know this is your first assignment and I didn’t want anything to go wrong. When it took you longer than expected to find me, I started getting frantic. Whatever happens to you, happens to me.”

  “Again, sorry to have kept you waiting.”

  “Water under the bridge, my friend, water under the bridge.”

  I nod, hoping that’s enough of an indication. “What’s your name?”

  “Ah, yes. Forgot we hadn’t gotten to that part yet. The name’s Alonzo Moretti. You are Niccolo Esposito.”

  “I know my name. Just didn’t catch yours.”

  “You will be seeing quite a bit of me while you’re visiting. Seems we may be partners.” His shoulders go up and down. “Sort of. I’m your contact. Well, one of them. The other was supposedly on the flight with you. He was picked up by another agent and will meet us at your apartment. The one the two of you will be sharing.”

  This is news to me. I had no idea I’d be working and living with someone while I was here. I mean, I knew I’d have contacts, I just didn’t realize we’d be operating so closely with one another. Definitely didn’t realize I’d be sharing my apartment with someone else.

  “Let me guess, you had no idea?”

  “None,” I huff. “You’d think that something like that would be in my file.”

  “He may be working a completely different angle and have an entirely different objective than you. If I were you, I wouldn’t let him in on any specifics of your assignment until you are one hundred percent positive you can trust him. Rubio has worked for us for decades, and he’s gone rogue. No telling who else he has in his pocket.”

  3

  I don’t know what I pictured the drive from the Roman airport, Fiumicino,

  into the city center of Rome would be like, but it definitely wasn’t this. First off, who knew that a Fiat could go this fast—I swear we’re traveling as swift as one of the Formula One Grand Prix racers. Second, I had no idea how truly beautiful Rome would be. I studied it. I’ve seen pictures. Unless you’ve actually driven into the city center yourself, you have no idea the true brilliance of the Roman architecture. Until we passed by the first Basilica, entering into what most people refer to as Rome, I could have been in any other thriving city of the world. The moment the streets shrank to what I would safely call a one-lane road and the buildings became grandiose, I knew I had never experienced anything like this before.

  “Magnificent, right?”

  I look up to see Moretti staring at me once more, a grin spread from ear to ear. I watch as his eyes avert to something out the driver’s side window and I turn my head in the same direction. The Coliseum is on the left and it’s so much more than I ever pictured it to be. The history goes back thousands of years, and so does this gigantic piece of rock displayed out my window. I don’t know how busy my mission will keep me but I hope that I’ll get to explore this city, at least all the major sites.

  “Do you think…”

  “Most likely. I don’t know what they told you, but I assume you’ll be here through the summer, at least. You may actually have to go to Florence to teach if you don’t complete your objective before Santi has to get back to class.”

  My face falls. What did I expect? I was going to waltz right in and become best pals with Santi Rubio on the first day and complete my mission within the week?

  “We all thought the same thing, once,” arises from the front. “Until you start your mission and come in contact with your objectives, there’s no telling how long this could take. Even after you make a connection.”

  “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  “You’re green. Nothing on paper seems hard at first,” the deep voice rumbles. “Let’s talk more after you’ve been at this for a few weeks.” His brows raise. “Don’t get discouraged already. The mission has just begun. Enjoy this first little bit. Take in the sites, explore whatever you want as long as you never lose sight of the reason you’re here.”

  “Never.”

  “You say that now.”

  “I won’t.” I try to sound confident, but I’m not completely sure that I believe myself.

  The traffic slows down immensely as we get further into Rome. “Your apartment is just up ahead. We will be passing the caffé in, three, two, one.” He points out the right side as we slowly creep past the place that I will need to get to know.

  There are so many people traversing the streets that the car is almost at a standstill in front of the Italian caffé nestled right into the side of the stone structure. Small tables are spread along the sidewalk and umbrellas are opened above each one, relieving the patrons from the blazing sun directly overhead.

  “Seems like a nice place.”

  “Oh, it is,” Moretti answers. “Your flatmate will give you the lowdown on what to order. I hope you like coffee.”

  “I do.”

  “It may take some getting used to. Not like what you get back in the states.”

  I’m not worried about what the coffee will taste like. I feel like Moretti should be speaking to me in Italian. He has a bit of a dialect but his English is the most evident. He’s supposed to be a native, that’s the part he plays, but I have yet to hear him speak much Italian.

  The Fiat comes to a complete stop and Moretti has the car parked within moments of passing the caffé. “Casa dolce casa,” he announces. There’s the Italian I was expecting more of, almost as if he was reading my mind just a minute ago.

  “Home sweet home,” I repeat. I look out at what is to be the apartment I’ll be living in for the next…who knows how long. Apparently everyone I live with drives a scooter around the city. There is one in every spot in front of the building Moretti is pointing toward. The building itself reminds me of a row house that you would frequently see in Savannah, Georgia. My orange brick building goes up two stories and is smooshed between two more buildings that go up four stories, but are made of what looks to be stucco.

  “There’s only two floors in your building. You and the roomie will be in the second-floor flat.”

  “Why haven’t you said his name yet?” I just caught the fact that he keeps calling him my roommate.

  “Don’t know it.”

  “Do you know what he looks like?”

  “Nope.”

  “So, he could be one of these guys?” I point to a couple of men who just hopped atop two scooters outside my door.

  “Possibly.”

  “Do I get a scooter?”

  “I don’t know. You need to go up to the flat for any other details.”

  “Let’s get going then.”

  “This is where I leave you. For now,” he adds.

  “How do I get in contact with you?”

  No words come from his mouth, just a motion of his head toward the apartment. Guess my answers will be up there. “Well, thanks for the ride. I’ll be seeing you around.”

  Moretti raises a hand in goodbye and I jump from the door, heading straight to retrieve my luggage from the trunk that was just popp
ed open for me. Grabbing the bag and setting it down on the pavement is where I begin. I secure the trunk before picking up my belongings and heading in the direction of the rather large wooden door in my sights.

  “Sinistra,” I hear as Moretti honks the horn and pulls away from my home away from home.

  My palms are sweaty as I grab ahold of the metal handle. Turning the knob and opening the door, I notice the entryway is as tall as the building itself. There’s a metal door to the right, and a wooden one to my left that I go toward. Moretti told me the wooden door, not the metal one. It’s unlocked, which I was half expecting because I don’t have a key, but on the other hand, for two CIA operatives, it makes me feel uneasy. Dragging my suitcase behind me, I shut the door and stare up the two flights of stairs that are separated by a small landing.

  I start up the first flight, not pausing at the landing but continuing on to the door that leads to the flat. It’s painted black and the metal handle resembles that of the front door. I’m expecting this door to also be unlocked, but it isn’t and I raise my hand, pounding my fist, three raps, right in the middle. I hear footsteps that stop directly on the other side of the door. I’m expecting to hear the click of the lock and the door opened immediately, but instead I’m still standing here staring at the black object in front of me.

  “Chi è?” I hear after a moment.

  “Niccolo Esposito.”

  There’s a clicking and then the unmistakable sound of a chain scratching against wood before the door is finally open. Standing before me is the dark-haired man from the airplane. I feel the smile spread before I stick my hand out to the one outstretched in front of me.

  “Glad you made it,” he says. “Wasn’t sure at first if I’d be seeing you again. Happy to see I was right about you.”

  “I love that you know exactly who I am but I have no clue who you are.”

  “Get used to it.”

  I feel like I heard those words a bit ago. This is going to take a whole lot of getting used to. A new job, a new country, a new roommate—who knows what else I’ll have to endure while I’m abroad for this mission.

  After I let go of his hand, the man motions for me to come inside, and as soon as my luggage is through the threshold, the door is slammed at my backside. Instinctively, I turn to it, but quickly move to face the man again. “We’re going to be living together for the foreseeable future. Do you think I can get your name?”

  Those same kind brown eyes from the plane stare at me once more. “You can call me Charlie.”

  “Really? That’s not much of an Italian name.”

  “Nope. I’m one hundred percent American.”

  I know I’m not supposed to reveal my role, but I wonder if Charlie has the same rules. “What role will you play?”

  He wastes no time. “Your lover.” His expression is flat and I’m wondering if I heard him correctly. “Il tuo amante,” he repeats in Italian.

  “You’re kidding, right?” I was not told that I also had to pretend to like the same sex. I’ve been prepared for many roles, but this was not one that crossed my radar.

  “No, sir.” He raises his hand and gently strokes my cheek. I feel my eyes widen before I notice the smile play on his lips, which makes me feel like he’s trying to get a rise out of me. I wag my brows at him and pucker my lips like I’m going to go in for a kiss, even though I have no intention of ever doing such a thing. I want to see if this is a ruse or if he’s for real.

  The smile widens and he removes his hand from my cheek instantly. “Nah, man. Just joking. Wanted to see how you’d react. You aren’t really into guys, are you?” His face scrunches up and his shoulders raise.

  “What if I am? Would that be a problem?”

  “No problem, just think it’s something I should know.”

  “If it’s not a problem, then why do you need to know?”

  “We’re going to be living together.”

  “So?”

  “We share a bathroom.”

  “Again. So?”

  “Um…” It’s fun watching this man who is at least fifteen years my senior turn red and slowly move back away from me.

  “I’m messing. I have no problem with anyone’s sexuality, but I myself prefer women.”

  He lets out a small chuckle. “Me too.”

  “Let’s get back to the initial question. What is your role?”

  “Your father.”

  “You’re kidding again, right?” I can see slight graying now that I’m this close, but this man does not look old enough to be my dad.

  “Not kidding this time.”

  “So, I’m staying with my dad in this apartment for the summer?”

  “This is my apartment, so yes, you are staying with me.”

  “But, you’re American.”

  “Yes, and your mother, God rest her soul, was Italian.”

  “My mother’s dead?”

  He laughs and so do I.

  “Let’s talk about that over dinner, son.” He puts his arm around my shoulder and leads me through the living area. “Let me show you to your room.”

  I allow the man who claims to be playing the role of my father direct me into the farther recesses of the flat. He points out key areas and opens the doors to rooms that are closed. This place has a ton of space and a ton of charm. Finally, we arrive at the last closed door to the left. “I’m here quite often so I thought I’d give you the room with a view for your first case.” He reaches out and turns the knob, light immediately flooding into the hallway.

  I can’t believe the space. I always pictured being holed up in some dark-walled, crumbling dump. Never in a million years did I think I would be put up in such a swanky abode. There’s a king-size bed in the center of the right wall. The back wall is a glass sliding door and as I move closer, I realize what an incredible view I’m dealing with. I can see the Colosseum from my bedroom. It slips out, “I can see the Colosseum from my bedroom.”

  “Damn right. Only the best for my son.”

  I laugh but I don’t turn to look at Charlie, who’s followed me in. I continue to the door and fling it open the moment my hand reaches the latch. The cool breeze gives me pause, but only momentarily, and then the sight below completely freezes me to my spot as I reach the stone balcony.

  “Not going to lie. I wanted to give you the street view, but this is your first assignment so I wanted it to be as good as it could be. This may be the only good that comes from this whole case.”

  I let out the breath that had caught in my throat the moment I saw what lie outside of the door. “If it is, I think I can live with that.”

  4

  My “father” introduced me to the pizzeria that is situated further down the attached buildings we are living in. Over a pie, he told me part of his story, our story. We’ve been estranged my whole life but before my mother died, six months ago, she told my father about me and after his initial shock, he decided to move here to get closer to me. He said this would be a good story because if we didn’t seem as close as we should be, we’re covered. Plus, the fact that he doesn’t have the Italian accent to his English could blow our cover if we told people that we were father and son. Even though Moretti told me I shouldn’t tell the guy any mission specifics, I already feel like he knows more about what I’m doing than I was privy to myself.

  After dinner, Charlie and I meandered down the sidewalk to the caffé so that I could take a peek into where I would need to be headed first thing tomorrow. Outside, the city smells a little bit of garlic, but mostly of dirt and stone, a smell that reminds me of walking into a museum of relics that were once buried in the earth. The moment you step inside the caffé, the garlic smell is overpowered by the aroma of coffee beans and freshly baked Italian bread. Even a hint of chocolate reaches the senses. It’s a bit overwhelming at first but as I snoop around the restaurant while Charlie orders us both a cappuccino, I get used to it and think I may even enjoy the mix of fragrances.

  The caffé looks similar
to any coffee shop I may visit back home. Lots of people sitting around small tables, talking and drinking a cup of something warm and brown. The individuals I passed were friendly and often said hello or the occasional ciao. The agent inside of me is a little discouraged that I must look very American and I make note that I need to buy some new clothes. Study the natives and see how they posture so that I can fit in better as my character.

  I’m surprised to hear how many people in this country speak fluent English. There’s definitely an accent, but the words are what I’m used to hearing. When I did a brush-up course of Italian during training, I assumed I would be using it more often, but so far, that has not been the case. Charlie’s head motions me forward once our order is up and I begin making my way back to the front of the restaurant where he’s heading.

  The sun is setting but the warmth in the air is still evident as the two of us sit beneath an umbrella at a table outside. “What do you think?” Charlie asks after taking a sip of his coffee.

  “Haven’t tried it yet?”

  “I didn’t mean the coffee. I mean what you’ve seen so far. Do you like it?”

  “What’s not to like? Italy is, after all, the birthplace of the pizza and what we shared tasted better than any I’ve ever eaten back home.”

  His eyes lower and his hand waves downward. “Quieter. Especially if you aren’t going to use your accent,” he whispers.

  I shake my head at my ignorance. If these people are locals and they witness me talking to Rubio with a different dialect, I could blow my cover. “Sorry,” I say in my newly trained tongue. “It will take some getting used to.”

  Charlie nods. “Indeed.”

  The two of us converse over coffee, which is different from what I’m used to. Not in a bad way, but like Moretti said, it may take some getting used to. Charlie taunts me about the fact that I’m not like the new recruits he’s worked with previously. “You’re quiet. I bet you’ve always got your nose in a book.”

  “Maybe.” My lips turn up slightly. “I enjoy learning new things.”