Zach and Ava stood on the sun-drenched balcony of the Villa Amnesia—a name chosen for its soothing promise of forgotten obligations—overlooking the Amalfi coast.
Zach sipped an espresso with the haunted eyes of a man who had not slept since the bonsai incident. Ava wore oversized sunglasses, a sun hat the size of a car tire, and an aura of glamor so sharp it could decapitate a duchess.
"I booked us a massage," she said casually.
"Define 'massage,'" Zach replied warily.
"Four hours. Hot stones. Light infiltration."
He raised an eyebrow. "Infiltration?"
Ava didn't blink. "The masseuse used to be KGB. She's slipping a bug into the Minister of Tourism's lumbar pillow. It's therapeutic and strategic."
Zach sipped. "I miss normal espionage. The kind with briefcases and cyanide teeth."
Ava smiled. "Oh, darling. Cyanide teeth are so last decade."
—
Elsewhere in the Villa: Lucien, Gregory, and the Inescapable Peril of Influencing
