Jump down.
The word pierced a part of her that she had been packaging with "work", "task" and "responsibility".
"Who the hell are you?" She asked.
"When you decide which side to go, I will tell you the name."
The police have come down the steps.
The policeman closest to her raised a flashlight, and the light pierced under her umbrella - shining a shadow of her almost blending with the man next to her.
"Miss Cole?" The policeman asked, "Is everything all right?"
Leah tilted the umbrella slightly by an inch and greeted the dazzling light with a decent smile.
"I'm fine." She said.
She felt it, and the man next to her smiled softly.
The smile was neither like a sigh of relief nor like a succeed, but more like confirmation - she was about to make a decision, and he just waited quietly.
It's still raining.
The time was pulled for a long time in this second.
She only needs one move, a simple "he has a gun" to bring everything tonight back under control.
The police will rush up, press him on the wet and cold steps, handcuff him, and then stand a little further away in the posture of a diplomat, as an irrelevant bystander.
But she made another move at this moment.
Leah turned her head and looked at the man.
There was no extra emotion at that glance. It was not a romantic impulse of a vertical jump, nor a gloom of complete surrender. On the contrary, it seemed that she was examining whether a painting was worth taking a risk.
"It's raining too much tonight."
She turned around and said to the policeman, "He's just here to shelter from the rain."
At that second, she knew that she had lied.
She also knew that she had just opened a door that should have been closed.
The man next to him whispered, "It's a smart choice, diplomat."
The next moment, his finger gently brushed the back of her hand holding the umbrella, like an inadvertent touch.
The touch is extremely light, but it is surprisingly hot.
She didn't withdraw her hand.
The policeman hesitated for a moment, and finally moved his hand a few inches away, only looking back and forth between the two with suspicious eyes.
"If there is any situation, please feel free to contact me." He said.
"Of course." Leah replied. Her smile is still impeccable.
A few seconds later, the policeman left, turned around and strode towards the art gallery. More footsteps, the noise of the walkie-talkie, and the shouts of Italian spread from behind them, temporarily moving this small step away from the center of the world.
The sound of rain dominated again.
The man slowly retreated half a step from her umbrella.
"You saved me just now."
"I just avoided unnecessary confusion." She said, "This city is chaotic enough."
He nodded, as if he had carefully written down something.
"Then I owe you once."
He leaned forward slightly, stretched out his hand to her, and whispered, "From now on."
His palms were not dry, and the rain slid down his knandles, shining slightly under the street lamp.
Leah looked at the hand and didn't hold it immediately.
"What should I call you?" She asked.
The man smiled and finally reported his name:
"Lucca."
He paused and finished the surname again.
"Luca Rossano."
This surname is not strange in this city.
Leah saw it in all the briefings before coming to Naples--
Gangster family, smuggling, arms, underground casinos, art trading, from the port to the mountain villa, has the largest and most secretive network in the whole city.
She held his hand.
At that moment, she could even clearly feel that her heartbeat was intertwined with the sound of rain hitting the umbrella, turning into a strange and out-of-control rhythm.
After a long time, she would recall this scene again and again.
She will realize that the real turning point is not the painting disappearing from the wall, nor the light of the gun flashing in the rainy night, but the hand she stretched out at that moment--
And the second that she still holds on to the premise of knowing what his surname means.
After that night, everything began to change silently.
The rain stopped before two o'clock in the morning.
The rain in Naples is always like this. It doesn't make sense when it comes and doesn't say goodbye when it leaves, leaving a whole city of wet slate roads and darkened walls.
Leah stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling window and watched the last few drops of water slowly sliding down the glass.
She was still wearing the clothes she came back from the art gallery. Her coat was on the back of the chair, and a button was loosened at the neckline. Her hair was a little messy, and a strand of broken hair that had not been completely dried in front of her forehead was attached to the skin, which made her look not as accurate and neat as usual.
She dimmed the light in the room until there was only one wall lamp left. The warm yellow light hit her side face, outlining the slight shadow under her eyes a little deeper.
The mobile phone is lying quietly on the coffee table.
The screen is facing down.
She knew that if she turned over, there should be news from London - ask about the progress of the case, ask the art gallery whether the loss has been confirmed, and ask if she has contacted the key person.
Key figures.
She closed her eyes, and the figure of the man in the rain appeared in her mind.
Black, dangerous, careless.
And the hand holding the gun.
She has never been obsessed with guns.
When she was trained, guns were just tools, cold equipment that needed to be disassembled, cleaned and practiced. But that night, the way he took the gun was not a "tool" at all.
That's more like a habit--
It's like a person who is so used to holding a certain force that even if he doesn't plan to shoot, as long as the metal is attached to his hand, he will naturally relax.
She realized that she was thinking about his hand.
This thought made her frown.
She turned around and tried to put her attention back to the information on the table. That's the exhibition list and insurance contract of the art museum. She should have taken advantage of her fresh memory to mark out the suspicious details in the surveillance and send them back to the consulate.
She sat down, turned over the document, and held the pen in her hand.
A moment later, she found that her eyes had been on the same line of text for a long time.
"...Exhibit No.1: 'Sleeping River'--"
Is it the river that is sleeping soundly, or is it her before tonight?
The landline on the table suddenly rang - not a long bell, but just a short prompt.
The internal phone number of the consulate.
She took a look and didn't move.
The second and third sounds sounded in a row. The bell didn't ring, but it made people upset. She reached out and pressed the answer button, but there was no sound.
"Have you returned to the apartment?"
Eliza's voice came from the other end, passing through the signal of half of Europe, with a very light electric current rustling sound.
Leah held the receiver and leaned on the back of the chair.
"You arranged the apartment for me. Where else can I go?"
"It sounds like you're not in a good mood."
Eliza smiled and said, "Is it annoying you to lose the painting? Or did someone you see at the scene distracted you?"
She asked too directly and carelessly.
"I'm working." Leah replied, "I will sort out all the information and send it to you."
"I don't doubt your efficiency."
It was quiet over there for a second.
"But I just heard from the informant over there that you met a man surnamed Rosano at the scene."
Leah's fingers clenched the receiver slightly.
"The news spread quite quickly." She said lightly.
"This is the characteristic of that city."
Eliza's tone is still very light, "The rain always rains suddenly, and the news is always faster than the rain."
There was another brief silence.
"Isn't he good-looking?" Eliza suddenly asked.
Leah was stunned for a moment, and then smiled.
"I thought you would ask him first if he pointed a gun at me."
"That kind of person can never scare people without really shooting."
On the other end of the phone, the sound of the back of the chair gently rubbing came, as if she had changed her posture. "So I'm more curious whether he meets your aesthetics."
Leah didn't answer the phone.
"You know what I'm talking about, Leah."
When the name came out of Eliza's mouth, there was a kind of indistinguishable closeness and control.
"You like dangerous people." Eliza said slowly, "Especially the one that looks more difficult to tame than you."
"You talk as if you are talking about yourself."
"At least I won't point a gun at you."
"You are holding something else." Leah said.
She didn't understand what it was, but they all knew it well - the file, the right to sign, the life and death of the mission, and even her visa, passport, and future career path.
"That's why," Eliza's voice was lowered a little, "I'm the most dangerous kind of you than Mr. Rosano."
Leah didn't deny it.
"Set up your curiosity."
Eliza seemed to end an unpleasant joke. "You can see if you want to see it. If you want to get close, you can get close, but don't forget that every step you take has a way back."
"I've always had it."
"It's not an emotional retreat." Eliza said, "It's political."
When the "emotion" fell into her ear, Leah subconsciously avoided her sight and looked at the wet street outside the window.
"Sleep well." The person on the other end of the phone closed his voice, "I want to see your report tomorrow, not a bunch of your subjective description of the eyes of a gangster heir."
She hung up the phone.
The landline "dropped" and returned to silence.
When Leah put the receiver back, her movements slowed down. When the back of her hand was holding the plastic, there was a slight and almost invisible tremor.
She picked up the pen and typed a very small dot next to the three letters "Rosano" on the paper.
It is not marked as a "key target" or a "dangerous person". It is just a small ink mark that can be ignored by almost anyone.
She stared at that point for a while.
Then, she turned off the light, leaving only the faint street light outside the window.
The room is dark.
In the dark, people are always more honest.
She leaned against the head of the bed with a rolled-up document on her lap. Fingers unconsciously rubbed the edge of the paper, and there was a slight dry friction at the fingertips, which magnified into a monotonous rhythm in a quiet space.
The smell of rain that night still lingered on her coat.
She pulled her coat over and put it on her body. She didn't know whether it was to cover the coolness on her shoulders or to surround a certain smell closer.
When the fabric was pulled closer, a faint smell that did not belong to her himself emerged - it was a little smell mixed with rain and skin temperature when he approached under the umbrella. It was extremely faint, but not like any colleagues or diplomats she usually came into contact with.
She frowned instinctively and didn't throw away her coat.
On the contrary, she squeezed the fabric between her fingers.
This kind of out-of-control details often comes quietly.
She knew that if she took a step forward, she would change from "professional observation" to "personal indulgence".
She closed her eyes and forced herself to recall the lost painting.
The picture came to mind again: a wide picture frame, a soft river surface, and the light falling on the water lines like a thick layer of oil paint skin--
But in the middle of the painting, she always inexplicably sees a shadow of a person standing there.
A black shirt, a loose collar, and a shallow scar.
Leah suddenly opened her eyes.
She tore off her coat, sat up from the bed and walked to the bathroom.
In the mirror, the light hit her face, and she saw that her eyes were a little brighter than usual. It was not a healthy brightness, but a kind of stimulated light - like a part that should not be awakened after a long period of suppression was gently touched.
She turned on the cold water, picked it up and poured it on her face.
The cold water flowed down her jaw to the collarbone and then slid into the neck. The fabric of the shirt is attached to the skin, making hazy lines.
She raised her hand to tighten the loosened button on it, and felt that it was too tight, and finally only left a finger gap.
"Control."
She whispered to herself in the mirror.
"You are very good at this."
She turned around and left the bathroom.
In the living room, the screen of the mobile phone lit up in the dark.
A new message.
She stopped and looked at the light quietly.
That may be Eliza, or it may be a reminder from a higher level. But before she reached out to pick it up, the first thing that flashed in her mind was another more untimely possibility:
... Could it be him?
She has a number for work, only used for tasks, and is not disclosed to the public. Normally, he shouldn't have it.
But there are too many "shouldn't" parts in this person.
She approached and picked up her mobile phone. The screen lights up automatically.
SMS sender: unknown number.
There is only one sentence:
[The rain has stopped tonight, are you still standing on the side? --L]
"L."
She looked at the letter, and her heart inevitably beat faster.
She didn't reply immediately.
She sat back on the sofa and put her mobile phone on her lap, just like looking at an object that was at risk of explosion but fascinating.