Chapter 8
The spy
(Tancredi)
I’ve heard somewhere that lack of sleep is bad for your brain. If that’s true, I’m afraid my neural synapses must have shut up shop about a decade ago. I’ve never had a habit of lying in bed hour after hour, even if the bed is one of the most comfortable in the history of orthopaedic mattresses.
The day after first coming to blows with Ferrari, I leave the suite in the Excelsior at eight in the morning and stride out towards the seafront. Yesterday, the evening ended on a high. After the blackmail and threats of the almost-falling-out with Ferrari, I called my parents and spent the rest of the day with them, indulging in tears and memories. A son on the other side of the channel inevitably leaves an empty space made up of distance.
I imagine this is the pr
