Page 34 of Bad Men's Good Girl

I love this rhythm. The chaos of the program has smoothed into a professional hum. I am a part of the machine now, not just a spare gear rattling around. Outside, a street performer plays a frantic accordion version ofVolare, and for a second, everything feels exactly as it should.

"Baleigh."

Amos doesn't yell, but the tone of my name makes me drop my pen. He’s standing in the doorway, his usual easy-going slouch replaced by a rigid, military straightness.

"Tell me Sadie Millione checked in via the app," he says.

I scan the digital dashboard. My stomach drops. "Her GPS pinged near the Trastevere market three hours ago. Nothing since. She missed the noon check-in at the Piazza Navona."

"I’ve tried her cell four times. Straight to voicemail." Amos is already zipping up his light jacket, his movements economical and swift. "The market is a maze on Tuesdays. If she lost her phone or got her pocket picked, she’s likely panicked."

The comfortable rhythm shatters. "I'll pull up her emergency contact file and her itinerary for the morning," I say, voice steady despite the flutter in my chest.

"Good. Stay on the dashboard. If that ping moves even a block, call me." Amos is already scrolling through his contacts, likely reaching out to the localCarabinierior the program's security consultants. He looks different—the playful traveler is gone, replaced instead by a man who moves with terrifying precision.

I pull up the map of Trastevere, my fingers flying across the keys. I retrace Sandra’s planned route, marking the side streets where a student might get turned around. "Amos, she mentioned wanting to find that specific vintage leather shop on Via della Scala. It’s tucked away in an alley. If she took a wrong turn there, she’s completely off the main drag."

"I'm heading there now." He pauses at the door, eyes locking onto mine. "Keep the other students in their hubs. Don’t let the rumor mill start. You’re my anchor here, Baleigh."

"Go," I tell him, already opening the group chat to send out a 'Status Yellow' check-in. "I’ve got the perimeter."

The sun creeps across the office floor, turning the dust into sparks, but I don’t leave the screen. Two hours since Sandra went dark. My phone buzzes on the desk—a text from Amos.

Heading toward the river. Market security says a blonde girl in a yellow jacket was seen heading toward Ponte Sisto. Check if she posted any stories in the last ten minutes.

I’m already three clicks deep into her social media. "Nothing new on Instagram, but she just logged into a public Wi-Fi at a café called Bar San Calisto," I say into the headset.

"On it," Amos replies. His voice is a steady frequency that keeps my own breathing level. There’s no trace of the man who joked about botched Vespa rides or chased street performers through Florence. This Amos is a strategist. He manages the local authorities with a fluency that borders on hypnotic, his Italian sharp and commanding, yet he never loses that thread of empathy. He doesn't just want to find a student; he wants to protect a soul.

He moves through Rome like he owns the blueprints. Between updates, he checks in on me.

"You doing okay, Baleigh? Don't forget to drink some water. I need your brain sharp for the next twenty minutes."

"I'm fine," I tell him, cross-referencing the café's location with the nearest bus routes. "Amos, if she’s there, she might be trying to find the 8 line. It stops right outside."

"I'm crossing the piazza now. Let’s assume she’s confused by the detour sign on Viale di Trastevere."

"I'll pull up the detour map and see where it dumps passengers."

"Perfect. You’re always one step ahead."

We fall into a seamless loop. I provide the data; he provides the boots on the ground. We don't need long explanations. A half-sentence from him is enough for me to understand the shift in his priority. It’s an effortless synchronization, a shared pulse in the midst of the Roman franticness.

A grainy photo hits my inbox. It’s a shot of the café’s terrace.Found the yellow dress,he texts.She’s safe. Lost her phone in a taxi, just like you guessed.

A massive weight leaves my ribs. "Thank God."

"I'm bringing her back," Amos says, his voice losing its edge, softening into that familiar warmth. "Baleigh? We make a hell of a team. I don’t think I’ve ever had a lead-in that smooth."

"It felt easy," I admit, leaning back and finally noticing the ache in my shoulders. "Too easy."

The tension in the office evaporates the moment Sandra walks through the door, teary-eyed and clutching a paper bag of pastries Amos clearly bought to soothe her nerves. After the paperwork is signed and the girl is safely tucked into her dorm with a stern warning and a hug, the silence of the Roman evening settles in.

Amos and I exit the building into a city that has traded its frantic vibration for a honey-hued glow. The streetlamps spill soft light onto the cobblestones of the Via dei Coronari. We walk in step, the click of my sandals echoing against the hush of the limestone walls.

"You're shaking," Amos says. He doesn't look at me, but his hand finds mine, his thumb grazing my knuckles.

"Adrenaline crash," I breathe, leaning my shoulder against his arm. "I kept imagining the worst-case scenarios. I thought I was ready for the chaos, but when it’s real... when a life is actually in your hands..."