Fortitude (and Other British Lies)
Two hours into surveillance, Davide’s Fiat Panda had transformed from “cozy workspace” to “mobile torture chamber.” The car was a crime against automotive engineering and several EU emissions standards, but it had one advantage: it was so battered and unremarkable it was functionally invisible.
Luke Blackwood sat compressed in the passenger seat, knees jammed against the battered glove box. From the neck up, he maintained perfect British composure. Everything below told a different story—strategic repositioning, increasingly creative contortions, the subtle dance of someone fighting a losing battle with biology.
What fascinated Davide was how Luke made desperation look graceful. Those long legs crossing with determined dignity. Christ, most people looked like hell when suffering. This bastard looked like he was posing for a magazine.
A strange metallic taste crept into Davide’s mouth—the same flavor that hit him when suspects lied during interrogations. But Luke wasn’t lying to him. The bitter tang suggested something else entirely. Self-deception, maybe.
“Want some coffee?” Davide offered, unscrewing his battered thermos. A rich, potent aroma filled the cramped space.
Luke recoiled slightly. “Good Lord, Inspector. I can feel the caffeine just breathing it in. I’ll pass.”
Davide took an appreciative sip, thoroughly entertained. The bitter sensation intensified. Whatever Luke was denying was getting stronger. “We might be here until dinner.”
Outside, morning light shifted from forgiving dawn to sharp Tuscan glare. The bakery remained shuttered, but neighboring shops filled the block with warm promises of fresh bread and coffee.
Luke had gone rigid, jaw clenched, white-knuckled grip on his thighs. A young woman walked past, jeans engineered to perfection.
“Christ,” Davide murmured appreciatively. “Now that’s Italian tailoring.”
Luke’s gaze remained fixed on the bakery. “Charming.”
A blond jogger passed next, all sculpted shoulders and coordinated athletic wear.
“Or maybe women aren’t your cup of tea?” Davide said casually, nodding toward the jogger. “That one looks energetic. Equal opportunity appreciation, you know?”
Something shifted behind Luke’s eyes. The sensation in Davide’s mouth turned electric. Whatever truth Luke was avoiding just got bigger.
“How enlightening,” Luke replied, voice carefully neutral.
Davide’s phone buzzed. Torriani’s name flashed on screen.
“Any progress?”
“We’re in position. Waiting for movement.”
Through the phone, Davide caught something else—Torriani’s rapid heartbeat, the slight tremor in his breathing. Fear. Raw, bureaucratic terror. “The mayor’s breathing down my neck. Press conference is at five. I need something to tell them.”
“As long as it takes, Captain.”
“Make it faster.” The line went dead.
“Pressure from above?” Luke asked, voice strained.
“The usual.” Davide reached for the radio, partly because Luke’s stubborn dignity was becoming genuinely impressive, partly because that strange electrical sensation was making him want to push boundaries. He found the nature station. Babbling brooks filled the car.
Luke’s knuckles went white. “Really, Inspector?”
“Just creating atmosphere.” Waterfall sounds gushed through the speakers.
That broke something. Not Luke’s composure, but a single traitorous bead of sweat crept down his temple.
“Most people would’ve caved an hour ago,” Davide said, genuinely fascinated.
“I am not most people.”
The bitter sensation exploded into something overwhelming—layers of self-denial so thick Davide could practically taste them. Luke wasn’t just hiding physical desperation. He was hiding something fundamental about himself.
“You’re enjoying this,” Luke accused.
“Maybe I am. You’re not what I expected.”
“What did you expect?”
“Someone who’d have surrendered by now.”
Luke started muttering—first English profanity, then Italian, finally Latin conjugations unused since the Council of Trent.
“Are you speaking in tongues?” Davide asked.
“Channeling my ancestors. They survived the Blitz on less.”
“Did they do it by refusing basic functions for two hours straight?”
“It’s called fortitude, D’Amico. Look it up.”
Luke executed moves that would’ve earned Riverdance auditions. The car’s humidity supported early moss formation, yet his hair remained perfectly composed.
“Should we swap positions?” Davide offered deadpan.
“No need. My side’s closer to the fire hydrant.”
Davide paused. Most people would’ve cracked or complained. But Luke made jokes—dry, self-deprecating, perfectly timed. What started as casual amusement was shifting toward professional respect.
Which naturally made Davide want to see exactly how far that character would stretch.
“There’s a public fountain down the street,” he suggested. “Very picturesque. Very . . . free-flowing.”
Luke’s response was squeezing his eyes shut and reciting what sounded like Anglican liturgy.
Which was precisely when Goffredo Malfatti emerged from the bakery’s front door.
The moment Davide spotted him, a wave of emotion hit—thick, cloying anxiety that tasted like old grief. The man was terrified, but underneath was something darker. Guilt. Heavy, soul-crushing guilt that made Davide’s chest tight.
Goffredo carried a worn leather bag and clutched a bulging paper sack. He glanced nervously up and down the street, movements agitated, then set off at a brisk shuffle, looking over his shoulder twice.
Davide’s reaction was pure muscle memory—punch ignition, check mirror, pull out. Luke made a sound that wasn’t quite a scream.
“Move!” Luke hissed.
“You good?”
“Just move.”
They followed Goffredo for two blocks, Panda crawling at walking pace. The emotions radiating from their target grew stronger—paranoia sharp as broken glass, desperation that made Davide’s hands shake. When Goffredo ducked into a narrow pedestrian alley, Davide cursed and pulled over.
“End of the road unless we want to take out half of Florence’s fruit vendors.”
Luke stared at the alley entrance. “On foot then.”
“You sure you can manage?”
“Inspector,” Luke said, voice deadly quiet, “the question is whether you can move without shaking after all that caffeine. I can manage a light jog.”
Davide found himself staring at Luke’s mouth as he spoke, the crisp English precision while his body staged a clear rebellion. That electric sensation was back, stronger now, making him hyperaware of every breath Luke took.
“Right. Let’s go.”
They abandoned the Panda and plunged into the market maze. Luke moved with concentrated grace, gait carefully controlled but steady. Davide found himself torn between admiration and the urge to laugh at the sheer bloody-minded determination.
“There,” Luke muttered, nodding toward a flash of leather bag fifty meters ahead. “Bar on the corner.”
They tailed Goffredo at a distance, ducking between stalls. The man’s emotional state was like a radio turned too loud—fear and guilt broadcasting on every frequency. He moved with quiet determination, his first stop the bar for caffè doppio.
Luke positioned himself behind a newspaper stand. Every time someone inside ran a tap, his body gave an almost imperceptible twitch.
“You’re tense,” Davide observed.
“It’s Florence in summer. Everyone’s tense.”
“Not like you.”
When Goffredo emerged, the chase resumed. Newsstand next, then pharmacy. At the pharmacy, Goffredo’s anxiety spiked so hard Davide actually stumbled. The guilt was overwhelming now, mixed with something that felt like reverence.
Luke’s movement had taken on a new quality—less walking, more controlled falling forward.
“Easy there,” Davide said, catching his elbow when he nearly toppled over a planter. The moment they touched, that electric sensation shot up Davide’s arm. Luke’s skin was burning hot.
“I’m fine,” Luke gritted out, grip tight on Davide’s arm. The sensation of self-deception was so strong Davide could barely concentrate.
“’Course you are. That’s why you’re moving like a Dalek with a limp.”
They watched Goffredo argue with the pharmacist, clutching his leather bag protectively.
“There’s a public bathroom on the corner,” Davide said quietly. “Thirty seconds there and back.”
Luke weighed this, conflict playing across his features. Finally, he nodded.
“Take your time. I’ll keep eyes on.”
“Thirty seconds,” Luke said firmly, then added with a sharp smile, “And you absolute bastard, you owe me for this.”
“What do I owe you?”
“Dinner. Somewhere expensive. With proper facilities. You’re paying, since you found my suffering so entertaining.”
Luke sprinted half a block to the public restroom and charged through with apocalypse-fleeing desperation.
With Luke gone, the emotional noise faded to manageable levels. Davide kept watch, but found himself missing that electric tension. Goffredo was still gesticulating at the beleaguered pharmacist.
Luke emerged exactly thirty seconds later, looking both depleted and reborn.
“Better?”
Luke straightened his shoulders, smoothed his hair, and fixed Davide with pure British triumphalism. “Outstanding. Now let’s catch this poor sod.”
The moment Luke returned to full confidence, those electric sensations came roaring back. But now they felt different—less about hidden shame.
Davide gave a sharp bark of laughter. “You’re a real piece of work, Blackwood.”
Luke stepped closer. “Two hours of watching me suffer—better than cable, was it?”
“Much better.” Davide found his eyes drawn to Luke’s still-flushed face, the way relief had softened his features. That strange sixth sense was picking up something new—curiosity instead of denial. Heat instead of resistance. “Though I wouldn’t call it sadism. More like . . . fascination.”
Luke’s breath caught almost imperceptibly. “And what did that teach you?”
“That you’re stubborn as hell.” Davide’s hand lifted toward Luke’s chest, hovering just short of contact. The space between them hummed with electricity. “And that was better than I expected.”
The space between them seemed to shrink. Luke’s eyes dropped to Davide’s hovering hand, then back up to his face.
“So this is your approach?” Luke’s voice was rougher now. The bitter tang of self-deception had disappeared, replaced by something that made Davide’s pulse race.
“Does it work?”
Luke stepped closer. “Maybe you should—”
“Move time,” Davide interrupted, spotting Goffredo emerging. Emotional noise crashed over him like a wave—guilt and love and desperate purpose all tangled together. “Our boy’s done shopping.”
Luke stepped back, but the heat between them didn’t dissipate. “You still owe me that dinner.”
“Blackwood, you drive a hard bargain.”
“Inspector,” Luke replied, and for the first time it felt less like a title and more like something else entirely, “you have no idea.”
The way he said it made something deep in Davide’s chest tighten with want. Whatever game they’d been playing was about to get much more serious.