When the taxi driver pulls up to the curb outside the main gate of Castello di Moretti, I’m out of the car before it slows to a complete stop and pressing my finger impatiently on the button of the call box.
A crackle comes through the speaker, then Matteo says, “Kimber.”
I can tell by the tone in his voice I’m going to be groveling well into tomorrow morning.
“Yes, it’s me.” Grinning, I wave at the small camera mounted high on the stone wall, waiting for the gate to swing open.
Nothing happens.
Frowning, I press the button again. “Matteo? Hello?”
The following pause is so long the seed of worry in my stomach flowers into a bloom of terror the size of the Bermuda Triangle.
He’s not going to let me in!
Finally the gate opens with a rusty metal groan, and I can breathe again. I push
