In the Chevrolet Suburban, Xia Lei handed Ning Jing’s last painting to Alessio. “Take a look. What is this place?” 

Alessio looked closely at it, and was silent for a while before saying, “Boss, is this place real?” 

“I don’t know either. That’s why I’m asking you,” said Xia Lei. 

Alessio looked at the painting again. “I can’t tell what place this is, but it looks like a small town in Italy. There are many small towns like this, where the architecture of the Middle Ages have been preserved. This painting looks like it’s of the Middle Ages period though. The people in the painting are all wearing clothing from that time period.” 

He had obviously not spotted the fairly special existence in the painting — the young Asian man in jeans and sports shoes. 

“You’re a Sicilian. Is it also like this in Sicily?” Xia Lei did not draw Alessio’s attention to that part of the painting. 

Alessio smiled wryly. “There are lots of nice places in Italy, but Sicily is an outlier....