The yacht anchored at the port of Fiumicino. My Lady’s double was still on the deck. Her job was simple, just to be there. “Put Laura in a car and send her to me,” I said when Domenico, who was in Rome, answered the phone. “Thank God…” the young man said with relief. “She’s starting to become unbearable,” I heard him close the door behind him. “I don’t know how much this interests you, but she was asking about you.” “Don’t go with her,” I replied, ignoring him. “We’ll talk in Venice. Rest up.” “Aren’t you going to ask what she said?” Domenico didn’t give up. I detected a happy tone in his voice. “Is it something interesting?” I asked as seriously as possible, although inside I was as curious as a child about what they were discussing. “She misses you.” This brief statement tightened my stomach. “I think so.” “Make sure she leaves as soon as possible.” I hung up and looked at the sea.

Once again, this woman was causing me panic. This feeling was completely foreign to me to be able to identify and control it. I moved away the girl pretending to be Laura but ordered her to stay close at all times. I had no idea if her presence would soon be useful. According to Matos, Flavio with the shot-up hands had returned to the island, but beyond that, nothing else happened. As if the incident at Nostro had never occurred. The brief information our contact provided was unsatisfactory, so I sent my own people there, who confirmed everything I was learning. At noon, I had a teleconference with people from the United States. I had to make sure they would participate in the Venice Film Festival. I needed a face-to-face meeting with them; the order for the next weapons shipment, which I intended to sell in the Middle East, required my presence.