Chapter 5 - Dawn in the Eternal City
The morning sun broke over Rome like liquid gold, spilling across ancient terracotta tiles, terracotta-potted geraniums, and cobblestone streets that had endured for two thousand years.
Claire Bennett stepped out of the taxi into the Piazza di Santa Maria in Trastevere.
The air was crisp and cool, smelling faintly of woodsmoke, roasted chestnuts, and damp stone. The roar of transatlantic jet engines was gone, replaced by the gentle splash of the eighth-century fountain in the center of the piazza and the distant tolling of church bells announcing Christmas morning mass.
She dragged her rolling suitcase across the uneven cobblestones, her leather boots clicking rhythmically.
She wasn’t staying in a hostel. She wasn't broke.
For four years, while Richard had assumed she was barely scraping by on her freelance design stipends, Claire had maintained a private client list under an offshore LLC registered in Delaware. European clients—boutique hotel owners, private estate managers who valued historical authenticity over commercial speed—had sought her out for her exquisite eye and meticulous restoration plans.
Every dollar from those clients had been funneled into an international account at a Swiss bank.
She stopped in front of a heavy wooden door framed by creeping ivy, its brass knocker shaped like a roaring lion. Above it, a discreet brass plate read: *Residenza dei Mercanti.*
She pressed the buzzer.
Within moments, the heavy door swung open to reveal an elderly woman with silver hair, wrapped in a thick wool cardigan, holding an iron key.
“Signorina Bennett?” the woman asked, her face breaking into a warm, crinkled smile. “You made it. We were waiting for you.”
“Buongiorno, Signora Rossi,” Claire said, switching effortlessly to the Italian she had mastered during her postgraduate studies in Florence. “I apologize for the late arrival. The travel was… sudden.”
“Nothing is sudden to God, child,” Signora Rossi replied, stepping aside and gesturing for Claire to enter. “Come in. The heating is on, the coffee is fresh, and your terrace looks directly at the Gianicolo hill.”
The penthouse apartment was small, but it was an architectural masterpiece. High ceilings with exposed chestnut beams, a wood-burning fireplace made of travertine stone, and tall French doors that opened onto a private terrace overflowing with lemon trees in terra-cotta pots.
On the kitchen counter, there was no twenty-three-item chore list.
There was only a plate of warm *panettone*, a bowl of fresh clementines, and a gleaming copper espresso maker steaming gently on the stovetop.
Claire set her suitcase down. She took off her coat, hanging it on the antique hall tree.
She walked to the French doors, pushed them open, and stepped out onto the terrace.
The city of Rome lay stretched out before her, bathed in the pale, glorious light of Christmas morning. St. Peter’s basilica loomed in the distance, its massive dome catching the first rays of the winter sun.
Claire closed her eyes. She inhaled deeply, filling her lungs with the clean, ancient air.
No one was screaming at her to vacuum the stairs. No one was demanding she brine a twenty-pound bird. No one was taking her drawings and erasing her name from the title block.
Her hand drifted to the front pocket of her purse. Her phone was still there, cold and dead.
She pulled it out.
For a brief second, she considered throwing it into the Tiber River. But no—that was the reaction of someone running away. She wasn't running. She had simply relocated her headquarters.
She walked inside, sat down at the rustic oak table, and plugged the phone into the European wall adapter.
She pressed the power button.
The screen lit up with the white Apple logo.
Within three seconds, the phone began to vibrate violently against the wood, a relentless, continuous hum that sounded like a swarm of angry hornets.
*14 missed calls from Richard Bennett.*
*22 missed calls from Evan Bennett.*
*9 missed calls from Linda Bennett.*
*6 missed calls from Melissa Vance.*
*114 unread text messages.*
Claire looked at the screen with detached curiosity, as if observing an interesting colony of bacteria under a microscope.
May you like
She poured herself a tiny cup of espresso, sat back in her chair, and opened the message thread from her father.
***