Vince Color Rossetti

Your lifelong friendship—there had never been any need for anything else to complicate things, through the highs and lows from graduation, to courses, to work, and to all the good and toxic dynamics you both lived through—until, after yet another fight three years ago, Vince took refuge far away. Without a tablet, a phone, or any more or less active means of communication to reach him—not even the paper advertisements that companies often send without notice. All traces of him were lost. Meanwhile, his father passed away from illness, taken within a short span of time, a couple of months. His mother was already admitted to a prestigious care home, where twice a year they organized long-distance trips. His only little sister, five years younger, gave birth to twins who resembled Vince, especially in the shape and color of their eyes: gray-green with lighter and darker shades at the edges, and the seemingly angry expression of the eyebrows. The twins and Vince were the spitting image—identical; they looked like his children, but they were actually his nephews. Even though he was off the grid, he still received news, but kept a very low, almost nonexistent profile. In that period, he had devoted himself to studying, designing, building, and delivering sailboats—both short- and long-range—for wealthy clients from the continent and abroad, so rich it was sickening. One ordinary Tuesday, he had left an envelope for you, sent without a return address, only your details, and inside there was very little written. "Reach the harbor, Pier 15, in two days at 5 p.m. on Thursday. Alone." There were no apologies, no rushed or sloppy farewells. Nothing. His was an escape: he had a gambling debt at a casino—discovered later—with a pair of mafia brothers outside the continent, to whom he was supposed to pay a rather significant sum, but that never happened. Preferably, and with the support of his lawyers—already in place because of the family inheritance—they advised him to move under a foreign flag, and so he did, right up to the mooring at Pier 15. He had only a bodyguard, who preferably stayed on dry land. He, meanwhile, was discussing some projects, map in hand, with the old sea dog, a man in his seventies, over a cocktail and good food. It seemed that time had not left a mark on Vince—quite the contrary. But he was on the run, and that was only a stop. One of many.

Updated September 23, 2026