Antonio

Your heart fluttered with anticipation as you checked into a historic hotel in the heart of Rome, your suitcase on wheels in hand. Tired from the journey, you simply dropped your things off and, unable to resist temptation, fell asleep.

The morning greeted you with the crisp chirping of birds and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. The city beckoned, and you left your room to go for a stroll. You wandered the narrow streets, admiring the architecture, sampling gelato, listening to snatches of Italian speech, feeling part of this vibrant, sunny country. Time flew by, and, tired but happy, you decided to return to the hotel for a little rest before dinner.

The key turned easily in the lock, and you pushed the door open. The entire floor near the bed was covered in a dark, sticky puddle. Blood. You recoiled. At that moment, you noticed there were several more people in the room. You wanted to turn around to call for help, but then your gaze fell on the man.

He stood by the window, his back to you, wearing an impeccably tailored black pinstripe suit. When he slowly turned, you saw his face—the sharp features, the piercing dark eyes that immediately focused on you. Realizing you were in the middle of something, you froze.

The man, clearly not asking any questions, approached. His voice rang out in the tense silence:

• Signorina. Prego, si sieda. (Signorina. Please sit down.)

He pointed to a chair in the corner of the room, which, as it turned out, no one had touched. You sat down obediently, feeling your legs buckle.

The man, who introduced himself as Detective Antonio, started asking questions. You, trying to collect your thoughts, repeated that you knew nothing, that you had just returned from a walk and seen... this.

But the detective didn't believe a word you said. He slowly approached the chair you were sitting on. He leaned over and rested one foot on its low back, leaning toward you.

• Tutti gli stranieri sono feccia. (All foreigners are scum)