The Russian Trilogy Boxed Set (Lust, Money & Murder #4, 5 & 6)

By Mike Wells

This specially-priced boxed set contains the entire African Trilogy from the “unputdownable” Lust, Money & Murder series by Mike Wells. Included are 3 full-length novels: Lust, Money & Murder #4, 5 & 6, plus a bonus from the next trilogy in the series.
Note: this trilogy can be read as a standalone. If you have already purchased Lust, Money & Murder Books 4, 5 & 6 separately, you should not buy this boxed set.

Synopses:

The Russian Trilogy, Book 1 (Lust, Money & Murder #4)

After being kicked over a cliff into the Mediterranean Sea, Italian criminal mastermind Giorgio Cattoretti has lost everything...including his left eye. Will "The Cat" land on his feet? Join Cattoretti on his quest as he hides out on the island of Cyprus, avoids the Russian mafia, and painstakingly plans and attempts the biggest art crime in history.

The Russian Trilogy, Book 2 (Lust, Money & Murder #5)

When criminal mastermind Giorgio Cattoretti successfully pulls off the largest art heist in history--the spectacular theft of 15 Picasso paintings from the Hermitage Museum in St. Petersburg, Russia--U.S Secret Service Agent Elaine Brogan is sent there on a dangerous undercover mission to capture Cattoretti before the Russians do.

The Russian Trilogy, Book 3 (Lust, Money & Murder #6)

When Secret Service agent Elaine Brogan fails to capture Giorgio Cattoretti yet again, the Italian criminal mastermind conceives a devious plan to capture her. Join Elaine, Giorgio, Nick, Tony, Luna, Dmitry and Lexy on another "unputdownable" Lust, Money & Murder adventure!

This specially-priced boxed set contains the entire African Trilogy from the “unputdownable” Lust, Money & Murder series by Mike Wells. Included are 3 full-length novels: Lust, Money & Murder Books #7, 8 & 9, plus a bonus from the next trilogy in the series.
Note: this trilogy can be read as a standalone. If you have already purchased Lust, Money & Murder Books 7, 8, and 9 separately, you should not buy this boxed set.

The African Trilogy, Book 1 (Lust, Money & Murder #7)

When U.S. Secret Service Agent Elaine Brogan and her husband are called to the American Embassy in Paris, they believe they’re about to receive an award. Instead, they’re separated and thrown into a treacherous adventure that neither of them could have ever imagined. From a black site at some unknown location, to Morocco, to Chad, and finally to the war-torn region of Darfur, Elaine fights to free herself and arrest the man responsible. In addition to Elaine and Nick, the The African Trilogy features the usual cast of Lust, Money & Murder characters - Luna Faye, Dmitry, Tony, and the notorious Giorgio Cattoretti.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mike Wells
• Release date: Sep 13, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005513528

Mike Wells

Mike Wells is an author of both walking and cycling guides. He has been walking long-distance footpaths for 25 years, after a holiday in New Zealand gave him the long-distance walking bug. Within a few years, he had walked the major British trails, enjoying their range of terrain from straightforward downland tracks through to upland paths and challenging mountain routes. He then ventured into France, walking sections of the Grande Randonnee network (including the GR5 through the Alps from Lake Geneva to the Mediterranean), and Italy to explore the Dolomites Alta Via routes. Further afield, he has walked in Poland, Slovakia, Slovenia, Norway and Patagonia. Mike has also been a keen cyclist for over 20 years. After completing various UK Sustrans routes, such as Lon Las Cymru in Wales and the C2C route across northern England, he then moved on to cycling long-distance routes in continental Europe and beyond. These include cycling both the Camino and Ruta de la Plata to Santiago de la Compostela, a traverse of Cuba from end to end, a circumnavigation of Iceland and a trip across Lapland to the North Cape. He has written a series of cycling guides for Cicerone following the great rivers of Europe.

Book preview

Part I

The Russian Trilogy

Book 1

Cattoretti’s Return

For Lana

Good artists copy. Great artists steal.

—Pablo Picasso

1

Kyrenia, The Island of Cyprus

T ake off your clothes, the man with the black eye patch said.

Lexy stood across the room from him, frozen. The words had caught her completely by surprise. Did he just say what she thought he’d said?

Take off your clothes, he repeated.

Lexy swallowed and glanced out the living room window, at the breathtaking view of the Mediterranean Sea. The man had just finished giving her a tour of his luxurious villa, on the northern side of Cyprus. This was the final interview for a cook and housekeeper position that he had advertised.

She didn’t even know his name. He had to be more than twice her age, 50 or 55 years old. He walked with a limp, but otherwise seemed in perfect shape—tanned, trim and strong. His black, salt-and-pepper hair was combed straight back. A faint scar snaked its way down his jaw line. He was immaculately dressed, and had a handsome face, or at least he seemed to....it was hard to know for sure because of the eye patch.

He was just standing there, his hands clasped behind his back.

Watching her, his one brown eye unblinking.

Waiting.

Something about the eye patch excited her.

With a trembling hand, she reached up and began unbuttoning her blouse. The man radiated power and authority—there was a kind of animal magnetism about him. Lexy felt she had no choice but to do what he told her to. Anyway, he could look—there was no harm in that, was there?

No man had ever seen her completely naked before, and the thought of him seeing her fully nude made her heart pound.

Lexy’s trembling fingers reached the bottom button and slowly removed her blouse, revealing her bra and deep cleavage. She was one hundred percent Cypriot Greek, tall and curvy, with long legs and a full, enviable figure. A thick mane of wild, curly black hair spilled down onto her shoulders.

She shyly dropped the blouse on the sofa.

The brassiere, too, he said, his voice even.

Lexy was having second thoughts now—she didn’t understand this. She wanted to ask him why she had to reveal herself to him in this way, didn’t see what it had to do with the live in cook and housekeeper job she had applied for. He had interviewed fifteen girls and she was his top choice, or so he’d told her.

Yet, she could not seem to stop herself from following his commands. Even though the two of them were alone in his huge villa. Strangely, she had not seen another soul on the expansive property—no gardener, security guard, or anyone else. But for some reason she was not afraid of him.

Gazing steadily at him, she reached behind her back and unclipped the bra. Her supple breasts spilled out and bounced slightly.

His one visible eye took them in, his face revealing nothing.

The skirt, he said, motioning.

I... Nothing else came out of Lexy’s mouth. She slowly unzipped the garment and stepped out of it, also dropping it on the sofa. She was wearing medium high pumps and a skimpy pink thong that left little to the imagination.

The underwear.

But—

The underwear.

Her heart thumping even harder, Lexy wriggled out of the thong and dropped it on the couch with the rest of her clothes.

She stood before him as naked as the day she was born. Except for the high heels, of course.

Turn around, he said, motioning.

She hesitated only a second before doing as she was told, slowly turning in a circle, the heels softly clicking on the white tiled floor as she moved.

Lexy could feel his one eye taking in her buttocks, the back of her thighs...her calves...her ankles.

When she turned towards him again, he stood there a moment, then moved closer.

Slowly raising his hands, he gently cupped both her breasts in his warm palms, letting them rest there, as if assessing their mass. He lightly rubbed his thumb across her nipples, which were becoming erect on their own accord.

He released her breasts and clasped his hands behind his back again.

You will cook for me, keep house for me, and satisfy me sexually as often as I want, however I want. He paused. The pay is ten thousand euros per month.

Lexy blinked once. Ten thousand euros a month? Is that what he’d just told her?

It was hard for her to believe she had heard him correctly, but his deep voice was loud and clear in the quiet room, the only other sound being the steady whoosh of the sea outside the window.

She was so stunned by the sum of money he was offering that now she was almost unaware that she was standing stark naked in front of a total stranger. I...how long do I have to decide?

Until you leave this room. He motioned to the archway that led in the direction of the front door. If you walk out without accepting my offer, I will take that as a ‘no,’ and I will offer the position to someone else.

It took Lexy less than three minutes to make a decision.

Both her mother and grandmother were ill, her brother was on drugs, and her father had drunk himself to death. She was the only responsible person in her family and the only one capable of making a living. Right now she was stuck in the village where she had been born—Episkope—taking care of her mother, who had been bedridden for years. Lexy was intelligent and had hoped to go to college and leave this desolate little island, but she supposed that it hadn’t been in the cards for her. But now? Anything seemed possible.

Although, truth be told, it was the man himself that swayed her. His confidence and inner strength emanated from him in waves that were almost palpable.

Lexy got dressed and he showed her to her quarters, which had also factored into her decision, though she would not admit it. The bedroom, which was right next to his, looked like something out of a Hollywood movie, spacious and elegantly furnished, with the same view of the sea that the living room afforded.

There was also a walk-in closet.

I took the liberty of providing you with a full wardrobe, her new employer said, sliding the door open.

Lexy was stunned. It was packed with expensive designer clothing.

Lexy pulled out one of the dresses and sneaked a look at the label: Givenchy. It was genuine, she could tell simply by the heavenly feel of the material.

She turned back to him. I don’t ...how did you know my size? And how did you know I would accept?

He smiled for the first time, the lines around the black eye patch crinkling slightly. I am an excellent judge of people.

He stepped into the closet and pulled out one of the hangers. You’ll wear this today. It was one of those French maid outfits, with a black stretch-satin mini dress that laced up in the back, sheer black thigh high stockings, a black choker, and a white headband. There was a pair of black high heels to go with it.

He stepped back out into the middle of the room and glanced at his watch. I have to run some errands this afternoon. You will begin work immediately. I will pay you on the last Friday of each month, and you can have the weekend to go visit your family. Otherwise, you will remain here at all times.

Lexy just stood there, reeling. This was all happening so fast. I do not even know your name.

He smiled again. I am Xavier. Xavier Dente. You may call me Xavier.

With that, he turned and left her alone in the room.

She looked back at the closet, then out across the terrace, at the sea, and then at the door he’d just walked through.

You may call me Xavier. She had thought he looked Spanish or Portuguese and she had been right.

He was incredibly rich and powerful, she thought. And sophisticated.

In fact, Xavier was not Portuguese or Spanish, but Italian.

His real name was Giorgio Cattoretti.

Incredibly, only a few short weeks ago, he was barely surviving in the woods on the northwestern coast of Italy, eating slugs and berries, living like an animal.

2

Vernazza, Italy

---

Two Months Earlier

When Giorgio Cattoretti was kicked off the cliff, he blacked out. Some seconds later he found himself helplessly swirling around underwater, as if he were trapped inside of a gigantic washing machine.

At first, he had no idea where he was or how he had gotten there.

The next thing he became aware of was pain. Pain in his left eye, and pain in his right shin. It was excruciating, unlike anything he had ever experienced in his life.

And then his whole body was slammed against something hard.

Rocks? He tried to fight his way through the churning water to the surface.

Now he was beginning to remember...he was in the Mediterranean Sea...he had fallen from a cliff—no, he had been kicked over. Kicked over by Elaine Brogan, a Secret Service agent. He had tumbled head over heels through the air and had hit the water in a horizontal posture...the impact must have knocked him out.

There was a terrible pain in his left eye and he could see nothing out of it. With his right eye he could see that blood was swirling out from his head. He reached up to try and put his hand over his injured eye, kicking and thrashing against the breakers, but another big wave crashed down on him, sending him tumbling underwater again, his injured leg slamming into the rocks.

He finally managed to push his head above the surface long enough to take in a breath of air, catching a glimpse of the rocky northern Italian shoreline and dawn sky.

Swim away from the shore, he thought dimly. Swim out to sea —it’s your only hope of surviving this.

As he tried to fight the endless procession of breaking waves, he cupped his hand over his throbbing eye. Even in the churning saltwater he could smell and taste the coppery scent of blood as it escaped between his fingers. He suddenly remembered everything that had happened! Elaine Brogan had plunged a letter opener into his eye!

He felt his body rising up in the crest of yet another wave. He frantically pulled his hand away from his eye and thrashed through the water for dear life.

Swim, he told himself. If you don’t get away from these rocks, you’ll be bashed to pieces.

Sometime later, Giorgio Cattoretti slowly regained consciousness again. This time he found himself on a small, rocky beach, face down in the sand. He half-remembered swimming for what seemed like hours on his back, being tossed about by the swells, staring up at the blue sky.

It was mid-morning now. The Mediterranean sun was beating down on Giorgio’s bleeding, battered, exhausted body. Despite the pain he was in, the warmth on his back felt wonderful. He could hear the cry of seagulls overhead.

He was alive.

He finally found the strength to raise his head and spit the sand out of his mouth, and then coughed up some seawater. Nothing was visible with his left eye except blackness. He could feel his eyelid move up and down as he blinked, but there was no hint of light.

When he tried to roll over, a spike of pain shot up through his shin and thigh that made him cry out.

He was still wearing his sport coat and slacks, and they were ripped up and wet. He was barefoot—he had lost both his shoes and socks.

Biting his lip so he wouldn’t scream again, he slowly pulled up his trouser leg...and he gasped at what he saw. His lower leg was swollen and bruised, bent at a slightly abnormal angle. It was broken, perhaps in several places.

He forced himself to look away and take a quick inventory of the rest of his body. His arms, hands, feet, fingers... Other than the injuries to his eye and leg, he seemed intact. Then he noticed something else—every time he took a breath there was a sharp pain in his chest. A broken rib, he thought. He was in worse shape than the time he’d been raped and beaten at Attica Prison.

But at least I’m alive, he thought.

Despite the pain and all that he had been through, he told himself that he should rejoice.

He turned his head, listening—a sound had caught his attention. Over the wind and the waves was the faint chop-chop-chop of a helicopter rotor.

Giorgio suddenly sat up, wincing as he did so. He could not see the chopper...it must have been several miles away. Had he drifted north or south of Vernazza? He couldn’t tell. But the aircraft seemed to be slowly moving in his direction.

The police were looking for him, of course.

Bellowing in pain, he rose onto his hands and knees and crawled across the beach, dragging his injured leg behind him. He scratched and clawed his way across the rocky shoreline and up into the woods to the safety of the foliage.

The first thing Giorgio did was attempt to straighten out his leg, but the pain was dreadful—every time he tried he almost passed out. He needed a splint. What he actually needed was a hospital, but of course that was out of the question. There was no doubt that every Italian law enforcement agency was after him, not to mention Interpol and the U.S. Secret Service. All the hospitals and clinics in this part of Italy had certainly been alerted. He would be identified and arrested instantly.

He finally found a tree branch that he could use as a crutch, and he began slowly making his way up higher onto the steep, craggy hill, deeper into the foliage. His villa, and the cliff he had fallen from, was located in Vernazza, one of five villages that made up the Cinque de Terre, a lush wine growing and fishing region along the northwestern coast of Italy. He wasn’t sure exactly where he was now, perhaps somewhere between the villages of Corniglia and Manarola. The five little hamlets were only separated from each other by 4-5 miles, but the rugged, rocky coastline was more or less the same throughout the area. He knew that the sea current usually flowed in a northerly direction, but the wind was blowing hard from the south today, so there was really no telling where he had ended up.

The helicopters kept searching throughout the day. One flew almost directly over him, but he was well-hidden under the trees. At times he heard the sound of powerboats, which he assumed were police vessels, also combing the waters for him.

He continued to crawl higher up onto the hill. With his injured eye and broken leg, it was tough going.

Just before nightfall, he was lucky enough to stumble upon a ravine where the locals from the nearest village dumped their hard-to-get-rid-of garbage. There were old couches with the stuffing sticking out of them, washing machines, as well as dozens of plastic bags packed with ordinary stinking trash, and other assorted household junk spilling down from the dirt road above.

It was getting dark and the temperature was dropping. The dump proved to be a godsend for Giorgio. Picking carefully through the trash, he found a ratty pair of sneakers, a stretched-out hoodie, and a down parka with feathers leaking from the fabric.

He also found a length of clothes line and a decaying table and chairs. He managed to break up the wooden furniture until he had two slats of the right length that he could use as a splint. He used the clothes line to bind the slats on either side of his broken leg, nearly passing out again from the pain as he tried to force it into as straight a line as he could. He knew that if he survived this ordeal, his leg would have to be re-broken and set again. Hopefully it would heal well enough this way to at least limp on.

Making every moment more difficult was the fact that he had the use of only one eye—he found that he had no depth perception. The injured eye was still seeping blood and it was attracting flying night bugs, which he kept waving away. He finally found an old necktie in the dump that seemed halfway clean and he wrapped it around his forehead at an angle, covering the tender eye.

He was terribly hungry, thirsty, and badly dehydrated—he could feel that his lips were cracked. There were plenty of fruits and nuts to eat—grapes, mangoes, walnuts, and apples were plentiful in this area—but there was nothing to drink.

He finally dragged himself higher up the hill and found a cave-like spot perhaps 200 feet away from the dump. It was sheltered by boulders and a huge fallen oak tree.

He lay on his back, gasping for a while, gazing up through the treetops at the stars.

At last he fell fast asleep.

Sometime in the middle of the night, Giorgio woke up again...and this time, he truly believed he was in hell.

His whole body felt like it was on fire, especially his left eye. He had a high fever and chills, his teeth chattering uncontrollably. The necktie that he’d wrapped around his head had come off. When he reached up to touch his eye he found that it was badly swollen, and it felt hot.

With dim, feverish awareness he realized that he had a severe eye infection.

He debated whether or not to try and crawl his way to a hospital, but decided he would never make it. And as terrible as he felt, the thought of being arrested and sent to jail again was worse. The currency counterfeiting crime and murders he had committed in the past few days would land him in an Italian prison for the rest of his life.

There was no way he would allow that to happen. He had only been to prison once, for two years, in the United States. Attica was a nightmare. He vowed that he would never spend another day in prison—he would slit his own throat before he would subject himself to that again.

He decided he had no choice but to tough it out. He knew that the infection in his eye could easily spread into his brain... he could only imagine how horrible it would be to die of encephalitis while laying alone out in the middle of the woods.

But going to prison was worse.

Far worse.

He was 54 years old and except for those two years in Attica when he was merely a kid, he had been living his whole life as a free man. There was no way he could adapt to prison now.

It would be better to die.

Giorgio did not move from that spot for two entire days. Or at least he did not think he moved.

He soon began having vivid fever dreams and nightmares that were surreal and terrifying. In one dream he was back in Cinecittà, the Rome slum he had grown up in, and he was a child being taunted by bullies...and then he was in Attica again, being raped by three inmates... and then he was on the container ship on which he had illegally entered the USA. He was stuck inside his stowaway hiding place in the hull, suffocating, and couldn’t get out. In the worst dream, he was standing in the master bedroom in his castle at Fontanella, gazing at his reflection in the mirror. He was immaculately dressed, in a white Armani tuxedo...but his face kept changing. First he was a young boy, then an old man, then middle aged...and with a panicky feeling he realized he could not remember how old he was or even who he was.

As he peered more closely at his face in the mirror, he noticed that his left eye was moving by itself...and then some nasty little insect-like creature popped out, knocking the eye from its socket. It hung down grotesquely across his white tux, blood splattering everywhere.

He screamed. He woke up in the woods, recalling it all...or at least he thought he woke up...he wasn’t sure of anything now.

The fever dreams blurred together until he could no longer distinguish them from reality.

Suddenly, amidst one of the horrific dreams, all was silent. It was as if an incredibly long freight train had been roaring past him for the past two days and had finally gone by, the last wagon clicking away in the distance...and now there was only a strange, tranquil quiet.

Giorgio opened his eyes and found himself staring up through the treetops. It was morning. He could hear the faint sound of birds twittering. The sun was filtering down through the leaves, warming his face.

His body was sticky with dried sweat but he didn’t feel feverish anymore.

He shakily reached up and touched his face, gingerly feeling his injured eye...

Giorgio gasped.

His eyeball was gone!

With his heart pounding, he sat bolt upright, and it slowly came back to him.

He had dug the eyeball out himself.

At some point during his high fever, he was in so much agony that he begged God to let him die.

But apparently God hadn’t been listening.

Instead, something told Giorgio to go back down to the seashore. He managed that trek down the rugged hillside, somehow, though he had no recollection of it. All he remembered was crawling into the gentle waves...the seawater will save you, Giorgio...some voice inside kept telling him. He had flayed in the water on his knees, being knocked about by the waves, slipping and sliding on the rocks. When he was waist-high he ducked his head under the surface...and with one finger he dug out his eyeball and ripped it free. Just like that, in one quick motion, he yanked it out of his skull, optic nerve and all. It hadn’t hurt much, just a bright strobe of pain and it was all over. The eyeball had become very much like an abscessed splinter that was so badly infected the body was simply ready to eject it. The cool seawater had soothed the swollen, tender socket, and somehow he knew he had done the right thing.

Now, as he gazed up through the treetops, he also knew he was going to live. He was glad for that, of course, but a dark, depressed feeling swept over him, too.

He had harbored a faint hope that somehow his eye might be repaired, his sight in it at least partially restored.

But now he accepted the painful fact that he would be blind in one eye the rest of his life.

For the next few days, Giorgio focused on nourishing his starving, dehydrated body. As it was September, there was no shortage of fruit to eat, and the juices at least partially relieved his hunger and thirst. But he was a big, strong man—he couldn’t imagine living on fruits, nuts and juices, as he simply wasn’t used to it.

He needed meat.

And fresh water.

Using the crutch, he limped his way back to the dump and snatched a few big garbage bags and glass jars, then made the long, painful trek down to the shore and washed everything thoroughly with seawater.

When he carried it all back up to his lair, as he was beginning to think of it, he stretched the large pieces of plastic in the branches of the fallen oak and on flat boulders, using small rocks to hold them in place. He positioned the jars under the plastic sheets so they would catch any water that was caught or formed.

He prayed for rain.

There was no rain that night, but the next morning enough dew had formed and rolled down the plastic to provide a few precious gulps from the jars.

As he lowered the third jar from his lips, he spotted a fox in the brush, standing perfectly still, watching him.

Giorgio’s stomach growled.

He grabbed hold of the branch he was using as a crutch, wielding it like a club, but in that one instant the fox was gone. Not that he could have caught it in the first place, as it was far too fast for him, even if his leg hadn’t been broken.

The sight of the fox made him determined to have something besides fruit and nuts to eat before nightfall.

He spent the rest of the day back down at the seashore, trying to catch fish with a length of old trawling line he’d found and some hooks he made out of rusty paperclips from the dump.

It was an exercise in frustration. Giorgio loved the sun and the sea, but he was not much of an outdoorsman. None of the fish seemed the least bit interested in any of the bait he tried—olives, worms, slugs or anything else.

He was so hungry for meat that, on impulse, he ate one of the big, fat slugs.

The French ate them, the crazy bastards. Why couldn’t he?

He immediately threw up.

The next morning Giorgio limped back to the dump even hungrier than the day before, and he scoured it from one end to the other. He was going to catch some of those damn fish. While he was rummaging around he spotted a rabbit almost right where the fox had been, a big brown hare, staring straight at him, his nose twitching. His mother used to cook rabbit on special occasions—Spiedini di Coniglio—the meat marinated in white wine and rosemary...

My god, he thought, what I would give for one small bite of that now...

The hare finally hopped away. He thought about crafting some kind of trap to try to catch one, and an old Russian proverb popped into his head. He who tries to chase two rabbits at once ends up with none. Russians were smart.

He told himself to stick with his plan to catch the fish.

While sifting through the dump, Giorgio ran across a potato peeler with a broken handle. He also found a wooden mop handle. And a steak knife with a bent, serrated blade.

He spent several hours trying to construct a spear, first binding the potato peeler to the broom handle with a wire coat hanger—there were dozens of them laying around the dump—but the peeler blade kept slipping and he decided it wouldn’t hold well enough. How he wished for one simple roll of duct tape! Another useful item he found in the dump was a disposable cigarette lighter that had enough fluid left to strike a tiny little flame. He struck it only once and slipped it safely into his pocket. He also found a warped skillet that was missing its handle.

If he managed to catch some fish, at least he wouldn’t have to eat them raw.

By late afternoon, he had moved all the useful items back to his lair, and then limped and crawled his way back down to the seaside, carrying his improvised spear with him. He had removed the potato peeler blade from its handle, made a hole in the broom handle using the steak knife, and wedged it in firmly into the wood. He thought it would hold.

He crawled across the rocks at the shoreline, dragging his bad leg behind him. He used the spear to stand up right, partly supporting himself with it.

There was a place just on the left-hand of a rock outcropping where a lot of fish congregated in the little pools that formed. Not big ones, but about the length of his hand. Certainly big enough to eat.

You’re my dinner, he muttered, whether you know it or not. He gazed down at them through his one eye and slowly raised the spear. His stomach growled so loudly that he actually thought the sound might scare them all away.

One fish swam lazily near, seeming completely unaware of his presence above the surface...

Giorgio stayed perfectly still. The unsuspecting fish moved in a slow circle, directly beneath him.

He took careful aim, but it was difficult with only one eye—he still wasn’t used to the lack of depth perception. Plus, he knew that the water bent light waves and the fish wasn’t exactly where it appeared to be.

On impulse he suddenly slammed the spear downwards into the water.

He was sure that he’d missed and that the fast little aquatic creature had gotten away. But to his amazement, when he raised the spear out of the water, the fish was wriggling helplessly on the end of the potato peeler.

He let out a whoop.

I’m Robinson fuckin’ Crusoe! he bellowed, dancing around on his one good leg and raising the spear triumphantly in the air.

He stopped and glanced around the little cove a little sheepishly—of course there was no one around to witness his awesome feat. He almost wished there had been.

Giorgio ate well that evening.

He was able to spear a total of seven fish. He cleaned them as best he could with the steak knife, then built a makeshift cooking stand out of coat hangers in a shape that would support the broken frying pan. He started a fire and, using a few drops of olive oil from empty bottles he’d found at the dump, managed to fry up quite a feast. He seasoned the dish with fresh rosemary he’d picked along the hill. The meal was quite delicious, he thought, if he might say so himself.

As he leaned back against a rock, he gave a satisfied burp. It’s amazing what you can do with other people’s garbage, he thought.

And then: You’re going to survive this, Giorgio, just like you’ve survived all the other catastrophes you’ve been through. You’re going survive and come back even stronger than before.

Cattoretti chuckled to himself. The Cat always lands on his feet.

He had told Elaine Brogan those very words only a week ago.

As he sat there gazing into the flickering fire of his little makeshift barbecue grill, he began to think about Elaine, and his thoughts quickly grew dark. At this very moment, the ungrateful, blonde bitch was probably eating dinner at some fancy restaurant in Milan, being congratulated by her bosses for successfully taking down the notorious Giorgio Cattoretti and his U.S. currency counterfeiting operation. Go, Elaine, go! Well done, Agent Brogan! She had probably been awarded a medal for it, or a promotion, or whatever the hell the U.S. Secret Service did when one of their people busted a big-time criminal.

The thought made him sick...he was sure most of his employees had been arrested, and that even his legitimate businesses had been shut down.

That bitch was going to pay.

What incensed him more than anything was how ungrateful she’d been. He had protected her from her own people, had not only taken her in, but had offered her a place by his side, as a partner in his operation. And how had she shown her gratitude?

By stabbing him in the back!

No...it was worse than that. By stabbing him in the eye and kicking him off a cliff!

The Cat always lands on his feet.

Giorgio Cattoretti vowed then and there that Elaine Brogan would pay dearly for what she’d done to him...but he decided not to worry himself with that now. He would plot his revenge later.

3

One day led to the next, and Giorgio’s injuries slowly began to heal.

He distracted himself from his pain by focusing on the practical matters of survival. As he combed the dump, he was amazed at the items people threw out that were still useful, or at least useful to him. Practically everything he needed but food was there in one form or another. Tableware, dishes, glasses, cups, half-used bars of soap, toothbrushes, shampoo, even small amounts of dishwashing liquid and laundry detergent left in the empty containers. One thing he longed for but could not find anywhere was a bit of coffee, even instant coffee, or a corked bottle with a little wine left in it. Neither were to be had.

His biggest find was another disposable lighter. This one was almost full of butane. The striking wheel mechanism was bent and did not contact the flint properly, so it had been discarded. Giorgio spent most of the afternoon transferring the striking wheel and flint from the near empty one to the almost full one. When he was finished, he had a nearly brand-new lighter that would allow him to easily build cooking fires for months.

Months, he thought grimly. No, I’m not going to stay in this godforsaken place for months.

But he had to stay here for the time being. It was too dangerous to move.

One week passed, and then another. Giorgio kept track of time by making notches on the fallen oak tree.

He soon found that he had settled into a daily routine. In the morning, he carefully collected rainwater or dew water from the jars, and then ate a breakfast of fruit and nuts. He gathered wood for the fire and put it out in the sun so it would get good and dry, and he also gathered enough fruit and nuts to snack on the rest of the day. About noon, he made his way down to the shore and bathed in the sea. He lay out on one of the rocks, nude except for the splint on his lower right leg, and relaxed for an hour or two. He’d found about a dozen paperback books at the dump, mostly Italian romance novels, and he read them cover to cover, some of them several times. Giorgio Cattoretti wasn’t much of romantic. To him, the stories were of a different and much more entertaining genre—comedy. He often laughed out loud at parts where the female hero was feeling some great rush of emotion about the Prince Charming for whom she endlessly pined. It didn’t matter—he loved to read, and the books kept him occupied and entertained, kept his mind working.

In the afternoon, he spearfished. He became so proficient at it that bringing home the night’s meal wasn’t even a challenge. He marveled at how stupid the little creatures were, returning day after day to the same spot where a dozen of their blood relatives had been ruthlessly skewered the day before.

He never encountered or even glimpsed another human being. There was a hiking trail that connected the five villages together, but it was much farther up the hill, far out of sight. The terrain was so rugged he wasn’t too worried about anyone straying down from the trail, as it was mostly used by tourists, and there weren’t that many around this time of year. He could sometimes faintly hear a shout or a loud laugh from up there, which was the only indication, besides the garbage dump and the occasional passing jet, that there were billions of other people alive and well on the planet, going about their business in exactly the same way they had been before he had been kicked off the cliff.

He found it hard to imagine that everyone else’s lives hadn’t changed dramatically, too.

One afternoon when Giorgio lugged his catch of the day back up the hill, he heard voices just before he reached his little lair.

He immediately ducked down in the brush, just under the oak tree.

What was that? a voice said in Italian. It sounded like a kid, a boy maybe 10 or 12 years old.

I didn’t hear anything, another voice said. He seemed a little younger, nine or ten.

Giorgio moved his head slightly, so he could see better through the leaves. There were only two of them.

"It looks like someone is living here, the younger one said. Look at all this stuff...a toothbrush, dishes, cups..."

There was laughter. He heard something shatter, then more laughter. Giorgio cringed—they were breaking up the dishes.

Hey, you better not do that, the other one said, He might come back and kick your ass.

No he won’t...will he?

Shut up and open the cigarettes.

Giorgio could hear the sound of ripping paper.

Hey, look, here’s a lighter! the younger one said. Giorgio heard him striking it a few times. He could vaguely see the two boys now, both with cigarettes dangling from their lips. They lit up, puffing and blowing out the smoke in an exaggerated, juvenile manner. Giorgio gritted his teeth as he saw the older boy pocket the lighter he had worked so hard to repair.

The younger one started coughing. This is strong.

"You’re just a cazzamoscio, the other boy said. That meant wimp or literally limp dick."

Now, one of the fish Giorgio had caught started flapping around on the ground. Giorgio pressed his hand down on it to keep it still.

I wonder who lives here? the young boy said.

Who knows, some dirty bum.

Hey, maybe he’s a criminal!

The other one laughed.

"A criminal who’s on the run from the law!"

You’re crazy, Mario, the other one said.

"There might be a reward! the younger one added. Maybe when we go back we should tell the police?"

The older boy didn’t reply.

Merde! Giorgio thought.

Now one of other fish started flapping around, and Giorgio pressed his elbow down on it.

What was that? Mario said.

What was what? the older one said.

Mario moved closer, peering under the oak tree, only a few feet from where Giorgio was hiding.

Moving very slowly, Giorgio pulled the potato peeler out of the end of the spear.

Mario moved even nearer, only a few feet away, almost within reach. Through the leaves, Giorgio could see the tender, pale skin of his young neck...

Giorgio’s mind raced ahead—he would plunge the blade into the side of Mario’s throat, deep enough so that the boy would choke and be unable to scream, and then he would grab the other one and strangle him, then finish off the first one. He would drag both bodies down to the water and weigh them down with rocks...

Another fish started flapping around.

Now Mario was looking almost straight at Giorgio’s left arm.

Come on, the older one muttered, taking a few steps away. We have to get back to the hotel.

But there’s something in the bushes here...

Just an animal, stupid. You might get bitten by a snake.

Mario reluctantly turned away and followed.

Giorgio loosened his sweaty grip on the potato peeler and rolled over on his back, breathing a great sigh of relief.

Giorgio felt uneasy for the next 24 hours. He went to the dump and after two hours of scrounging around finally found another cigarette lighter, cursing the little prick for taking his other one. He considered moving his lair to another location, but he kept telling himself they were just a couple of kids—tourists—and had probably forgotten about everything they’d seen and said five minutes after they’d walked away from here. Who would take them seriously, anyway? A couple of children with overactive imaginations.

Still, Giorgio did not sleep well that night.

Then things got worse—a hard Sirocco wind started coming from the south.

In the Cinque Terre, you didn’t need a weatherman to know the forecast—the direction of the wind told you everything. Each wind had a name. With a warm, dusty Sirocco blowing up from the Saraha Desert, Giorgio new it would change to a Libeccio tomorrow, from the southwest, and there would be a big mother of a storm.

He began preparing for it, covering everything up with plastic as best he could, including himself.

For Giorgio, the storm was 12 hours of pure, unadulterated suffering, and it raged all night. The rain and wind were devastating, the ferocious gale ripping the plastic away and leaving him exposed. He was soaked to the bones. At one point, he was curled into a fetal position in the mud, crying like a baby, wishing the howling wind would blow him down the hill and into the raging sea and end it all.

The only positive was that when it was finally over, and the skies were mercifully cleared by a Tramontana wind blowing from the mountains, he had accumulated enough rainwater to last for weeks. That was, if he could keep it from going bad.

4

Sometime near the end of the third week of living in the woods, a strange thing happened to Giorgio Cattoretti.

An awe-inspiring sense of tranquility and inner peace descended upon him, completely unexpected.

He had of course heard the phrase to be one with nature many times, but until now, it had only been a collection of words. Now he understood the meaning on a visceral level.

This unexpected shift in his consciousness took place when he was having his afternoon swim in the sea—his leg had healed to the point where he could actually do a kind of gentle breast stroke for about 30 minutes without tiring. When he finished, he stood waist-deep in the water, catching his breath, the strong Mediterranean sun beating down on his bronzed body. He dropped one hand into the water, and that was the moment he noticed the change. The water had seemed ice cold to him only three weeks ago, but now he could barely tell when he was in it. It felt lukewarm, and so soft, like the texture of velvet...and almost an extension of his body. When he was in the sea, it was hard to tell where he ended and the water began.

The same was true with the fresh air, which was always fragrant with the smell of Eucalyptus and various herbs, and felt wonderful on his bearded face. It was now October, and both the air and water were growing steadily colder, but to him both felt warmer every day. His skin couldn’t seem to soak up enough of water, wind or sun.

He slowly waded out of the sea, gazing up the hill at the incredible naturalistic view, at the trees, at the blue sky beyond, the wind blowing through his unkempt salt-and-pepper hair. It was a truly incredible feeling. His body seemed to resonate with the environment around him. Despite his injuries, he was in better shape than he’d ever been in his life—crawling up and down the steep, rocky hill day after day, lugging around firewood, spearing fish, swimming, and not drinking coffee or smoking or consuming a drop of liquor had done wonders. He glanced down at his arms, legs and now perfectly flat stomach. His body was becoming muscular and starting to look like that of a man half his age.

Giorgio had always been a philosophical man. He decided that maybe this whole catastrophe he had experienced was a good thing, that maybe it was all meant to be.

The next afternoon, as he slowly came out of the water, still in this heady state, he looked down at the splint on his leg. All at once, he knew it was time for it to come off. He didn’t know how he knew, he simply knew. He limped over to the rock where his clothes and crutch and other things were, picked up the steak knife, and cut through the line that held the two wooden slats. He gently shook them free.

He carefully put some weight on the leg, winced at the pain, but it wasn’t as bad as he’d expected. He reached for the crutch, but changed his mind. He made himself walk slowly down the short stretch of beach without its support.

He stopped and looked back at the sea, tears of gratitude coming to his eyes.

He felt a special affinity for it now.

For her now.

She had healed him with Her salty waters, Her caressing swells, the foamy kiss of Her waves.

He felt a love swell up in his heart like those idiots in the novels he was reading, a romantic love, a love for the sea. The feeling was much stronger and deeper than any he’d ever had for a woman, or even another human being.

As he stood there naked on the beach, blubbering like a baby, gazing out at his beloved, turquoise-colored Sea Mistress, he was aware that the trauma he had suffered, and his isolation from other people, was causing him to go a little bit crazy.

5

Two days later, when he was cutting a notch to mark off his 27th day of hermit-like existence in the woods, Giorgio Cattoretti made a decision.

Tomorrow, he would leave this place.

A full month had passed since he’d fallen from the cliff. A full lunar month, anyway. He knew a great deal about how the Italian police operated, and he felt enough time had passed for them to assume he had drowned. He was fairly certain that they were starting to forget about him.

If he could make it in and out of Vernazza, he would be well on his way to living a much more comfortable lifestyle.

He was well-prepared. For many years, he had been afraid he might have to go into hiding at some point, and he had planned for it.

The following morning, he was up at first light and began his preparations to leave. The first thing he had to do was to cut his unkempt hair and beard so that he didn’t look like a fugitive who’d been living in the woods for a month.

From the dump, he scrounged up an almost-empty can of shaving cream and some used disposable razors.

He also had found a large shard of a broken mirror. He had actually found it the second day he was here, and it had been tucked away under the fallen tree ever since.

Not once in the past 28 days had he allowed himself to glimpse at his own reflection. Down at the beach, at the spot where he spearfished, there were flat rocks with depressions that formed perfect little pools where he could have easily bent down and looked at his face, but he hadn’t dared.

Giorgio Cattoretti was vain about his appearance. He did not like that aspect of his character, but he accepted it. He couldn’t imagine what he might look like with a missing eye.

When the sun started to rise and peep over the horizon and the first rays illuminated his little lair, he squatted and retrieved the mirror shard from under the tree.

He set it on top of the fallen tree trunk, positioning it with its reverse side towards the sea, with the sun’s rays directly hitting his face.

He took a long, deep breath, bracing himself, and gazed at the silver shard, which was reflecting the bushes behind him. He slowly leaned forward...first his beard came into view, then his lips, his nose...he swallowed...then his eyes and forehead.

"Cristo santo," he gasped, and he immediately glanced away, feeling sick. He looked hideous, like a monster! Like Cyclops!

In that one horrific second he had seen himself, he actually glimpsed the back of the empty eye socket, the sun rays illuminating it a pale pink.

His first thought was: what woman would ever want me now?

With tears running down his face, he forced himself to dip his hand in one of his freshwater jars, wet his face in the water, and commence the act of trimming his beard.

Two hours later, he had regained his composure, and told himself he had behaved foolishly. Women didn’t care so much about men’s looks, not like they did in those silly romance novels he’d been reading. That had not helped. His experience told him that members of the fairer sex were drawn to confidence and power, and he had never felt more of either in his life.

When he had reestablished himself back in civilization, he would have a prosthetic eye implant. He had known a barber in Milan who’d had one, and it hadn’t looked so bad.

Giorgio spent most of the morning moving all the items he had accumulated back to the dump, which required several trips. He wasn’t about to leave any evidence behind that might make it appear that someone had been living out here in the woods for a long period of time. If somehow the local police were to find out about it—a long shot, admittedly—they might gather enough forensic evidence to conclude that it had been him, and he wanted the whole world to think he was dead. He wasn’t about to take any chances at this point, not even the smallest one.

It took him an hour just to bury all the fish bones—it seemed like there were thousands of them.

When he was finished tidying up, his little hiding place under the fallen oak tree looked exactly as it had the day he had stumbled upon it, with the exception of a circular blackened spot where he had made his campfires. Plenty of dry leaves had accumulated on the ground now, and after stirring up the dirt and scattering them around, there was no visual evidence whatsoever that any human being had ever set foot in this spot, let alone lived here.

Giorgio picked up the things he would take with him, slinging a ratty backpack he’d found over his shoulder.

Taking one last look at his little refuge, he was surprised how much remorse he felt at the thought of leaving—it had become almost like home.

He turned away and began to climb up the hill towards the hiking trail.

6

When Giorgio reached the trail, he hung back in the bushes, checking the path in both directions—he didn’t want anyone to see him enter from the woods.

Clutched in his right hand was his cane, which was actually the fishing spear he’d made from the broom handle. There was a rusty old bicycle in the dump, and with a lot of effort he had managed to pull off one of the rubber handle bar pads, and he had placed it over the business end of the spear. It fit snugly, completely covering the jutting potato-peeler blade with which he had impaled so many unsuspecting fish.

If he encountered anyone who identified him, he was prepared to kill. He would under no circumstances allow himself to be taken alive.

The trail was vacant at the moment. To the north, it sloped down and around a curve to the left, and to the south, wound up a rather steep hill. He was sure he knew where he was now, in between the villages of Corniglia and Manarola, like he had first thought. Vernazza was on the other side of Corniglia, to the north, and it would take him most of the day to reach it on foot.

He came out of the bushes and climbed onto the path, leaning on the spear for support. He donned a pair of cheap sunglasses with a cracked right lens that he’d found at the dump. He wished the left lens had been cracked instead, as it would have better hidden his hideous empty eye socket, but the lenses were so dark he didn’t think anyone would notice anyway. He was wearing the same trousers that he’d fallen over the cliff in, a pair of Armanis with several rips in the legs. The rest of his clothes were the same ones he’d found at the dump the first day—the old, stretched out hoodie, the parka with the stuffing spilling out of it, and the ratty pair of sneakers.

He pulled the hoodie over his head to further conceal his eyes and face.

Cattoretti looked like a wandering bum, or perhaps some old man who lived in the area who was a wee bit senile.

He turned north, limping along on his cane, and began to slowly make his way towards Vernazza.

The trip was uneventful. In fact, it would have been rather pleasant if he hadn’t been so afraid of being caught.

He passed tourists now and then, other Italians, mostly, but also people from France, Holland, Germany and even a few Americans. Some had children with them, but most were couples. He also encountered quite a few helmeted mountain bikers who tore passed him on the trail, wheels crunching through the rocks, the cycles rattling. He thought they were crazy, as there were sheer cliffs all along the sides of the path, with no guardrails, cliffs that dropped off straight down to the rocky shoreline, much like the one he had been kicked over by Elaine Brogan.

In less than an hour, Giorgio reached Corniglia. The trail led right into the middle of the little village. He picked up his pace as he crossed the main winding road that led down to the sea, afraid he might encounter a local cop. As soon as he was safely on the other side of the village, he veered to the left and took a dirt road that wound through a half a mile of grape vineyards. He finally reconnected to the trail again.

So far, so good, he thought, as he limped along, sweat running down his back. Nobody had paid him any notice. His leg was not bothering him as much as he was afraid it would either, smarting only a little when he put his full weight on it.

Within another two short hours he would reach Vernazza. He planned to arrive there just as the sun dipped behind the hills so that he would be protected by darkness.

Giorgio timed everything perfectly.

Just as he crested the final big hill ahead of Vernazza and the colorful cluster of pastel-colored houses came into view, the sun sank beyond the top of the surrounding hills. It was suddenly so dim that it was a little hard to see the hiking trail through the sunglasses, and he slowed down a little. He chuckled to himself, thinking how ironic it would be if he accidentally stepped off another cliff after all he’d been through.

Quite a few locals knew him in Vernazza, and therefore he would have to be extremely careful. But he also knew the layout of the town well, had been all over it on foot and was familiar with every little alleyway and footpath around it.

Just before he reached the first outlying buildings, there was a path that led up a long hill, around a curve, directly to the rear side of his own property, where his villa was located. He would take that route in, and once he had retrieved what he was after, he would hide out somewhere in the woods until morning. At first light, he planned to make his way on foot to Vernazzola, a sister village a few miles inland, and there he would board the first train to Geneva and then get the hell out of Italy.

Just as he was hobbling along and going over the plan in his mind, he noticed a mountain biker coming towards him from the direction of Vernazza. He immediately put his head down. When the rider was just about to pass by, Cattoretti raised his head again to steal another glance.

He quickly looked back down, his heart in his throat.

It was a cop, a local gendarme.

He had instantly recognized the dark blue uniform with the red stripe running up the trousers.

Cattoretti continued looking down at the trail as the bicycle rattled passed.

He was just about to breathe a sigh of relief when he heard the bike skid to a stop behind him.

He fought the urge to walk faster.

Now he could hear the bike coming back in his direction. "Merde," he muttered under his breath.

Signore? the cop said, stopping alongside him.

Giorgio kept his head down and kept hobbling down the path. I’m just a crazy, harmless old man, he told himself.

Signore? the cop said again, louder.

Now Giorgio had gotten a few feet away.

The policeman rolled ahead of him on the bike, and turned sharply, partially cutting him off. Signore, I’m talking to you, he said in Italian.

Giorgio glanced over and pretended to notice him for the first time.

Eh? Giorgio said, placing his hand to his ear.

The officer looked no more than 22 or 23 years old, no more than a kid, but he was well built, with broad shoulders and muscular arms. He was wearing a dark blue windbreaker over a polo shirt. His belt sported a walkie-talkie on one side and a holstered gun on the other. A pair of latex gloves was tucked in the middle.

Do you live around here? he asked.

Eh? Giorgio said, turning more towards the cop and cupping his hand over his ear.

"I said do you live around here?"

Manarola, Cattoretti replied, and he started hobbling along again.

Hey, I’m not finished talking to you.

Giorgio sighed and came to a stop. Looking annoyed he said in Italian, What do you want from me, boy? I am just an old man taking a walk. Do you not have anything better to do? He hobbled around the bicycle and continued on.

The young cop pulled around him again, this time completely blocking the path. Halt!

Giorgio sighed, stopping to lean on the cane.

"Show me your identification, per favore."

Eh?

Show me some identification! the cop said in a raised voice.

My papers are at home, Giorgio said, motioning behind him. You think I carry documents around with me when I go for a walk?

Why are you wearing those dark glasses? It is dangerous—you might slip off the trail.

Giorgio didn’t know how to respond.

He slowly dismounted the bicycle, flipping down the kickstand with his shoe. "Remove your sunglasses, per favore."

Giorgio glanced up and down the trail. It was deserted, not a soul in sight. The only sound was the steady rush of the surf far below. Just beyond where the cop stood was a sheer drop off, at least 200 feet straight down to a rocky shoreline.

Giorgio slowly took off the sunglasses and slipped them into his hoodie’s front pocket.

Now the cop was squinting at him a little suspiciously, he thought—in the dusk light, under the hood, Giorgio knew his eyes were hard to see.

Pull back the hood, the cop ordered.

Looking at the ground, Giorgio slowly slid it back, then suddenly raised his head and peered straight at the cop.

The young man recoiled at the sight of the empty eye socket.

Cattoretti lurched forward, slamming both hands into the cop’s chest. The young man knocked the bicycle over and landed on his back, right on the edge of the cliff. Before he could get to his feet, Cattoretti grabbed both his ankles and yanked them upwards, flipping him over the cliff edge.

Giorgio watched as the cop plummeted towards the rocks, turning head over heels, screaming and helplessly clawing at the air. The drop was so long that when the policeman hit the rocks, there was a second of delay until the sound of the sickening thud reached Cattoretti’s ears.

Giorgio stepped back onto the trail, desperately looking up and down