The River House E-Book

GIANLUCA ARRIGHI

• Herausgeber: Tektime
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 308

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Biagio Martini is a successful lawyer. But he fears thunderstorms, and the memory of what happened in the old house by the river, when he was a child, corrodes his soul. Agata Rubino, on the other hand, is a fearless and courageous woman. She fears nothing as she hunts down the one who destroyed her life. Biagio and Agata do not know each other, they have never met; they do not know that their destinies are about to intertwine in an inexorable way.

Leseprobe

Gianluca Arrighi

The River House

Translated by Simona Casaccia

© 2024 Edizioni MEA

Original book’s title

LA CASA SUL FIUME

Originally published in Italian by

Edizioni MEA

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored even with electronic means, or transmitted in any form or by any electronic, mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or other means, without the prior permission of the rights holders.

All rights reserved

Right to publish and print

Right of translation of the work

Right of making the work available in electronic format

Right of recitation and fixation

Right of processing by transformation into a dramatic work

Right of processing by transformation into a screenplay or other adaptation for cinematographic work

audiovisual or television work

Rights holder: GRUPPO MEA srls – [email protected]

To the great lawyer Leonardo Casu,

loyal and brave friend

Table of Contents

PART ONE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

SECOND PART

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CAPITOLO 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 44

CHAPTER 45

PART THREE

CHAPTER 46

CHAPTER 47

CHAPTER 48

CHAPTER 49

CHAPTER 50

CHAPTER 51

CHAPTER 52

CHAPTER 53

CHAPTER 54

CHAPTER 55

CHAPTER 56

CHAPTER 57

CHAPTER 58

CHAPTER 59

CHAPTER 60

CHAPTER 61

CHAPTER 62

CHAPTER 63

CHAPTER 64

CHAPTER 65

CAPITOLO 65

CHAPTER 67

CHAPTER 68

CHAPTER 69

EPILOGUE

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

PART ONE

CHAPTER 1

Biagio Martini lounged under the gazebo in the expansive garden of his three-million-euro villa, a glass of Yamazaki whiskey, his favorite, in hand. To the outside world, he was the epitome of success: a renowned civil lawyer, happily married for fifteen years, father to two bright and beautiful daughters, and the head of a thriving law practice that had just expanded to include five attorneys under his leadership. At forty-five, Biagio appeared to have it all. His wife sat beside him, serene and content, while their daughters laughed and played on the lush grass.Yet, this idyllic scene masked a darker reality known only to a few: Emma, his wife, from a certain point; perhaps his sister Delia, although she might still see him as the world did; and of course, Biagio himself. That's why he had already consumed half a bottle of Yamazaki and felt an urgent need to drown himself in the rest. It explained his irrational fear of thunderstorms, his battles with depression, panic attacks, and the fierce migraines that left him with temporary gaps in his memory. Biagio had spent thirty-five years navigating the corridors of child psychologists, psychoanalysts and mental disorder specialists. He often felt, like that evening, on the brink of an implosion if he wasn't careful.The root of his torment traced back to Maurizio Martini, his father, a man who had raised him without a shred of affection. Elisabetta Bacco Martini, his mother, played a lesser role in the familial tragedy that haunted him.He wondered if what he felt was self-pity, a sentiment he generally eschewed. His real regrets were for his family, especially Emma. His daughters, still young and resilient, were shielded from the darker aspects of his past. He had vowed to spare them the toxic family environment he and Delia had endured, a promise he had largely kept. Yet, the girls were intuitive. They sensed their father's struggles, glimpsing the shadows that occasionally crossed his face.They deserved a better father, and he loathed himself for his shortcomings. Emma, too, deserved a better husband. How she had managed to cope with his neuroses for sixteen years, always supportive and confident, was beyond his comprehension. Biagio sipped his whiskey, the weight of his hidden life pressing down on him as the sun set behind his picturesque, but deceptive, appearance.Biagio Martini watched his wife under the soft glow of the gazebo lights in their sprawling garden. Emma was the pillar of strength he desperately needed: nurturing him when he was fragile, reprimanding him when he strayed, always playing her part flawlessly, or at least striving to. She was his lover, his best friend, his confidante, the very glue that kept his fragmented self from shattering. With Emma and their daughters by his side, he believed he could conquer the demons that haunted him, just as Dr. Pasotti had always encouraged.Yet, supporting him had exacted a heavy toll on Emma. Gone was the carefree joy that once lit up her face, replaced by premature streaks of gray through her ash blonde hair and wrinkles etching her delicate features. Over the years, she had even battled a dependency on hashish, a struggle she had overcome through sheer willpower. Biagio loathed himself for the burden he placed on her. Despite his relentless efforts to suppress his darker impulses, he often faltered. His deepest fear was pushing Emma to a breaking point, fearing she might leave him and take their daughters, Greta and Vittoria, with her. Without them, he was certain the demons would finally tear him apart.Turning to Emma, he observed her tranquility as she watched their daughters play. She still radiated the beauty that had captivated him the night they met at a dinner party. That instant connection had quickly led to marriage. Now, looking at her stirred a mix of love, desire, guilt, and something akin to a prayer within him. Emma caught his gaze and smiled knowingly."What's up?" "Nothing, just watching you." "And what are you thinking about?""About how much I love you." "I love you too, very much," she replied, then added with a hint of playfulness, "Ah.""What does 'ah' mean?" "I think I know what's going on in your head," Emma said, her smile turning challenging, yet her eyes remained soft."It must be the Yamazaki talking." "I don’t think I’ve had that much, anyway you’re the one who gets lively with whiskey." "Shhh... keep your voice down." He smiled sincerely, adding, "You are a wonderful woman, Emma." "I know," she teased, tracing her fingers along the tendons in his wrist. Their moment was shattered by a shout from the lawn. Greta and Vittoria were at it again. "Mom, Vittoria is teasing me!" Greta cried out. "That’s not true!" Vittoria retorted. "Yes, it is! She made me slip on the ground. Look at my elbow, it’s bleeding!" "It doesn’t bleed at all, crybaby." "I tell you it is, and it was you who made it bleed." Emma sighed. "I'd better go check on them. Those two little demons should have been in bed long ago."He nodded, watching her navigate the cobblestones with grace, then downed the last third of his whiskey in one gulp. In mere moments, Emma had quelled the sibling squabble, her firm yet gentle approach coaxing the girls into a temporary truce. They switched tactics, trying to charm their way out of bedtime, a nightly ritual."No stories tonight," Emma commanded, shepherding them towards the house. "In ten minutes, I want you in bed, teeth brushed, lights out." Her command was final. Unlike Biagio, Emma wielded authority with ease, ensuring swift compliance from their daughters. Biagio, with his lenient and indulgent nature, often let the girls bend the rules. This had once been a source of friction between him and Emma, but she had since taken the reins when necessary, smoothing over any potential conflicts with practiced ease.Returning to sit beside her husband, Emma noticed Biagio's refilled glass. She said nothing, but her eyes conveyed clear disapproval. She disliked seeing him drink so much. "Is everything okay, sweetheart?" she inquired gently. "Why do you ask?" Biagio responded, a hint of defensiveness in his voice. "You seem upset." "It's just work. The new lawyers and I are dealing with some complex appeals," he lied smoothly. The truth was far from his professional life, and Emma, despite her support, couldn't penetrate the depths of his current turmoil."Do you want to talk about it?" "No, love. I don't feel like it," he muttered, taking another sip of his Yamazaki, which suddenly tasted bitter. He set the glass aside, pushing it away with a sigh."Why don't we go to bed?" he suggested, his voice dropping to a suggestive whisper. "It's only nine o'clock," Emma replied, though a playful smile tugged at her lips."Bed... bed," Biagio repeated, his smile widening into a mischievous grin."Ah, I understand." Emma chuckled, tousling her thick hair seductively."Okay, but let's wait until the girls are asleep." As they prepared for bed, Biagio couldn't help but admire Emma's figure, outlined perfectly by her tight white pants. His desire for her was palpable, a testament to their sixteen years of unwavering fidelity. Yet, amidst these familiar feelings, a dark impulse surfaced—a sudden, inexplicable craving not for his wife but for Fiamma Lorenzi, a lawyer at his firm. This new yearning was sinister, a stark departure from love or affection. It was raw, unbridled lust, seeking not to cherish but to conquer.

CHAPTER 2

Darkness.Then the pain, the clouded mind. Sometimes the sounds fade away, like the pain, and then all that remains is a sense of confusion. Before the confusion, I remember the darkness: total darkness.In those moments, I have no idea who I am or where I am. Flashes of dreams, images, and memories seem to come from other memories. Living specters hover in the darkness, with empty and fearful eyes.The world is a vile place, a place of soot, ash, and blood. A place where people hide from their children's eyes and give up their dignity for a life of relentless pain. Women and men wield knives, guns, and clubs to give voice to their fury.There is always, in the soul, a morbid conflict, a struggle between disgust and need, between light and darkness. I keep my eyes closed and wander with my thoughts, searching for something hidden in my mind, suffocated by suffering.Perhaps I wish to die, in the chaos imbued with pain that fills my head like a stormy cloud. When I begin to regain clarity, I remember that periods of pain have a cyclical rhythm and soon the light will rise.I repeat to myself, like a mantra, that the darkness of the mind often travels dark paths, but there is nothing to fear. In every scary place, something beautiful will eventually grow.This awareness, at times, is comparable to relief.

CHAPTER 3

The October sun, warm and inviting, bathed Agata Rubino's journey in a golden glow. Perfect weather for the endless miles stretching before her. The rhythmic hum of the engine, the wind whispering secrets through the open window, the steady thrum of tires on asphalt, and the crackle of old favorites on the radio – these were the companions of her relentless quest.With each passing kilometer, a sense of nearing her objective intensified. Focus was paramount. She couldn't afford to falter, couldn't let hope flicker and die. This wasn't just a journey; it was a homecoming, built one long day at a time.A phantom image flickered on the sun-dappled windshield – Danilo, her husband. His tanned skin, the fathomless depths of his blue eyes, the silky caress of his brown hair – a wave of melancholy washed over her, tightening her grip on the wheel until the ache in her jaw subsided.The longing for Danilo was a constant ache. Moments like these, where love, distance, and yearning intertwined, made her crave the fastest route back to Rome. Just a glimpse, a touch, a whisper of reassurance – a promise that everything would be alright, that she would fix it all. The temptation to turn back had surfaced countless times, only to be wrestled down after a few precious hours.Instead, she maintained contact with his parents, Gabriele and Valeria. Phone calls to the clinic were a conscious avoidance, the knowledge that doctors wouldn't divulge information over the phone a constant deterrent. Letters, penned regularly, were her lifeline, along with the occasional call to his in-laws. Movement was crucial, a constant pushing forward.

Danilo wrote too, three or four letters a month, even though he might not be able to read her replies for a long time. But the act of writing was a necessity, a testament to his love. When he recovered, these letters would be a chronicle of her journey, a testament to her unwavering efforts. He would know, deep down, that she never stopped thinking of him, not for a single moment. And so, she wrote, sending her letters through Gabriele and Valeria, ensuring they would always find their way to him.This wasn't just a trip; it was a resolute pursuit to reunite with Danilo. Every clue she followed, every lead she chased, bridged the distance between them. It was a thrilling suspense novel, each twist in the road a potential revelation, every letter a piece of a larger puzzle she desperately needed to solve. Each envelope was marked "confidential and personal," a silent promise that its contents were for Danilo's eyes only. She trusted Gabriele and Valeria implicitly; as his parents, their honor was unquestionable.As the gas station loomed ahead, its signage and the cluster of parked trucks beckoned her. Her fuel gauge dipped precariously low, mirroring the grumbles emanating from her stomach – a handful of dried fruit that morning wasn't enough. She steered off the highway, pulled into the service station, and refueled both her car and her own hunger. Stepping into the adjoining restaurant, she was met with a scene familiar to seasoned travelers – truck drivers huddled around the counter and tables, a fellowship forged by the open road, no matter the length of their journeys or the size of their rigs.The once male-dominated domain of truck driving was undergoing a metamorphosis. Women were increasingly taking the wheel, challenging the status quo. It was a demanding profession, not for the faint of heart. Grueling schedules stretched from pre-dawn starts to destinations hundreds of kilometers away. The industry itself was in flux, with transport companies succumbing to closure in recent years. Yet, the "pink wave" of female drivers continued to swell on Italy's highways. These women, with their diverse backgrounds and perspectives, formed a vibrant community.The "Buona Strada Lady Truck Driver Team" was the beating heart of this community, a virtual space where women – current drivers, those who once drove, and aspiring newcomers – shared experiences and advice. Truck driving was more than just steering a behemoth down the highway. It required mastery of road signs, meticulous route planning, the ability to perform basic maintenance, and the logistical finesse to manage cargo operations. The long hours often meant sacrificing time with family, but she was fortunate. In Danilo, she had a partner who not only understood these challenges but championed her every mile of the way.The rest stop bustled with truck drivers, those tireless nomads of the highway who racked up countless miles with an almost joyful resilience. Agata envisioned her own return to a normal life soon, rejoining her job full-time. Her employer at Europa Transport & Logistics had assured her a spot whenever she was ready.Belly rumbling, she approached the counter and snagged the attention of a harried waiter. A ham and cheese sandwich, a mineral water, and a steaming cup of coffee materialized in front of her. Reaching into her fanny pack, she retrieved her phone and opened the photo gallery. On the screen, a grainy image captured from a security camera – a man's face. Agata showed it to the waiter.He barely spared it a glance before muttering an apology and dashing off to other patrons. Dejected, Agata looked beside her. A fellow trucker, a friendly face framed by striking snake tattoos on her neck, caught Agata's eye. "Buongiorno" Agata greeted with a small smile.After exchanging pleasantries, Agata took a chance. "By any chance," she began, showing the photo again, "have you ever seen this man?"The driver scrutinized the image, brow furrowed. "Not sure," she admitted, "the quality isn't great.""It's been enhanced with some forensic software," Agata explained."Like on those crime dramas?"Agata chuckled. "Exactly. So, does he ring a bell?""Can't say that I do. Is he someone you know?"Agata shook her head. "Not exactly.""Family?"The question hung heavy in the air. "Someone I need to find," Agata finally replied, her voice tight.The trucker's gaze sharpened with curiosity. "Why are you looking for him?"The answer burned on Agata's tongue, a bitter counterpoint to the coffee now warming her hands. She pursed her lips, averting her eyes. The reasons were hers alone, a secret pact with the man in the photo.

CHAPTER 4

She had resumed the journey in her car, finding solace and comfort within its familiar confines, much like she did in the truck. This sense of calm had begun years ago when her father permitted her to drive the old Fiat Ducato in the clearing near their house... how old was she then? Thirteen... Fourteen? Nearly two decades had passed since that time, during which she had driven a variety of cars, from good ones to rickety jalopies. There was the 1995 Peugeot 106, with its unsettling flutter that kept her from pushing it beyond ninety kilometers per hour. Then came the 1998 Lancia Y, a worn eggplant-colored vehicle with a bent half-shaft that made maneuvering almost impossible on bends. And then there were four or five more recent models, leading up to the 2020 Alfa Romeo Giulia, which now cocooned her in luxury with its blend of leather and metal. She adored that car: it was reliable, sleek, and had yet to present any issues, at least until then. "The Amazons of the asphalt," this was how truck drivers referred to women like her, professionals in road transport who excelled when behind the wheel. It was a fellow truck driver who had coined this unusual term for her. Agata, unfamiliar with the expression, had looked it up and found some articles. A group of psychologists suggested that road amazons used their vehicles as a means of escape from the stresses of daily life, similar to how others turned to movies, books, or hobbies. By isolating themselves within their vehicles, they created a sense of invulnerability that temporarily kept their troubles at bay, allowing them to assert control over their destinies as they did over their vehicles. Those words stuck with Agata over the years. The psychologists had struck a chord. Driving made her feel invincible, capable of facing any challenges, and had helped her stay strong after what happened to Danilo. One thing the article hadn't touched upon was the sheer physical pleasure Agata experienced while driving. On warm, fragrant evenings, she sometimes felt a stirring sensation, even finding herself in a state of arousal. Whether on bustling highways or quiet country roads, the location mattered little; what counted was the feeling of being part of a mystical mechanism of well-being while driving. During their first date with Danilo, she had attempted to convey some of those sentiments, albeit without delving into specifics. Upon her return to Rome after delivering a load in Milan for Europa Trasporti & Logistica, she encountered him while entering the appliance store owned by Gabriele and Valeria to purchase a new flashlight; the one she had in the truck was starting to malfunction. Danilo worked alongside his parents, and their family business was thriving people may have forsaken many things, but certainly not the latest generation of computers or smartphones. A mutual fondness had sparked instantly; following the sale of a top-quality LED flashlight, Danilo had extended an invitation for a coffee from the store's vending machine, eventually persuading her to go out with him. On their first outing, he had taken her to Fregene, to a familiar restaurant; he had chuckled upon hearing her anecdote about the asphalt Amazons. However, this had not irked her in the slightest, quite the opposite. The moment she heard his gentle laugh, with his head slightly tilted, accentuating the contours of his profile, she comprehended her love for him. It was a realization that struck her instantly. "I'll show you," she had responded, and she had indeed shown him. Not long after, he not only became convinced but also embraced her world. Before and after tying the knot, they often ventured out for drives together, taking turns behind the wheel. They would frequently indulge in passion within the car or in the back of the truck, reveling in excitement and fun akin to adolescents. Yet, this was merely one aspect of her admiration for Danilo. Beyond that, she admired his openness to new experiences, his acceptance of her without endeavoring to alter her. Danilo... The name lingered in the whispers of the wheels... Danilo... Tears welled up in her eyes. With tears came reflections. The ache of longing to be with him intensified to the point of almost unbearable solitude. One day, she affirmed to herself, she and her husband would be reunited. "One day!" she repeated in a choked outcry.

CHAPTER 5

As Emma wrapped her legs around Biagio's hips and whispered, "Slowly, Biagio..." a familiar tension crept into his back. In the soft glow of their bedroom, that word was her usual refrain during their intimate moments. Emma was not one for words in bed, no tender phrases, no playful banter, just that single cautionary whisper. It was her way of signaling when he needed to temper his pace to match hers, a reminder woven into the fabric of their sixteen years of marriage. That evening, however, the reminder felt like an intrusion, sapping the pleasure from the moment for Biagio. He felt reduced, not like a husband or lover, but merely a functionary performing a task. His mind wandered, images of Fiamma Lorenzi invading his thoughts, vivid, provocative. Overwhelmed by a rush of selfish desire, Biagio changed his approach abruptly. He moved without the usual care, driven by impulse rather than intimacy, reaching a swift and solitary high point followed by Emma's soft murmur of discontent. Typically, he lingered, maintaining their connection momentarily even after his own pleasure peaked. But not tonight. Tonight, he withdrew quickly, a dismissive pat on her hip his only parting gesture before he rolled away. Lying on his back, Biagio stared blankly at the ceiling as his breathing slowed and his thoughts settled. A wave of shame washed over him. He had acted thoughtlessly, driven by a fleeting desire rather than the deep love he felt for Emma. It was unjust to project his frustrations onto her. Turning to face her, he reached for her hand, his voice soft and remorseful.

"I'm sorry, my love. I don't know what came over me tonight." Emma's response was brief, her tone cool, "It's all good." But her words were tinged with hurt, a clear sign she was more affected than she let on. Biagio felt the sting of her subdued reaction, recognizing another scar left by his carelessness. "Let's not talk about it anymore, okay? Let's sleep now" he suggested, hoping to ease the tension, yet aware that some wounds needed more than silence to heal. Biagio remained there, distant from his wife, trying to smother the whirlwind of thoughts racing through his mind. It was as if he was harboring a cancer inside him, a genetic cancer of the soul. The disease of Maurizio Martini, his old dear dad. He had tried to ignore it for thirty-five years, another of his pathetic efforts, and all that time the cancer had spread metastases everywhere, to the point where now he could see it exactly for what it was. Impossible to deny what one observes with their own eyes: Biagio Martini was his father's son.

CHAPTER 6

After leaving the highway for Parma and navigating several roundabouts, Agata steered onto the provincial road, following signs pointing towards Brescello. As she drove, she pondered whether she had visited this part of Emilia-Romagna before. She was familiar with most areas, except some mountainous regions of the Apennines, sparsely populated and remote. Yet, she knew she would explore them eventually. Suddenly, the reason Brescello rang a bell dawned on her: the town was famous as the filming location for the beloved Don Camillo and Peppone films, based on the stories by Guareschi. These old-fashioned comedies, cherished by Danilo, possessed a timeless charm accentuated by their black-and-white cinematography. Glancing at the sky, tinged with the hues of dusk, she estimated the time to be around seven in the evening. Her extensive experience driving day and night had honed her ability to tell time by the sky’s appearance, a useful skill for someone who spent so much time on the road. Brescello, nestled in the heart of the lower Reggio Emilia region and bordered by the right bank of the Po River near Lombardy, presented a charming prospect. Should she choose to stay, she would need to find a place to live. Fortunately, the past four weeks' work, transporting goods for a food company based in L’Aquila, had been lucrative, providing her with sufficient funds to consider renting a cozy apartment in the town center. Agata couldn’t recall any personal memories of Brescello apart from its connection to the Don Camillo films, and this lack of recollection suggested she might never have visited the town. With so many cities across the regions, it was challenging to cover them all. Initially, when her explorations were confined to Rome and its surroundings, the task seemed more manageable. But as her travels expanded into Lazio, Umbria, Abruzzo, and Emilia-Romagna, the endeavor grew increasingly complex. At times, Agata felt as though she had traversed every municipality in these regions, though she knew that was an exaggeration. Perhaps she had visited half, or maybe even fewer. With many towns sharing similar or identical names, it was nearly impossible to keep track of them all. Feeling the onset of fatigue, Agata knew it was time to rest. She needed to find a secluded spot, a park, a country lane, or a spacious parking lot—where she could pause for a few hours undisturbed. Once settled, she would plan her next steps for the following day, ready to continue her search anew.

CHAPTER 7

The first call that morning in Biagio’s studio was from Fiamma Lorenzi, a voice that always managed to stir a complex whirl of emotions in him. He masked his discomfort with a veneer of casual professionalism. "Good morning, Fiamma. How’s everything at the prestigious Fabris & Lorenzi?" His voice carried a hint of unease, despite his best efforts to sound nonchalant. "All well, thank you," Fiamma responded, her tone smooth, almost velvety. "You seem a bit subdued today, Biagio. Is everything alright?" "No," he lied, "Everything’s fine. What do I owe the pleasure of this call?" "Just a few things," she replied with a deliberate vagueness, her words hanging in the air like a thinly veiled challenge. Fiamma, a formidable criminal lawyer known for her directness and lack of pretense, was a partner at her firm in Reggio Emilia, specializing in tax offenses. Her firm often leaned on Biagio’s expertise for civil cases. She had never been shy about her interest in him, adding a layer of complexity to their professional relationship. After a pause, she added, "Okay, for starters,, I need an update on the De Santis appeal." "We should have it wrapped up by tonight. I’ll confirm with Enrica and get back to you," Biagio said, stalling for time. "Still there?" "I’ll call you back shortly," he promised. "Don’t take too long. I’ll be in my office all morning," she said commandingly before ending the call. Biagio walked down the hall to Enrica Tofani’s office. Enrica, his right-hand woman and a cornerstone of his practice, was deeply involved in the legal maneuverings and document management. After updating him on the appeal, she quizzed him, "Why didn’t she call me directly? Was there something else?" "Just the appeal," Biagio responded, trying to keep his voice even. "Nothing else?" Enrica pressed, her tone suggesting she knew there was more at play. "It’s nothing... What are you implying?" "Do I really need to explain it to you?" "No, but why do you dislike Fiamma so much?" "She’s a predator, Biagio. She’ll chew you up if you’re not careful," Enrica warned, her voice tinged with concern. "It’s not like that," Biagio defended, though a part of him wondered if Enrica might be right. "Be careful," Enrica said, peering over her glasses with a mix of skepticism and concern. The pressure at his temples grew as Biagio returned to his desk, his thoughts a tumultuous storm. Fiamma’s frequent visits, their lunches, the long conversations, they could easily be misconstrued by someone as observant as Enrica. Committed to his wife, Biagio had no intention of an affair, yet he couldn’t dismiss the nagging feeling that Enrica might know something about Fiamma that he didn’t. Fiamma was well-connected in Reggio Emilia, mingling with the elite. The economic benefits of their firms' collaboration were undeniable, yet Biagio had never heard anything overtly negative about her, despite the rumors that swirled around her personal life. He considered scheduling an appointment with Dr. Elena Pasotti, a renowned psychoanalyst in Reggio Emilia, to discuss his unsettling thoughts about Fiamma. His last session had been ten months ago, and though he found Dr. Pasotti somewhat cold and imposing, her insights had previously helped him navigate complex emotions. As he contemplated a getaway with his family to escape the brewing storm within, the idea of a boat trip seemed like a perfect escape, a brief respite from his demons and the looming winter that always darkened his mood. Resigned to the impossibility of a getaway, Biagio turned back to his immediate concerns. He picked up the phone to update Fiamma on the appeal, inadvertently inviting further complication. "Do you need anything else, Fiamma?" he found himself asking, a question that opened doors he had intended to keep closed. "Actually, yes. How about a drink after work?" Fiamma’s voice was inviting, a siren’s call that he knew he should resist. "I... I don’t think that’s a good idea," he stammered, his resolve wavering. "Meet me at Caffè Latino, seven o’clock. It’s just a drink, Biagio," she coaxed, her tone both a challenge and a promise. Against his better judgment, he agreed. "Okay, at seven." As he hung up, a chill ran down his spine. He had stepped into a game that might be more perilous than he had anticipated, under the watchful eyes of both Enrica and the gathering storm clouds.

CHAPTER 8

It was nine o'clock in the morning when Agata woke up in the parking lot of a supermarket in Brescello. Her first stop was a self-service laundry; her clothes were dirty, and she was beginning to smell. Knowing she needed to make a good impression if she was to look for work, she cleaned herself up. After laundering her clothes, Agata visited the first bar she found on the main street. She had breakfast consisting of two brioches and a cappuccino and took the opportunity to freshen up in the restroom. By the time she left the bar, it was just past eleven. Her search began in earnest in a nearby commercial area bustling with restaurants and shops, and eventually led her to a shopping center. There, Agata approached anyone she could, salespeople, customers, newsagents, and cleaning staff, showing them her smartphone with a photo of a man's face, asking if they recognized him. The replies were uniformly negative, accompanied by head shakes or puzzled looks. Some people reacted with laughter or curses, eager to distance themselves from her, casting nervous glances over their shoulders as if she were a pursuer rather than a solitary woman asking for help. Feeling increasingly isolated, as though she were atop a skyscraper rather than in a crowded shopping center, Agata continued her search through the streets of Brescello. It was in the early afternoon when a tall, thin young man with two ring piercings on his lower lip caught her attention. His reaction to the photo was different; his eyes flickered with recognition. "Do you know this man?" Agata pressed him, but he denied it, attempting to leave quickly.

"You know him," she insisted, grabbing his arm. This was no longer a question. "No," the young man protested, claiming a momentary false recognition. "I thought I did, but I was mistaken." "Please, tell me the truth," Agata urged, sensing the importance of his initial reaction. "I don't know him," he repeated, pulling away and escaping into a car, which he drove off rapidly. Unable to follow immediately due to her car, Giulia, being parked too far away, Agata could only note his direction. She hurried to Giulia, drove in the direction the young man had taken, and after about thirty minutes, arrived in Reggio Emilia. She parked outside the restricted traffic zone (ZTL) and ventured into the historic center on foot. In a large square, likely in front of the town hall, where a small fountain featured a statue of a bearded man holding a vase, Agata resumed her inquiries. But just as before, no one she approached recognized the man in the photo, nor did she spot the boy with the piercings. Despite the lack of concrete leads, something about Reggio Emilia instilled in her a faint, yet persistent, hope. She decided to spend the night there, thinking that if this hopeful feeling persisted, she might start looking for work the next day.Agata had been aimlessly wandering the square for hours, occasionally pausing to sit at a café table and sip a Crodino. Each time someone passed, she would rise, frame in hand, hopeful yet met with indifference. As the sun dipped below the horizon, a chill settled over the square, nudging her to resume her search with renewed urgency. Just as she contemplated her next move, a striking woman with flowing red hair caught her attention. She appeared to be in her early thirties, frequently checking her phone as if awaiting someone's arrival. Agata, feeling the ache in her legs and a twinge in her back from hours of fruitless endeavor, pushed herself up from the table once more. Perhaps this woman would recognize the man in the frame. However, before she could approach, a man appeared from the opposite end of the square and made his way directly towards the redhead. As they met, Agata froze. The man's face was unmistakable, the same face that had haunted her dreams, the face she had seen every day in her relentless search. It was like a physical blow, a surge of adrenaline shot through her, her heart pounding wildly, her temples throbbing. She thought she might have let out a moan, but if she did, it went unnoticed by the couple. The redhead linked arms with the man, and they began to walk away. Agata stood rooted to the spot, overwhelmed by a storm of emotions, excitement, hatred, contempt, all swirling together tumultuously. It was him. The man in the frame. The very man responsible for Danilo's suffering. There he was, just a few steps away from her. There was no doubt in her mind, no room for error. He was the bastard she had been hunting for so long.

CHAPTER 9

Fiamma's playful jab hit Biagio like a delayed punch. "Quite the charmer, Biagio," she drawled, a hint of amusement laced with something else in her voice. He blinked; the Prosecco warmth momentarily eclipsed by a prickle of unease. "What do you mean?""The woman by the counter," Fiamma said, leaning in closer. Her perfume, a usually comforting scent, took on a strange intensity in the dim Caffe Latino. Her hand landed on his, a seemingly casual touch that sent a jolt through him. "Doesn't she look...familiar?"