I stood in the dusty and fly-blown museum before a display of mastodon bones. All the tiny building’s doors and windows stood open to the blazing July heat radiating from the ancient Italian rocks lining the street outside.
The stone floor echoed with the clicking of high heels. I looked up to see a chic woman in a business suit, her hair immaculate in a dark twist atop her head, her eyes flaming with anger.
Paolo! she shouted, and burst through a small door into what looked like . . .