7
We walk out of Piazza Santa Maria Novella down a narrow road
that leads directly to the river. Maybe two hundred feet on the right is the
Ponte Vecchio, one of only two bridges spared by the Nazis when they blew them
sky high to prevent the allied advance during World War II. The old iron lamps
mounted to the bridge’s stone buttresses illuminate the now cool, foggy evening
in inverted arcs of smoky lamp light.
When I come to the mid-point of the
bridge—an open area sandwiched between the many butcher-shops-turned-jewelry-stores—I
stop, turn, and pull the .45 from my shoulder holster.
Anjali’s dark eyes go wide. “What
are you doing, Chase?”
“What’s happening here? Your boss
just happens to know a little bit too much about my life. Knows where to find me,
knows about my past
