Much later that night, Alecto is sprawled in a wooden chair at the large dining table, the fireplace ablaze behind him, casting an orange halo around his entire body. Before him was a surprisingly humble meal: a loaf of salted zucchini focaccia, a pot of ribollita, and bottarga with antipasti on the side.

He's speaking to one of the servants, transferring the cigarette he was enjoying to his left hand and gesturing gracefully with his right, as if emphasizing some important point in his tale. "...tasteless, that's what it was, Tommaso. I give her credit for a little more savoir faire than that, if you don't mind me saying so..."

He looks up the moment his young painter round the corner.