“I believe you, Nico.”

“We had troubles. What marriage doesn’t? But to climb into bed with Roberto? What kind of answer is that?”

“Was that what she was looking for? An answer?”

“She tells me she was lonely. Feeling neglected.” He exhales heavily. “I work too much. I know. And yes, I probably drink too much wine, too. But we all need to unwind somehow, no?”

Alana doubts Nico believes the rationalization any more than she does, but it’s not the moment to argue.

“Sometimes, when I look at little Simona, mia bambina preziosa,” he shakes his head, “I wonder if she’s even mine.”

“Of course she is! Regardless of the circumstances.”

“What Isabella has done . . . I am not sure I can get over this.”

“You say that now, but your feelings might change over time.”

Nico’s only answer is to veer left and accelerate into the oncoming lane to overtake the car ahead of him. A motorcycle flies toward them directly ahead. Alana grips the armrest. “Nico . . .”

He swerves back into the right lane, missing the motorcycle by what seems like only yards. The biker rides his horns and flips his arm furiously as they pass.

“Nico! Is it worth getting someone killed?”

“This is how we drive here.”

“How you drive!”

His shoulders bob up and down.

“Besides,” she says. “Even if you don’t kill me on the road, Byron probably will.”

“For what?”

“Going to see Marcello without him.”

“Marcello is not Byron’s uncle.”

“Maybe so. But after the Emilio incident, I promised to cooperate fully with him.”

Ignoring the comment, Nico motions ahead out the window to the striking cluster of colorful villas that are perched along the coastal waterfront at the foot of rolling hills. “They call this area Golfo Paradiso. These beautiful old seaside towns. Suburbs of Genoa.” He barely slows as he turns off at an exit. “Marcello lives here, in Bogliasco.”

The road quickly tapers into a narrow stone street. They follow it for a few blocks farther before Nico turns into the driveway of a red stucco villa. Though it has a lovely view of the ocean, the house is no bigger than the neighboring villas and far more modest than what Alana had expected from the developer.

Just as Nico parks the car, Alana’s phone vibrates. She glances at the display and, recognizing Sergio’s number, answers the call on speakerphone.

“Where are you?” the AISI agent demands.

“Just outside the city. Why?”

“We need you here.”

Alana glances at Nico, who holds up a finger and mouths the words, One hour.

“We can be back in town in an hour or so,” Alana says.

“No longer,” Sergio says. “We’re assembling the team now. We’ll be ready in an hour. And, Alana, no one else. Only you.”

“The team?” She peers at the phone. “What’s going on, Sergio?”

“Ibrahim Hussein.”

“Who is he?”

“One of the men we interviewed from the Al Halique Mosque.”

“What about him?”