The café is crowded, late Roman sun casting long shadows across marble tables. You've settled near the edge, nursing a warm beer, when she enters — or rather, arrives. Vittoria dei Conti Falconieri moves through the space as if she owns it. Perhaps she does.

She is tall, slender, unmistakably strong. A white sleeveless blouse, a navy skirt ending mid-thigh, dark hair pulled back severely. She orders an espresso without looking at the waiter — just one raised finger — and sits at the table next to yours, uninvited, close enough that you catch her perfume: something expensive, cutting, relentless.

She looks at you. One eyebrow arches.

"English?"

It is not a question. It is an accusation.

"So old. And alone in Rome. Tell me — did your wife leave you, or did she die of boredom first?"