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was the last one to figure things out. Martucci, at times inexpressive, seemed at war with himself to conceal his concern, as if at all costs he wanted to keep me from knowing how he felt.
    “There’s one more little thing, signore , but, before I tell you, I need you to promise me that it will stay between us.”
    By that time I would have sworn to anything.
    “I promise.”
    “As I already said, you are the son of Claudio, and you are also the son of your mother, Donna Carlota. However, she thinks you are neither her son nor Claudio’s son.”
    It was too much. I took a few steps back to be able to size him up fully. He was, without a doubt, insane.

6
    Non-Catholic Cemetery, Rome
    November 12, 1999
     
    “I know that what I’m saying sounds absurd, signore Dante, but there is an explanation. Claudio wanted to have a son, and he got your mother, Donna Carlota, pregnant while she was married to Bruno. Nine months later, she gave birth, but the newborn was presented to her dead. Sometime later, when you were two years old, your father, Claudio, brought you to your mother, Carlota, acting as if you were just an abandoned child he’d picked up off the streets. ‘To replace the child you lost,’ he explained, and Bruno accepted the boy willingly. He was always a good-hearted man. Sua mamma , however, was more reluctant, thinking you were the product of an affair Claudio might have had. Over time he convinced your mother that you were the son of a distant cousin who lived in Switzerland, a girl too young to care for you,” Martucci finished explaining, overlooking my stupor.
    “What you’re telling me is unbelievable. Why all the mystery? It just doesn’t make any sense…”
    Martucci interrupted, “No one could know that you were the son of Claudio Contini-Massera. Especially not your mother. Your life would have been in too much danger.” He paused for a breath and then continued, “Remember the note you just read? I was there when he wrote it. It talks about some signs you should recognize. Ah, there is so much to tell you! And everything goes back to what we found in Armenia.”
    “Ok, then, please, start at the beginning and lay it all out for me slowly,” I pleaded, digging deep for patience.
    “Yes, that’s what we’ll do. I made the mistake of mentioning the inscription I’d found to my friend Claudio. He has always been an incredibly persuasive man, and, to be honest, it didn’t take much to convince me to do it. I’m talking about what happened in Armenia. One night we went to the catacombs of the old monastery. According to our calculations we were about fifty feet underground, maybe more; it’s hard to tell since the way down winds all around, up and down, back and forth. Against my better judgment, Claudio broke the flagstone with the inscription. In the niche behind it lay a small chest seemingly embedded in the rock. I did not dare touch it. I feared that doing so would call divine wrath down upon my head. But Claudio didn’t even flinch. He yanked it out. Something strange happened. Within seconds of having it in his hands, he dropped it as if the fire of hell itself were burning him. There was also a tube with documents inside.”
    The monk mechanically smoothed down his sparse hair, and I noticed the tremor in his hands. His enlarged, owl-like pupils seemed to grow even wider. Then he lapsed into a fit of coughing.
    “I didn’t take enough atropine,” he explained. “I’ve had asthma ever since...” His words trailed off, and he remained silent as his eyes, suddenly weary, stared blankly at the nearby tombstones.
    “Everything you’ve said is all very interesting, but I don’t see where I come into play,” I prompted.
    “Your Uncle Claudio wanted you to keep the documents and the chest. He said you were the right one for them. Believe me, their contents are powerful, even...monstrous. I fear they were part of what led to his death. He was a stubborn man. He refused to return