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Clearly, I would have to change hotels, and it would have to be done in such a way that my trail went cold. Or maybe this was, in fact, my cue to hop on the next plane back to Virginia?

No. I could not give up. Not now, when I was finally getting somewhere. I would change hotels, maybe tonight, when it was dark. I would become invisible, cunning, mean. This time, Juliet was going to the mattresses.

There was a police station on the same street as Hotel Chiusarelli. I lingered outside for a bit, watching the officers come and go, wondering whether this would be such a smart move-making myself known to the local law and risking their discovering my double identity. In the end I decided it was not. Based on my experiences in Rome and in Copenhagen I knew that police officers are just like journalists; sure, they’ll hear your story, but they much prefer to make up their own.

And so I walked back downtown, turning every ten steps to see if I was being followed, and wondering what precisely my strategy should be from now on. I even went into the bank in Palazzo Tolomei to see if Presidente Maconi had time to see me and give me advice; unfortunately, he did not, but the teller with the slim glasses-now my best friend-assured me that he would be more than happy to meet with me when he returned from his vacation at Lake Como in ten days.

I HAD WALKED PAST the forbidding main door of Monte dei Paschi several times since my arrival in Siena. My steps had always quickened to bring me past this Salimbeni fortress without detection, and I would even duck my head, wondering if the office of the Head of Security was facing the Corso or some other way.

But today was different. Today was the day I took the bull by the horns and gave it a good shake. And so I walked up to the Gothic front door and went inside, making sure the surveillance cameras got a good shot of my new attitude.

For a building that had been burnt down by rival families-my own being one-torn apart by an angry populace, rebuilt several times by its owners, confiscated by the government, and finally reborn as a financial institution in the year 1472, making it the oldest surviving bank in the world, Palazzo Salimbeni was a remarkably peaceful place. The interior design blended medieval and modern in a way that made sense of both, and as I walked up to the reception area, the gap of time between now and then closed seamlessly around me.

The receptionist was on the phone, but held a hand over the receiver to ask me-first in Italian, then in English-whom I had come to see. When I told him I was a personal friend of the Head of Security, and that I had urgent business to discuss with him, the man smiled and said I could find what I was looking for in the basement.

Pleasantly surprised that he let me enter just like that, unescorted and unannounced, I started down the stairs with deliberate detachment, while a chorus line of little mice were riverdancing on the inside of my rib cage. They had been oddly silent while I was running from the tracksuit thug earlier on, but here they were full force, just because I was going to see Alessandro.

When I had left him at the restaurant the night before, I had, quite frankly, harbored no desire ever to see him again. The feeling, I am sure, was mutual. Yet here I was, walking straight into his lair for no other reason than instinct. Janice used to say that instinct was reason in a hurry; I was not so sure about the reason part. My reason told me it was highly likely that Alessandro and the Salimbenis were involved in all the nastiness currently coming my way; however, my gut told me I could count on him, even if it was only to let me know how much he disliked me.

As I descended into the basement the air got considerably cooler, and traces of the original building structure began to emerge as the walls became rough and worn around me. Back in the Middle Ages this foundation had carried a tall tower, perhaps as tall as the Mangia Tower in the Campo. The whole city had been full of these tower-houses; they had served as fortifications in times of unrest.

At the bottom of the stairs, a narrow corridor went off into the darkness, and ironclad doors on either side made the place feel like a dungeon. I was beginning to fear that I had taken a wrong turn somewhere along the way, when there was a sudden outburst of voices, followed by cheers, coming from behind a half-open door.

I approached the door with some apprehension. Whether or not Alessandro was actually down here, there would be a lot of explaining to do, and logic had never been my strong suit. Peeking inside, I could see a table full of metal parts and half-eaten sandwiches, a wall of rifles, and three men in T-shirts and uniform pants-one of them Alessandro-standing around a small television screen. At first I thought they were watching the input from a surveillance camera somewhere in the building, but when they all suddenly moaned and clutched their heads, I realized they were watching a soccer game.

When no one reacted to my initial knocking, I pushed through the door-just a little bit-and cleared my throat. Now finally, Alessandro turned his head to see who had the gall to interrupt the game, and when he saw me standing there, attempting a smile, he looked as if someone had knocked him over the head with a frying pan.

“Sorry to disturb,” I said, trying hard not to look like Bambi-on-stilts, although that was precisely how I felt. “Do you have a moment?”

Seconds later, the two other men had left the room, grabbing guns and uniform jackets as they went, half-eaten sandwiches wedged in their mouths.

“So,” said Alessandro, killing the soccer game and tossing aside the remote, “satisfy my curiosity.” He clearly did not think I needed the rest of the sentence, although the way he looked at me suggested that-notwithstanding the fact that I was a barnacle on the criminal underbelly of society-he was secretly pleased to see me.

I sat down on a vacant chair, looking around at the hardware on the walls. “Is this your office?”

“Yeah-” He pulled the dangling suspenders up on his shoulders and sat down on the other side of the table. “This is where we interrogate people. Americans mostly. It used to be a torture chamber.”

The dare in his eyes almost made me forget my general unease and the reason why I had come. “It suits you.”

“I thought so.” He put a heavy boot against the side of the table and tipped back to lean against the wall. “Okay, I am listening. You must have a very good reason for being here.”

“I wouldn’t exactly call it reason.” I looked away, trying in vain to remember the official story I had rehearsed coming down the stairs. “Obviously, you think I’m a conniving bitch…”

“I’ve seen worse.”

“… and I haven’t exactly signed up for your fan club either.”

He smiled wryly. “Yet here you are.”

I folded my arms across my chest, choking back a nervous laugh. “I know you don’t believe I am Giulietta Tolomei, and you know what? I don’t care. But here is the bottom line”-I swallowed hard to steady my voice-“someone is trying to kill me.”

“You mean, apart from yourself?”

His sarcasm helped me regain my cool. “There’s some guy following me,” I said, gruffly. “Nasty type. Tracksuit. Bona fide scum. I figured he was a friend of yours.”

Alessandro didn’t even flinch. “So, what do you want me to do?”

“I don’t know-” I searched for a spark of sympathy in his eyes. “Help me?”

There was a spark all right, but it was mostly one of triumph. “And remind me why I would do that?”

“Hey!” I exclaimed, genuinely upset with his attitude. “I’m… a maiden in distress!”

“And who am I, Zorro?”

I swallowed a groan, furious with myself for thinking he would care. “I thought Italian men were susceptible to female charms.”

He considered the idea. “We are. When we encounter them.”

“Okay,” I said, sucking in my fury, “fair enough. You want me to go to hell, and I will. I’ll go back to the States and never bother you or your fairy godmother again. But first, I want to find out who this guy is, and have someone bust his ass.”