Chapter 6

As we crossed the last few blocks, we passed a church with a crowd gathered out front. A couple emerged from the doors, embracing each other and waving to their loved ones. The bride positively beamed. Two brides in one afternoon? That had to be lucky.

“A church in Rome,” I pointed out. “That’d be such a romantic wedding.” I glanced at Matteo, but he only frowned. “You don’t agree?”

“My parents were married in a church,” he said as if that explained everything.

“And . . . that’s a bad thing?”

Matteo slowed his stride and gave the church another look. Or a scowl, more like. “It was, from the start. They didn’t love each other—it was more a merger between two powerful companies in the export and import business. My father never said so, but I think he was in love with someone else. Perhaps as a result, he never really gave all of himself to my mother. They lived practically apart in the same house.”

“That sounds terrible.” I couldn’t decide which would be worse—a divorce like my parents’ or needing to divorce but staying together instead. “Are they still married?”

“My father passed a while back. Left the business to my mother, so she finally has the role she was born to fill. Does a good job of it, too. Needless to say, I try to stay far away from churches.” The bitterness in his tone said there was more to the story, but clearly he didn’t want to talk about it. “The bridge is just ahead, past that group of people.”

“This is your favorite bridge?” I’d already seen bridges far more elaborate, and the view wasn’t amazing, either. Pretty by American standards, perhaps, but not Rome’s. It didn’t even look that old.

“It isn’t the bridge, exactly,” he admitted. “It’s the tradition that takes place here every first of January. It supposedly started when Jupiter demanded that the ancient Romans sacrifice a member of their family by throwing them into the Tiber at the beginning of the new year. Hercules convinced families to use lifelike puppets instead, and it worked for a long time. The tradition was eventually forgotten until 1946, when a random guy decided to throw himself in and start the tradition up again. It was believed that every time he came back up to the surface unharmed, it meant we’d have a good year. Now a bunch of daredevils jump in at noon every January First while crowds cheer them on.”

I shivered, looking over the stone parapet to the water’s depths below. It seemed really, really far from here. “That’s the weirdest tradition I ever heard.”

“Your country believes that groundhogs can predict the changing of seasons,” he said flatly.

“That’s fair. I still think it’s weird, though. Have you ever done it?”

He laughed. “No, and I don’t intend to.”

“Why not? It sounds fun.” I cocked my head. “Oh, yeah. You aren’t the spontaneous type.”

“Nothing wrong with preferring firm ground to frigid water.”

“But aren’t you the least bit tempted?” I didn’t know why I was pressing the issue, but I couldn’t help it. I really wanted to know the answer to this. “When those guys stand up there and throw their arms out and step off the edge—don’t you wonder if you’d have the guts to do it too? There’s a reason this is your favorite bridge, Matteo. I think it’s because you secretly know you’re meant to join them someday.”

He blinked. Watched me for a moment. Then said, “No.”

A one-word answer after all that. Something I said must have hit home, or he wouldn’t be so resistant to it. I shrugged and pulled out my camera, feeling his gaze still heavy on me. Like he was trying to sort something out in his mind.

Let the guy think his deep, brooding thoughts. I had some photos to take of this section of the city.

I leaned on the stone railing, rising to the tips of my toes, but couldn’t quite get the angle I wanted. Lifting my camera over my head, I managed to only get the corner.

He stepped up and placed his hand over my camera lens, gently lowering it. “You still aren’t seeing Rome properly.”

“I’m trying. Now if you’d just give my camera back?—”

“If there’s a lens between you and the view, you aren’t really seeing it. Rome isn’t just captured visually. You have to experience it with all of the senses.”

“Thank you, Robert Frost, but I’m good. I simply want to experience this moment in a way that my followers can enjoy it too. Or is that not allowed?” I climbed onto the stone handrail and perched there, trying to keep my balance. If a bunch of daredevils could stand up here, so could I. Gazing over the city, I found the spot. Finally.

“Mind telling me what you’re doing?”

“I’m a photographer. I’ll do whatever I have to in order to get the shot.” Did I have to explain everything to him?

“Is that so?”

“Sorry, but this shot is too good to miss. I’ll be down in a sec.”

I had good footing, and the parapet was plenty wide. I lined up the skyline of Rome in my camera screen and squealed. The lighting was nearly perfect. I pressed the button slightly and adjusted the focus. The photo snapped into place—a postcard waiting to be taken. My finger pressed down ever so lightly, capturing the moment with a satisfying click.

“Dante!”

I barely had time to register the urgency in Matteo’s tone when something heavy knocked into my leg and swept it out from under me.

I yelped.

The bridge seemed to plunge toward the sky as the camera flew from my hand in midair.

My arms flailed, desperate to grab something to slow my fall. The water rushed up to meet me, opened its cold jaws, and swallowed me whole.

I gasped at the shock of cold. Water tried to fill my nose and lungs and everything else. I tried to open my eyes but couldn’t see in the greenish blackness.

Swim.

My brain finally started working and my legs and arms began listening to commands.

I finally reached the surface and gasped, coughing and sputtering and taking even more icy water into my lungs. It tasted so bad. It even smelled bad. The current immediately tried to sweep me downriver. Simply keeping my head above the waves felt almost impossible, let alone fighting the current to stay near the bridge. So cold. How did people do this in January?

Wait. My camera.

I felt around my neck. Nothing. My hands were empty.

Not. Acceptable.

I took a deep breath and started to dive, but just then, an arm hooked my waist and pulled me backward—against a very hard, very naked chest.

I looked up at the bridge looming several stories above my head. Only the dog peered back, next to a shirt draped over the rail—although a group of tourists hurried over, wearing expressions ranging from horror to amusement.

“I’ve got you,” Matteo said against my ear. “Just relax.” He started to kick and swim with his free arm, propelling us both toward the bank.

Relax? He didn’t understand the urgency of the situation. “M-my camera!” I managed, feeling myself shivering.

“At the bottom of the Tiber,” Matteo said far too calmly. His hand against my waist, holding me firm against his bare torso, did strange things to my brain. I should be angry, but I had a hard time holding it against him when he was . . .

Well, holding me against him.

“You d-don’t understand.” I tried to wiggle free. “I need my camera back. Let m-me go.”

His hand didn’t budge. “Your camera is probably sunk into several meters of mud by now, and I’m more worried about you. I should have mentioned before you decided to go for a swim that those January daredevils are pulled in by a boat full of lifeguards and medics to keep them safe.”

“I d-didn’t decide to go swimming. Your s-stupid dog knocked me in!”

“Dante was only trying to save you.”

“Is that what you call it?”

“Here we are.” We finally reached a temporary-looking boat dock and his grip on my waist relaxed. I shoved free and launched myself toward the edge, where a group of witnesses peered down at us. A man said something in Italian and offered his hands. I grabbed them and he pulled me up to the walkway.

“Thank y-you. Gratzie.” I tugged my shirt back down, trying to straighten my sopping clothes as I dripped a few gallons of water onto the sidewalk and shivered like a fool.

The man scowled, continuing to speak in Italian as Matteo easily pulled himself onto the dock without help. Show off.

Dante sprinted toward us on the sidewalk a moment later, barking and wagging his tail like he wasn’t a stone-cold killer. Someone handed Matteo a shirt, which he used to wipe his face before handing it off to me. As I attempted to dry myself off, Matteo and the group of onlookers exchanged a conversation in rapid Italian, their hands flailing about. Occasionally they would send glares my direction. Surely Matteo was explaining that this wasn’t my fault. Right?

Eventually another witness trotted over from the direction of the bridge with Matteo’s shirt and a second offered a blanket, which he handed to me with a scowl. As I wrapped it around myself, the man muttered something in Italian and turned to leave.

Maybe Matteo wasn’t defending me after all.

“It-t wasn’t my fault!” I called after him. “It was the dog. I s-swear.”

Matteo slid his shirt back on, then started walking up the ramp toward the city. The man had no right to look that good wet. “Dante probably thought you were going to jump. He leaped up to try and yank you back from the edge. At least you chose one of the deeper parts of the river. Some other bridges, you may not have survived that fall.”

I jogged to catch up, trying not to trip over the edge of the blanket. “Well, b-because of your giant dog, my camera is at the bottom of the river. That camera was irreplaceable. You have no idea what it meant to me.” My voice wobbled with emotion before I could stop it. “Not to mention all my photos from this entire trip so far.”

This was a disaster. The only photos I’d have of Paris would be the ones already posted. And I only had a few photos of Rome on my phone.

“My phone,” I gasped, tearing it from my pocket. Hopefully it could still be saved. “I need to take the battery out, quick.”

“My family’s home is a ten-minute drive away. I’d call a taxi, but no driver will be happy about the puddle we’ll leave on their seats.” He frowned, looking around the nearby shops. “I have an idea. I’ll be right back. Wait here.” He handed me Dante’s leash and trotted away.