Vincenzo Moreno

Vial di Moreno stretched ahead. As always, monstrous looking. Not even the enchanting hands of spring could transform it.

I glanced across the windshield, taking in the long array of olive trees to the patchy shadow cast in the floor by the leaves, to the far end of the boulevard—showcasing a glimpse of the pack house. That haunting yellow building.

The day was bright. It could turn hellishly dark in some minutes.

Pressing on the gas pedal, I crept in. The only thing I consciously did, apart from driving, was to hold my breath. Whatever happened in the next three minutes or so, I'd remain strong. Not exactly...