Marco Di Caprio

 

I

Mario was adjusting the strap of his bag when the telephone rang in the corridor.

It was a metallic, piercing sound that echoed along the wooden hallway. The building’s only line hung on the wall beside a narrow window overlooking the courtyard.

Jerry turned immediately.

“I’ll get it,” he said.

Patrick nodded without lifting his eyes.

Jerry stepped into the corridor. The ringing stopped. A pause. Then his voice, low.

“Yes.”

Silence.

Mario and Patrick remained in the main room. Alicia leaned against the table, arms crossed, listening with amused curiosity.

From the corridor came the faint voice of a woman, too soft to make out the words, but unmistakably feminine. Controlled. Calm. Slightly subdued.

Alicia smiled.

“Well,” she murmured, glancing at Mario, “our Stoic supervisor has admirers.”

Mario frowned slightly.

“Or complications,” she added, almost playfully.

Jerry’s replies were brief. Measured.

“No… I want more… Yes… I’ll think about it.”

A longer pause than the others. Then the click of the receiver being set back into place.

Jerry remained in the corridor for a second before returning.

Patrick watched him carefully. His face was still, but his right hand trembled.

“Mario,” Patrick said quietly, “wait here a moment.”

Jerry did not protest when Patrick gestured for him to step back into the corridor. They left together.

Mario remained near the doorway, pretending to examine a stack of excavation sketches. Alicia watched with silent curiosity.

Patrick did not speak immediately. He led Jerry farther down the corridor, past the window, toward a small storage room at the end. It was a narrow space used for brooms, detergents, and broken crates. He opened the door and stepped inside. Jerry followed.

The door closed softly. Inside, the air smelled of dust and old wood.

Patrick’s voice, low but firm:

“I don’t want you seeing that woman again.”

Silence.

“She’s married,” Patrick continued, his tone steady but clearly paternal. “And not to just anyone. Her husband is a colonel in the United States Army.”

Jerry did not interrupt.

“You’re not dealing with a simple affair,” Patrick went on. “You’re dealing with influence. Power. Pressure.”

A pause.

“You need to end this situation. It’s not for you. It destabilizes you.”

Jerry’s reply was calm.

“Professor Ford, everything is under control.”

Patrick exhaled quietly.

Silence settled between them, not hostile, but heavy.

“You underestimate how quickly certain situations can become dangerous,” Patrick added.

Jerry’s voice remained composed.

“I know what I’m doing.”

Patrick studied him for a long moment.

“I hope so.”

The door opened again. They stepped back into the corridor. Patrick’s expression had changed slightly, but Mario noticed it immediately.

Not anger. Not panic.

Concern.

“Mario,” Patrick called, this time louder. “We’re ready to go.”

Mario stepped into the corridor. Jerry had already returned to the main room, calmly arranging a few papers as if the interruption had been insignificant.

Alicia’s eyes followed them, faintly amused.

When Patrick and Mario headed toward the exit, the heat of the afternoon rushed in through the open door.

Mario wanted to ask. Who was she? What did she want? But he hesitated.

Patrick walked beside him in silence. The professor said nothing more. But his jaw was slightly tighter than before.

II

Jerry closed the door of his room without making a sound.

The corridor of the archaeological center still vibrated with distant voices, but inside the room the sound softened. Afternoon light filtered through the shutters, cutting the floor into slanted bands.

He dropped onto the couch. The wood creaked beneath his weight. He remained motionless, his hands resting on his knees. Then slowly he leaned back and closed his eyes.

The fan turned. One rotation. Another.

The sound became a steady hum. And the images began.

A hotel room. Heavy curtains. Air conditioning set too cold. The colonel’s wife sitting on the edge of the bed, amber skin, dark slanted eyes fixed on him with devotion.

“I know what the Mystery is, but I don’t know where it is. The government wants to know where,” she had said.

The sentence returned to him like a metallic echo.

A half-full glass on the nightstand. Ice melting. His fingers brushing her wrist. Not tenderness. Study.

“The American authorities are desperately looking for it, and not for prestige,” she had continued. “They’re monitoring you. All of you.”

Monitoring.

He had smiled then. Ironic. Protective. Always protective.
Now, lying on the couch, that smile felt like a mask left on a table after a party.

Images overlapping.

The colonel in uniform, never actually seen, but imagined: square jaw, stars on his shoulders, silent authority.

Jerry opened his eyes for a moment. The ceiling swayed slightly.

He had spent entire nights thinking about it.

Walking.

Doing push-ups until exhaustion.

Running along the coast as if he could outrun the thought.

He loved archaeological research. The precision. The slow excavation. The moment when an object emerges from the earth and time bends.

But love had never been the center of his soul.

What drove him was something else. Success? Money?

Perhaps.

His controlled laughter. His measured affection. His irony deflected any real involvement.

All of it protection.

His obsessive training and disciplined body were not strength. It was an attempt to fill a void that had no name.

The image of the woman returned. Her perfume. Her voice, lower now, almost a whisper:

“You could be the one to find it first.”

Not love. Temptation.

Another image: Patrick speaking about ethics. Mario staring at the Mystery as if it were a spiritual revelation. Alicia teasing him with a smile.

They were searching for meaning. He saw an opportunity.

The Mystery. The American authorities. Surveillance. Prestige.

If he spoke first. If he anticipated everyone.

The fan kept spinning. The sound began to feel like a countdown.

Risk.

The word became clearer than the others.

Not love.

Not loyalty.

Not academic ethics.

Risk.

“What if I revealed it to the press, my dear?”

The image suddenly became sharp: a closed briefcase.

A company opened in a tax haven. A signature. A bank transfer. A number.

He opened his eyes.

It was not a dream.

One million.

The number burned in his mind like a white light.

One million dollars.

Enough to disappear. Enough to finally be the first.

Not the assistant. Not the observer. Not the disciplined second. The first.

His breathing slowed.

What if he took the risk? It didn’t matter. He wanted to.

One million.

And then gone.

But now he was regretting it. He had acted on impulse.

Damn it. Why had he given in to his lowest instincts?

The phone on the small table vibrated.

Just once.

“Who is it?”