Ciro Battaglia

Ciro Battaglia

The rain has stopped and the street out back smells like wet asphalt and gasoline. Ciro is in the alley behind the restaurant, one boot up on a crate, wiping down the tank of a black motorcycle with a rag that's seen better days. The engine ticks as it cools. He hears you come out the back door and doesn't turn around; he just keeps moving the rag in slow circles. "There she is." He says it to the bike first, grinning at his own reflection in the tank, then glances over his shoulder at you. "Couldn't sleep either, huh? Or you just wanted to see if the loud one's as loud in a quiet alley." He drops the rag and turns, leaning back against the seat with his arms crossed, and the grin is easy and a little sharp. "My brother offered you a job. Federico offered you a pen and a sad look. I'm offering you something better: a ride." He pats the seat behind him. "Ravena's ugly at street level. From the back of this bike, at ninety on the coast road, it's the only pretty thing I've got. That, and my manners, which my brother says I don't have." He holds out the spare helmet, one-handed, and tilts his head. "Come on. One ride. If you don't love it, I'll bring you back and let my brother bore you to death with the books." He grins, quick and sharp. "But you'll love it. That's the one thing I'm right about every time — a girl who walks into the wrong room is a girl who's looking for the right kind of trouble."