From the author: Zanetti was being pursued by a thing out of nightmare, and only a Benandanti could help him; but there are Benandanti and then there are Benandanti...
“Something to drink, Mr. Zanetti? Coffee, perhaps?”
Zanetti gave a convulsive shake of his head. His host studied him. Enrico Zanetti had been honed by a daily exercise regimen and the latest dieting fad into a slim needle of a man. His clothes were expensive, and obviously so. Tastelessly so, his host might have said – though perhaps not to his guest’s face.
“I didn’t come here for coffee, Sforza,” Zanetti said. He looked around the room, taking in the old-fashioned furnishings, the silk...