Page 50 of Three Times You

“You’re not going anywhere.” Lorenzo grabs her arm again to keep her from leaving.

Babi whips around at blinding speed and slashes his hand with a diagonal cut from her handbag, drawing blood. “Don’t you so much as dare to touch me ever again, don’t dream of it. I took a screenshot and copied the chat, and I’ve already sent it all to my lawyer. I hope that we can conduct this divorce in a civil and polite fashion. Let’s maintain decent relations for our son’s sake. But don’t you ever dare to interfere in my life again or try to boss me around, or I’ll ruin you. I assure you that I know all I need to do it.” Then she smiles at him. “If you’re angry, don’t bolt your food and don’t drink too much. Massimo would be sad if anything happened to you. Have a nice evening.”

Lorenzo stands there staring at her, while she grabs her jacket and leaves without looking back. Babi waits for the elevator, hoping and praying not to hear that door open behind her, with Lorenzo thinking of something else to say. The seconds pass, and she starts to feel better, lighter, happy with what she’s said and especially what she’s decided. How could she ever have dreamed of marrying a man like him? She shakes her head, and as she steps into the elevator, she starts laughing, giddy with relief.

Chapter 41

When I arrive at the film studios on Via Tiburtina, there are plenty of cars already lined up. I roar past them all and pull up to the passageway reserved for motorcycles. I’m the only one using this entrance.

An attendant approaches me, carrying a guest list. “Good evening.”

“Good evening, Stefano Mancini.”

He scans the first page but sees nothing because it clearly ends before the letterM. He turns the page and finds me there. He jots down a quick check mark next to my name and flips the first page back over. “Yes, of course, here’s your name, sir. So just head all the way down and then take your first right. You’ll find Sound Stage 7, and that’s where the party is being held.”

“Thanks.”

I shift into first and putter along slowly past the sound stages. A number of beautifully dressed guests must have parked outside the studio, and they’re walking in the same direction. Others are waiting in their cars, in a line of traffic. Every so often a young woman impatiently gets out of a car and, without so much as a goodbye, heads off toward the sound stage.

I pull up at Sound Stage 7, park, and lock my motorcycle. I put my helmet into the luggage box, next to the spare helmet, and I start walking too. There are a number of elegantly attired bouncers at the door to the theater. Ten of them are holding guest lists. They clearly don’t want the guests being held up at the door.

“I’m Stefano Mancini.” They find my name immediately.

“Excuse me, you need to put this on.” A young woman fastens a bracelet around my wrist and then smiles. “With that on, you can get in everywhere.”

I thank her and turn down a hallway. I hear the music pumping loudly. When I stride through the big hangar door, I see there’s an ocean of people with sweeping spotlights blazing over the guests, coloring them green, blue, and yellow.

There are young men dressed up as ancient Romans and wearing masks, dancing in high cube platforms scattered throughout the space. They’re bare-chested and their muscles, completely smeared with oil, stand out sharply in the glare of the lights, creating quite a scene. Behind ranks and ranks of counters along the side of the room, there are scantily clad pseudo–vestal virgins serving an endless succession of drinks and cocktails. There are even more of them clustered in a central bar in the center point of the party.

The guests, thirsty and eager, clamor for libations. There are waiters strolling the room, collecting empty glasses. I don’t see anything to eat. The caterers have clearly invested heavily in the drinks menu with the general philosophy that many of the guests will be dieting but everyone is happy to drink.

The party snakes through the entirety of Sound Stage 7 and then continues in the adjoining sound stage. Backdrops and props have been used to establish a unique location for the event. I recognize a house from the sixties, the interior of a submarine, the façade of a palazzo, and a room that must have been home to a maniac in the tradition of Hannibal Lecter or perhaps the movieHostel, given that the set is crowded with all sorts of instruments of torture but also plenty of leather masks.

“Ciao, Stefano!”

“Ciao.” I smile at a young woman hurrying past with two others. I cross paths with a few noted journalists, a few other faces familiar only to business insiders, and I greet them all, but stop to chat with none of them. I continue my wandering, carried along in this little convoy of guests, more or less unknown to me. Here and there in the tossing waves of ordinary civilians, the face surfaces of some formerly famous VIP in bursts of “where-are-they-now?” nostalgia.

Then Sound Stage 7 narrows into a short tunnel, and we are spewed out into Sound Stage 8. The lights are different here, and so is the music. There’s a DJ with headphones that she holds up to her left ear. With her right hand, she works the console. She’s half-dressed in military attire, and beneath the fatigues, she wears a white blouse and black lingerie, perhaps trying to be the female version of a strange mix of Bob Sinclar and David Guetta. She’s surely being paid a small percentage of what either of them would get, but the music isn’t bad at all. Everyone’s dancing and moving to the beat.

At the center of this sound stage, there’s an elevated space, like an oversized boxing ring, standing about five feet above the floor. A small stairway leads up to it, and at the top, a bouncer checks IDs and ushers guests in or turns them away. Behind him is an array of black sofas, coffee tables, and ottomans, all teeming with an array of people designated VIPs for the evening for unimaginable reasons.

As I walk past, I see, seated on a sofa—between a handsome young man with long hair and the young managing director of the Network, Aldo Locchi—none other than up-and-coming actress Dania Valenti.

She sees me, excuses herself, and hurries to the edge of the elevated ring. “Hey, ciao! How nice to see you here! Is Renzi here too?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“My cell phone battery is dead. If you talk to him, could you tell him I’m here? I don’t even know how I’m getting home tonight. Did you know that Calemi might drop by later? He had a dinner, but he said he’d catch up with me. Do you want to stay up here with us for a while in the private seating?”

“No, thanks, I’m just looking around…”

“Okay, whatever you say. I’m staying here.”

And she turns to go, wearing black leather short shorts, a denim jacket, a shimmering silver blouse, and a pair of low evening pumps. “Maybe I’ll head down for a few dances…”Who even knows whatever else she would do, it seems gratuitously obvious, and then, before I have a chance to turn around, I run intoher.

“Ah, it really is you. I saw you from a distance, but I couldn’t be certain. Ciao.”

Babi smiles at me, more beautiful than ever, with her blue eyes, her elegant black dress, and her hair pulled back. Her beauty seems almost out of place compared to what I’ve seen so far in here. Her delicacy, her shoulders, her shapely arms, the tiny dots of white gold that she wears.

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