A Chapter from “Echoes from the Past”

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I looked down on 5th Avenue and could just see, in the distance, Saks, and opposite, the Rockefeller Center. Recently I’d gone ice skating there with a woman I had begun to care for more than I should, and who liked spending time with me.

It was a relationship that had evolved slowly and was now moving into dangerous territory. From the moment our eyes first met across the ice, I knew that outing had been a mistake. Whatever I’d been thinking it couldn’t happen, but against better judgment, I had let it happen.

It was not her fault, it was mine. I was not the person she thought I was, the person I wanted to be, and if the circumstances of my past were not as they were, the person she was most likely looking for.

It had happened before, and it would happen again, and the result would be the same. I would move on, find a new city, a new job, a new life, and continue to hide in plain sight.

Waiting for an eventuality that may never happen, but if it did, it would happen to me alone, not the woman I loved.

I sighed inwardly, thinking of how unfair life could be. And how much, this time, I wanted it to be different.

From my office window, high up in the sky, I could see several Fire Department vehicles going though yet another drill and could just hear the sound of the sirens floating up to the 32nd floor. Darkness was closing in, and the fast-moving red strobing lights stood out against the neon signs, the street lighting, and the Christmas decorations.

It was that time of the year again, a time that brought back very sad memories. For most people, it was when families came together to celebrate. That was not possible for me. I’d thought with the passing of time it would no longer hurt so much, but it did. I felt a tear in my eye and pulled a tissue out of the box on my desk to wipe it away.

Enough with the sentimentality.

Behind me, I heard files being dropped on my desk. It was Friday when Maria from Accounting brought me the latest customers who were overdue in paying their investment contributions. The stack was getting bigger every week.

I turned to face her. She was only three years younger than me but looked ten. Italian parents, conservative dressed, reserved manner, but usually friendly and outgoing, she was well-liked by all. What surprised me, out of all the people she could choose as a friend, and since our ice skating expedition something more than that, she chose me.

I was not exactly the easiest of people to get along with, for obvious reasons.

I soon discovered this was the only time she and I could meet in the office without the prying eyes of our workmates making more of it than it was. Office romances, not that either of us would acknowledge we were having one, were frowned upon. Worse, rumors were very easily started, and much harder to quash.

“To be honest, I’m glad I don’t have your job, Will.”

She looked at the stack and then gave me a special look, one I wanted to believe was reserved just for me. Her smile always tugged at a heartstring or maybe two. This night it did more than that.

I shrugged and tried to be casual. “I was told I had a gift.”

“Ah, the statement of faith, just before the sucker punch.”

Everyone knew to call customers in distress was a difficult job at best. It required tact and diplomacy, a trait I’d acquired over time because of my situation. It had been a strange match of opportunity and unrealized talent when a disgruntled customer had come into the office and verbally attacked Mr. Bartleby, a senior partner.

I’d talked the customer down, and talked myself into the job. I’d only agreed to do it because it came with the promise of a promotion. Now I was considering an exit strategy, it probably didn’t matter.

“Doing anything for the weekend?” She asked the same question every Friday. The last time, I surprised her by asking if she skated on ice, not expecting she did. She said yes.

It didn’t take long to realize she would have said yes to climbing Mount Everest. It was her first time on skates, and we learned a lot about each other over the half-hour she managed to stay upright.

For her bravery, I took her to dinner and then took her home. She asked me to stay for a while, to patch up her wounds, perhaps the modern-day equivalent of ‘would you like to come up and see my paintings’.

Whatever her intentions or my desires, we just talked over a bottle of wine and then coffee. I didn’t have to leave, but it was better for both of us that I did.

I closed my eyes to break the connection. I could feel it. I was starting to fall in love with this girl, this woman, and I knew I had to be careful. It would not be long before the questions started; questions I couldn’t answer.

“No. I wasn’t intending to do much.”

“Then perhaps you might consider joining the rest of us monkeys for beer, wine and a lively discussion about anything but work. Harry’s found a new bar, upon 6th Avenue.”

Harry was our social director, not a real one but self-appointed, and he organized most of the unofficial staff gatherings. He was a bit too self-important for me, an ‘I am’ sort of guy, but he went to Harvard and had probably earned the right. I wasn’t on his social radar so he rarely invited me to anything. If he did, I generally declined. Those gatherings were the hunting grounds of the go-getters, the rookies looking for an edge to climb the corporate ladder. I was all about keeping a low profile.

“Is he asking, or you?”

A momentary frown settled on her face. We’d had a similar discussion once before, and I’d realized then she tried only to see the good in people. Perhaps that was why I was so lucky.

“Does it matter?”

I pretended to think about it for a minute, and then said, “No.”

Her smile returned. “Do you want me to come to fetch you?”

“As appealing as that sounds, I have a couple of matters to tidy up. You go, and I’ll drop in later.”

The expression on her face told me she didn’t believe me. It was not without merit, because I had told her the same before and not followed through. Then, it didn’t matter because I hadn’t known her all that well. Now, it seemed everything had changed.

“You are not just saying that to get rid of me, are you?” The tone matched the doubtful expression.

Blunt, but fairly accurate. I didn’t want to underestimate this girl. In normal circumstances, I might have considered something else, other than drinks. Instead, I said, “I would have preferred a walk in Central Park, but I don’t think the weather is going to behave.”

Then I had a moment where I thought if I told her something closer to the truth, it might help me climb my way out of the deep hole I was digging for myself. “To be honest, I’m not very good at these social gatherings.”

Another change in expression, she had many faces for many occasions. This one was of surprise, or was it an agreement?

“Then you and I could go somewhere else if you like.”

Not exactly the result I was looking for.

“We could, but then you would miss out on being with your friends and most likely miss the next scandal to envelop us.”

The last one was about Bartleby junior and a certain socialite. Everyone knew what he was like except one person, his current fiancée Katrina.

“True.” She shrugged. I had just become a lost cause. “I will look out for you. But remember, I will be disappointed if you don’t come.”

She gave me a last look, somewhat whimsical I thought, as I watched her walk across the floor to the elevator lobby. It was like watching the love of my life leaving, without turning back.

I’d promised myself a long time ago that I would not get involved with a woman, but I soon learned how difficult a promise like that was to keep, especially when the woman’s name was Katrina.

I’d not known real love before, and it was not difficult to fall under her spell. She was as beautiful as she was beguiling.

A long time ago, in what felt like another lifetime, Katrina Winslow and I worked together. She taught me my first job at Bentley, Bowman and Bartleby, Accountants. And, as with anyone with whom you work so closely, we became friends, and then something more than that.

By the time I realized what had happened, it was too late. She was the daughter of parents who cared about their daughter, and the people with whom she associated. They had me investigated.

I remember that Monday morning as if it was yesterday when she came into my office. We had spent a perfect weekend together, and when I left her Sunday night, I was full of those starry-eyed dreams people in love had.

An hour later, all of those dreams had been shattered, not only for me but for her too. I had no answers to her questions, answers the investigators could not find. I knew from the first day I met her she was out of my league, but I honestly believed love could conquer all.

Her father didn’t. It ended, and in time I realized it was for the best. I had nothing to offer her, and I could never give answers to any of the questions she might ask.

Not long after, Maria told me about her engagement to Marcus Bartleby, son of the remaining live partner whose name graced the building, and signs throughout the city. I told myself he would be the sort of man her father believed she deserved, but in my heart, I knew what sort of person Marcus was, and equally, there was nothing I could do about it.

I had a secret, one that I could never tell anyone. And until I could find a way of reconciling my past I could never contemplate having a future, make any friends, or find any sort of peace or happiness.

With Katrina, with Maria, or anyone else.

The truth is my life was the equivalent of a metaphorical train wreck. You wouldn’t know it, looking at me, but how I looked now, how I acted and reacted was a product of many years of practice. From the moment I had seen my parents murdered at the age of fourteen, I’d been on the run. Being that young, it was tough on the road, and I had to get street smart, and defensive, very quickly. I’d learned the hard way, through the school of hard knocks. By comparison, the Bartleby’s of this world had got it easy.

But, don’t get me wrong. It was not something I was bitter about. It was what it was. I did what I had to do, and what I have to. I accepted they had and always would have everything handed to them on a platter. It was the way of the world.

On the upside, I had only myself to please. I did not have to rely on anyone else, nor was I responsible for anyone but myself. I had no family to speak of, or that I would acknowledge.

My father had been an orphan and had spent a relatively lonely life up to the point where he married my mother.

The family I had on my mother’s side was the reason I ran away and kept running, and fortunately, I had not seen any of them since the day I finally escaped.

On the downside, I’d never stayed in one place too long, and never had the time to get a good education, a prerequisite for a good job. Instead, I had a lot of experience in jobs that didn’t have much of a career path.

I’d thought of night school, even tried it once, but it didn’t work out. That was the catalyst for joining the army, the one place where people like me finished up. It was a place to call home wherever they dumped you, and you made friends that didn’t care who or what you were, or cared too much about your past.

I was sent to Iraq, the first time around, with a great bunch of guys, until most of the platoon was killed in a suicide bombing, and the few that survived, including me, were physically repaired and discharged.

In the years since I’d stopped in ten cities. New York was the most recent, and I’d been here the longest. I’d carved a path across America from the Mid West, a place called Columbus, Nebraska, through to New York, with a lot of places in between. It was an interesting way to see the country when in normal circumstances I would have little reason to leave my home town.

Now, after all the running, all the looking over my shoulder, there was a desire to stop. The problem was I couldn’t. I couldn’t afford to feel safe, because the moment I did, the moment I let down my guard, it would be when I’d make a mistake, a mistake that could have horrific consequences. Not only for me but for others around me.

I’d learned that lesson well, soon after I had run away from home, but before I left my home town. Escape was a relief, and when they had not caught up with me after a week, I started to feel safe.

I let down my guard. I allowed my trust of the one person in that family I thought was my friend to influence my actions. She had unwittingly led the family to me after being used as a decoy. I hadn’t thought of that possibility.

They handed me to the man who murdered my parents. He told me he’d been willing to track me to the ends of the earth, as long as it took. He held me captive for a few hours until I escaped, and I had no intention of being caught again.

From that day, I never trusted anyone again.

I remembered the demonic look in his eyes when he told me he would never stop looking. He was out there, somewhere, and I had to remain vigilant. The passing of time, for this murderer, was irrelevant.

And, standing there, looking out the window and down 5th Avenue, I could feel the itch, the one I couldn’t scratch. The one that told me my pursuer, a man who went by the name of Edward Jamieson, wasn’t very far away.

Writing instead of insomnia – 2

Plane trips are by definition long and boring. Of course, you have (sometimes ‘award-winning’) entertainment systems but at the end of the day there are only so many movies, tv shows, and music you can watch or listen to.

What else is there to do?

Read. No, not in the mood, besides the weight restrictions its virtually impossible to bring the sort of books you want to read, and, yes, I’m one of those people who like the tactile feel of a real book, so that’s not going to be possible.

Do crosswords. Yes, that’s probably the most interesting for me, at the same time honing my words skills for later writing.

Play games. No. I do not play games. Except maybe for mahjong, but even then my patience is limited.

So what’s the next best thing?

Dreaming up another crazy James Bond start where all hell breaks loose.

I was walking past a fast food outlet, minding my own business when an explosion behind me firstly threw me about 20 feet along the sidewalk and then dumped a whole lot of building rubbish on me.

So much for minding my own business.

Dazed, half-deaf, and bleeding from several shrapnel wounds, I slowly got to my feet and looked back in the direction of where I thought the explosion happened.

Wrong. It was in the other direction. No surprise with the disorientation.

Not far from me I could see several others on the ground through the settling cloud of dust, bodies lying on the pathway, not moving. A number of cars that had been driving past had got caught almost directly by the blast and had been severely damaged. Other cars behind had crashed into them.

The storefront I had just past was now just a pile of rubble, much like photos of houses during the blitz and anyone caught in it would not have survived.

Still slightly disorientated, I could hear sirens in the distance, and then, above that, as my hearing slightly improved, screams from people who had taken the full brunt of the explosion.

I headed towards the nearest of the injured when I was knocked abruptly to the ground by two men running away from the scene. It took a few moments to realize these men must have had something to do with the explosion and were fleeing.

I scrambled to my feet and started running after them. They were some distance in front of me as was an oncoming police car, and I thought they could take up the chase, and stopped.

Instead, it drove straight past the two men and stopped opposite me, and before knew what was happening, I was on the ground with four weapons trained on my head, and three of them yelling that if I moved they would shoot me.

I tried telling them about the two fleeing men I’d been chasing but no one was listening.

I had a knee in my back and a gun to my head. This wasn’t going to end well for someone.

I’m guessing here never get caught running away from an explosion, guilty or not unless you have a patsy.

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Monday, Monday…

It was a song, sung by the Mommas and Papas I think. I suspect that will show my age.
I don’t like Mondays – another song, not sure who sung it.
Well, it’s official, I don’t like Mondays.
I’ve been procrastinating since last Thursday, telling myself I have to get the next part of one of my stories written, but I keep putting it off. I have to go to Africa, the Niger Delta to be exact. It can wait, I’m not ready for the steaming jungle and hostile villagers yet.
I didn’t do anything on Sunday, and, as a writer, I guess that’s not very good. I’m supposed to be writing a page, or a hundred or thousand words a day, just to keep the juices flowing.
I’m not in the mood. I sit and stare at the computer screen, and nothing is coming. Is this the first sign of writer’s block?
I dig out several articles on how to overcome it, and start putting their suggestions into action. No. No. Maybe. No. I don’t think it’s writer’s block.
Perhaps I need some inspiration so I go to my tablet playlist, spend 10 minutes trying to find the headphones carelessly discarded by one of my grandchildren the last time they were here.
And, yes, the tablet was left in the middle of playing a Minecraft video which has drained the battery. Now I can’t find the charger!
Back at the computer, holding a dead tablet, and a pair of headphones, inspiration is as far away as the mythical light at the end of the tunnel. Today it is an oncoming express train.
Perhaps a pen and paper will work.
An idea pops into my head ….
Is it possible the passing of a weekend could change the course of your life? An interesting question, one to ponder as I sat on the floor of a concrete cell, with only the sound of my breathing, and the incessant screams coming from a room at the end of the corridor.
It was my turn next. That was what the grinning ape of a guard said in broken English. He looked like a man who relished his job.
What goes through your mind at a time like this, waiting, waiting for the inevitable? Will I survive, what will they do to me, will it hurt?
The screaming stops abruptly, and a terrible silence falls over the facility.
Then, looking in the direction of where the screams had come from, I hear the clunk of the door latch being opened, and then the slow nerve-tingling screech of rusty metal as the door opens slowly.
Oh God, Oh God, Oh God, no.

No writer’s block. But I have to stop watching late-night television

An excerpt from “What Sets Us Apart”, a mystery with a twist

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McCallister was old school, a man who would most likely fit in perfectly campaigning on the battlefields of Europe during the Second World War. He’d been like a fish out of water in the army, post-Falklands, and while he retired a hero, he still felt he’d more to give.

He’d applied and was accepted as head of a SWAT team, and, watching him now as he and his men disembarked from the truck in almost military precision, a look passed between Annette, the police liaison officer, and I that said she’d seen it all before. I know I had.

There was a one in four chance his team would be selected for this operation, and she had been hoping it would be one of the other three. While waiting for them to arrive she filled me in on the various teams. His was the least co-operative, and the more likely to make ad-hoc decisions rather than adhere to the plan, or any orders that may come from the officer in charge.

This, she said quite bluntly, was going to end badly.

I still had no idea why Prendergast instructed me to attend the scene of what looked to be a normal domestic operation, but as the nominated expert in the field in these types of situations, it was fairly clear he wasn’t taking any chances. It was always a matter of opinion between us, and generally I lost.

In this case, it was an anonymous report identifying what the authorities believed were explosives in one of the dockside sheds where explosives were not supposed to be.

The only reason why the report was given any credence was the man, while not identifying himself by name, said he’d been an explosive expert once and recognized the boxes. That could mean anything, but the Chief Constable was a cautious man.

With his men settled and preparing their weapons, McCallister came over to the command post, not much more than the SUV my liaison and I arrived in, with weapons, bulletproof vests, and rolls of tape to cordon off the area afterward. We both had coffee, steaming in the cold early morning air. Dawn was slowly approaching and although rain had been forecast it had yet to arrive.

A man by the name of Benson was in charge. He too had groaned when he saw McCallister.

“A fine morning for it.” McCallister was the only enthusiastic one here.

He didn’t say what ‘it’ was, but I thought it might eventually be mayhem.

“Let’s hope the rain stays away. It’s going to be difficult enough without it,” Benson said, rubbing his hands together. We had been waiting for the SWAT team to arrive, and another team to take up their position under the wharf, and who was in the final stages of securing their position.

While we were waiting we drew up the plan. I’d go in first to check on what we were dealing with, and what type of explosives. The SWAT team, in the meantime, were to ensure all the exits to the shed were covered. When I gave the signal, they were to enter and secure the building. We were not expecting anyone inside or out, and no movement had been detected in the last hour since our arrival and deployment.

“What’s the current situation?”

“I’ve got eyes on the building, and a team coming in from the waterside, underneath. Its slow progress, but they’re nearly there. Once they’re in place, we’re sending McKenzie in.”

He looked in my direction.

“With due respect sir, shouldn’t it be one of us?” McCallister glared at me with the contempt that only a decorated military officer could.

“No. I have orders from above, much higher than I care to argue with, so, McCallister, no gung-ho heroics for the moment. Just be ready to move on my command, and make sure you have three teams at the exit points, ready to secure the building.”

McCallister opened his mouth, no doubt to question those orders, but instead closed it again. “Yes sir,” he muttered and turned away heading back to his men.

“You’re not going to have much time before he storms the battlements,” Benson quietly said to me, a hint of exasperation in his tone. “I’m dreading the paperwork.”

It was exactly what my liaison officer said when she saw McCallister arriving.

The water team sent their ‘in position’ signal, and we were ready to go.

In the hour or so we’d been on site nothing had stirred, no arrivals, no departures, and no sign anyone was inside, but that didn’t mean we were alone. Nor did it mean I was going to walk in and see immediately what was going on. If it was a cache of explosives then it was possible the building was booby-trapped in any number of ways, there could be sentries or guards, and they had eyes on us, or it might be a false alarm.

I was hoping for the latter.

I put on the bulletproof vest, thinking it was a poor substitute for full battle armor against an exploding bomb, but we were still treating this as a ‘suspected’ case. I noticed my liaison officer was pulling on her bulletproof vest too.

“You don’t have to go. This is my party, not yours,” I said.

“The Chief Constable told me to stick to you like glue, sir.”

I looked at Benson. “Talk some sense into her please, this is not a kindergarten outing.”

He shrugged. Seeing McCallister had taken all the fight out of him. “Orders are orders. If that’s what the Chief Constable requested …”

Madness. I glared at her, and she gave me a wan smile. “Stay behind me then, and don’t do anything stupid.”

“Believe me, I won’t be.” She pulled out and checked her weapon, chambering the first round. It made a reassuring sound.

Suited up, weapons readied, a last sip of the coffee in a stomach that was already churning from nerves and tension, I looked at the target, one hundred yards distant and thought it was going to be the longest hundred yards I’d ever traversed. At least for this week.

A swirling mist rolled in and caused a slight change in plans.

Because the front of the buildings was constantly illuminated by large overhead arc lamps, my intention had been to approach the building from the rear where there was less light and more cover. Despite the lack of movement, if there were explosives in that building, there’d be ‘enemy’ surveillance somewhere, and, after making that assumption, I believed it was going to be easier and less noticeable to use the darkness as a cover.

It was a result of the consultation, and studying the plans of the warehouse, plans that showed three entrances, the main front hangar type doors, a side entrance for truck entry and exit and a small door in the rear, at the end of an internal passage leading to several offices. I also assumed it was the exit used when smokers needed a break. Our entry would be by the rear door or failing that, the side entrance where a door was built into the larger sliding doors. In both cases, the locks would not present a problem.

The change in the weather made the approach shorter, and given the density of the mist now turning into a fog, we were able to approach by the front, hugging the walls, and moving quickly while there was cover. I could feel the dampness of the mist and shivered more than once.

It was nerves more than the cold.

I could also feel rather than see the presence of Annette behind me, and once felt her breath on my neck when we stopped for a quick reconnaissance.

It was the same for McCallister’s men. I could feel them following us, quickly and quietly, and expected, if I turned around, to see him breathing down my neck too.

It added to the tension.

My plan was still to enter by the back door.

We slipped up the alley between the two sheds to the rear corner and stopped. I heard a noise coming from the rear of the building, and the light tap on the shoulder told me Annette had heard it too. I put my hand up to signal her to wait, and as a swirl of mist rolled in, I slipped around the corner heading towards where I’d last seen the glow of a cigarette.

The mist cleared, and we saw each other at the same time. He was a bearded man in battle fatigues, not the average dockside security guard.

He was quick, but my slight element of surprise was his undoing, and he was down and unconscious in less than a few seconds with barely a sound beyond the body hitting the ground. Zip ties secured his hands and legs, and tape his mouth. Annette joined me a minute after securing him.

A glance at the body then me, “I can see why they, whoever they are, sent you.”

She’d asked who I worked for, and I didn’t answer. It was best she didn’t know.

“Stay behind me,” I said, more urgency in my tone. If there was one, there’d be another.

Luck was with us so far. A man outside smoking meant no booby traps on the back door, and quite possibly there’d be none inside. But it indicated there were more men inside, and if so, it appeared they were very well trained. If that were the case, they would be formidable opponents.

The fear factor increased exponentially.

I slowly opened the door and looked in. A pale light shone from within the warehouse itself, one that was not bright enough to be detected from outside. None of the offices had lights on, so it was possible they were vacant. I realized then they had blacked out the windows. Why hadn’t someone checked this?

Once inside, the door closed behind us, progress was slow and careful. She remained directly behind me, gun ready to shoot anything that moved. I had a momentary thought for McCallister and his men, securing the perimeter.

At the end of the corridor, the extent of the warehouse stretched before us. The pale lighting made it seem like a vast empty cavern, except for a long trestle table along one side, and, behind it, stacks of wooden crates, some opened. It looked like a production line.

To get to the table from where we were was a ten-yard walk in the open. There was no cover. If we stuck to the walls, there was equally no cover and a longer walk.

We needed a distraction.

As if on cue, the two main entrances disintegrated into flying shrapnel accompanied by a deafening explosion that momentarily disoriented both Annette and I. Through the smoke and dust kicked up I saw three men appear from behind the wooden crates, each with what looked like machine guns, spraying bullets in the direction of the incoming SWAT members.

They never had a chance, cut down before they made ten steps into the building.

By the time I’d recovered, my head heavy, eyes watering and ears still ringing, I took several steps towards them, managing to take down two of the gunmen but not the third.

I heard a voice, Annette’s I think, yell out, “Oh, God, he’s got a trigger,” just before another explosion, though all I remember in that split second was a bright flash, the intense heat, something very heavy smashing into my chest knocking the wind out of me, and then the sensation of flying, just before I hit the wall.

I spent four weeks in an induced coma, three months being stitched back together and another six learning to do all those basic actions everyone took for granted. It was twelve months almost to the day when I was released from the hospital, physically, except for a few alterations required after being hit by shrapnel, looking the same as I always had.

But mentally? The document I’d signed on release said it all, ‘not fit for active duty; discharged’.

It was in the name of David Cheney. For all intents and purposes, Alistair McKenzie was killed in that warehouse, and for the first time ever, an agent left the Department, the first to retire alive.

I was not sure I liked the idea of making history.

“Echoes From The Past”, buried, but not deep enough

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What happens when your past finally catches up with you?

Christmas is just around the corner, a time to be with family. For Will Mason, an orphan since he was fourteen, it is a time for reflection on what his life could have been, and what it could be.

Until a chance encounter brings back to life the reasons for his twenty years of self-imposed exile from a life only normal people could have. From that moment Will’s life slowly starts to unravel and it’s obvious to him it’s time to move on.

This time, however, there is more at stake.

Will has broken his number one rule, don’t get involved.

With his nemesis, Eddie Jamieson, suddenly within reach, and a blossoming relationship with an office colleague, Maria, about to change everything, Will has to make a choice. Quietly leave, or finally, make a stand.

But as Will soon discovers, when other people are involved there is going to be terrible consequences no matter what choice he makes.

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“One Last Look”, nothing is what it seems

A single event can have enormous consequences.

A single event driven by fate, after Ben told his wife Charlotte he would be late home one night, he left early, and by chance discovers his wife having dinner in their favourite restaurant with another man.

A single event where it could be said Ben was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Who was this man? Why was she having dinner with him?

A simple truth to explain the single event was all Ben required. Instead, Charlotte told him a lie.

A single event that forces Ben to question everything he thought he knew about his wife, and the people who are around her.

After a near-death experience and forced retirement into a world he is unfamiliar with, Ben finds himself once again drawn back into that life of lies, violence, and intrigue.

From London to a small village in Tuscany, little by little Ben discovers who the woman he married is, and the real reason why fate had brought them together.

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