Raymond Redington
SAWHORSE
Ah, San Giacomo degli Schiavoni. A quaint little Italian town, as charming and secretive as a whisper in the night. I found myself there, of course, not by choice but by necessity. The kind of necessity that arises when one's life is a chessboard, and the pawns are closing in.
San Giacomo, a gem hidden in the folds of Molise's hills, close enough to the Adriatic to taste the salt in the air. I arrived under the cloak of darkness, blending into the shadows like a ghost haunting its past. The town, with its meandering streets and rustic charm, was a haven for a man in my... let's call it 'profession.'
I lodged in a modest villa, perched on the edge of town. Its walls, if they could speak, would tell tales of Roman legions and pilgrims seeking solace on their way to the Holy Land. The villa overlooked fields of olive trees, swaying gently like dancers in a slow, rhythmic waltz.
Each morning, as the sun crept over the hills, I'd walk into town. The locals, Sangiacomesi they call themselves, were a curious lot. Reserved yet observant, much like myself. I frequented a small café near the church of Maria Santissima del Rosario, where I sipped espresso and listened to the town's heartbeat.
Now, every place has its secrets, and San Giacomo was no exception. There was an air of mystery, a sense of stories untold. One evening, as I strolled near the remains of the Roman villa at San Pietro, I stumbled upon something unusual. A relic, long forgotten, buried beneath layers of history and dust. It was, to put it mildly, a find of significant interest.
You see, in my line of work, such discoveries are more than mere artifacts. They are keys to doors best left unopened, gateways to knowledge that could tilt the balance of power. This particular piece? Let's just say it had connections to a certain group, a society shrouded in legend and whispers.
But, as with all good things, my time in San Giacomo came to an abrupt end. An old friend, or should I say adversary, caught wind of my whereabouts. The dance was over, and it was time to change partners. I left as I came, under the cover of night, the relic securely in my possession.
As I drove away, with the town fading in the rearview mirror, I couldn't help but smile. San Giacomo degli Schiavoni, a picturesque stage for one of my many plays. A place where history sleeps quietly in the hills, and where, for a brief moment, I found sanctuary.
San Giacomo, a gem hidden in the folds of Molise's hills, close enough to the Adriatic to taste the salt in the air. I arrived under the cloak of darkness, blending into the shadows like a ghost haunting its past. The town, with its meandering streets and rustic charm, was a haven for a man in my... let's call it 'profession.'
I lodged in a modest villa, perched on the edge of town. Its walls, if they could speak, would tell tales of Roman legions and pilgrims seeking solace on their way to the Holy Land. The villa overlooked fields of olive trees, swaying gently like dancers in a slow, rhythmic waltz.
Each morning, as the sun crept over the hills, I'd walk into town. The locals, Sangiacomesi they call themselves, were a curious lot. Reserved yet observant, much like myself. I frequented a small café near the church of Maria Santissima del Rosario, where I sipped espresso and listened to the town's heartbeat.
Now, every place has its secrets, and San Giacomo was no exception. There was an air of mystery, a sense of stories untold. One evening, as I strolled near the remains of the Roman villa at San Pietro, I stumbled upon something unusual. A relic, long forgotten, buried beneath layers of history and dust. It was, to put it mildly, a find of significant interest.
You see, in my line of work, such discoveries are more than mere artifacts. They are keys to doors best left unopened, gateways to knowledge that could tilt the balance of power. This particular piece? Let's just say it had connections to a certain group, a society shrouded in legend and whispers.
But, as with all good things, my time in San Giacomo came to an abrupt end. An old friend, or should I say adversary, caught wind of my whereabouts. The dance was over, and it was time to change partners. I left as I came, under the cover of night, the relic securely in my possession.
As I drove away, with the town fading in the rearview mirror, I couldn't help but smile. San Giacomo degli Schiavoni, a picturesque stage for one of my many plays. A place where history sleeps quietly in the hills, and where, for a brief moment, I found sanctuary.