(TYLER)
The room is, even I have to agree, pretty spectacular. It's got this classic Italian charm to it, everything built in cherrywood and marble, with rich red and gold trimmings. The suite has a living area and a bedroom, but my first priority is the bathroom.
I go straight into the shower and wash my ass, thanking any saints who might be listening in from the Naples next door for getting me out of that roach-infested room near the Colosseum and into the kind of place I prefer. I don't have to dance around on my toes the whole time in the bathroom, worrying about athlete's foot, and the towels are white and fluffy instead of grey and bald.
When I come out, Sasha has drawn the curtains in the bedroom only a few inches and is staring out at St. Peters. "La Contessa asked us to meet her at the obelisk at noon tomorrow in the square."
"Okay," I say. "We can sleep in, in that case."
