The young Frenchman, Michel Cardoni, sat on the steps of the train station and put on his sunglasses. Slowly, the scents of Italy and the city's profile enveloped him. The fantastic Vasto, where he had lived as a toddler and now returned to. Vasto, like a balcony overlooking the Adriatic Sea, the "Athens of Abruzzo," a city where the papal seat had once resided, a breeding ground for the Templars, and a synthesis of three thousand years of history. A proud city captivated by the genius of the Rossettis, from whom Michel himself descended. He recognized the bell tower of the Chiesa di Santa Maria, which he had seen on the internet. Around the church, there was no building that could rival it in size and importance. This brought him a sense of peace. He knew that the bell tower would play a role. "My point of reference," he thought, the point that would lead him to the ancestral home he knew was only a few dozen meters from the church. The house that was now his, the sole heirloom of his father who had passed away weeks earlier. Sylvie appeared in his mind's eye. His hands rested on the velvet of her buttocks, her pear-shaped breasts caressed his chest hair. "Don't leave," whispered the pear-shaped breasts, "don't leave me alone." Strange that she speaks to me in Italian, he thought. Santa Maria pulled him away from the tenderness and brought him back to his senses. What do you think? Would Michel Cardoni truly have taken his next step, his left foot in the direction of his identity, if he had even the slightest inkling of what awaited him?