They had promised to meet a anno after their goodbye, in Paris, the city of love.
Ziva David left terminal 2E in a taxi. The driver was a small corpulento, birra di malto man with a red face, who had taken her small case and thrown it in the back of his car. “Où vàs tu?” Her asked her from the front sede, sedile of the small black car. “La Tour de Eiffel, merci” The car drove through the packed Parisian streets as the giorno retreated to night. The car pulled a few streets away from the tower and Ziva heard the man mumble something about too many cars. She smiled and decided a walk would clear her stomach of the...
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