VILLA POESIA
I waited in the Café Roma in the Naples train station on Friday morning for Alana to arrive. It had been an eventful week. I had an uneasy feeling about Tesa and what I knew—or thought I knew—about her involvement in the death of Hamza Yavuz. I didn’t like glossing over someone’s guilt, but I had learned from my career in military intelligence that truth was sometimes a flexible concept, and although we would like to deny it, it was also often situational.
The Curse of Croesus was simultaneously a gratifying way to end things and an unsettling conclusion.
When Aggie, Tesa, and I shared her news from Rafaela last evening at Enoteca Filicori, I drank deeply of the Pio Cesare Barbaresco but didn’t stay for dinner. I would be hungry, I knew, but decided that I should find suste
