(SASHA)
Tyler, who did not have the luxury of a few hours of pharmaceutical unconsciousness overnight like I did, has been staring into his coffee with fixed eyes for the last few minutes. But when I put my hand on his, he looks up with a troubled expression.
"You want that asshole from the catacombs to find us?"
"Eventually. I have something bubbling in the back of my mind." Tyler shakes his head, frustrated.
"What is it?" I ask at once, my hand tensing on his.
"It's Miles," he says. "I mean, it might be Miles." He rubs a fist in his eye like a sleepy child. "Christ, I'm tired. What I mean is, someone has to be tipping off the Irish about where we're going. Last night, while I was trying to think what to do, I realized I'd only told two people about the Colosseum. Miles was one. Gloria was the other."
I nod and then I sip my espresso, and look around the piazza. It's touristy; I can't wait to get out of here and experience the real Venice.
"Sasha?"
