For the second time in recent days, Rome woke up feeling like he’d been beaten over the head. His mouth was dry, and his muscles were sore. At least this time, he could move a lot more quickly. He had a feeling that second shot wasn’t quite as potent as the first.
He opened his eyes to a twilight lit room, but it wasn’t the one he’d been in just before he was knocked out. He recognized it, though. It was his room in their apartment in Milan. The last time he was here, he couldn’t have been more than twelve years old. He sat up and looked around. Baseball posters, a few actors he’d liked years ago, and a photograph of his family in front of the Leaning Tower of Pisa decorated the room. They looked so happy in that photo. He wanted to knock it off of the wall and shatter it into a million pieces.
