There is light filtering in through the closed curtains. I wake up. Slowly, lazily, I open my eyes. The light seems to be keeping any cockroaches at bay. I glance at the bedside clock. It is mid-afternoon.

The familiar dream is still rolling in a constant loop through my mind. Lawrence Naden was a gangster, an American who ran drugs out of Mexico.

And I understand now why Herculaneum was never fully excavated.

The modern town of Ercolano sits atop the ancient ruins. Ercolano happens to be Italian crime territory. From within the town, a two-thousand-year-old drug network is run.

Ercolano is the hub of camorra, the Neapolitan Mafia. But unlike Sicilian Mafia, which is largely centralized, camorra operates as a loosely tied network of families or clans. Because there is no centralization, the individual members of the camorra network-much like those of al Qaeda-are much more difficult to flush out and prosecute. The Italian government, Europol, and Interpol have been trying without success for a very long time.

I am pleased to find a modest assortment of toiletries in the bathroom, and I bathe slowly. My bandaged leg juts rudely from the bathtub like an inappropriate erection, and I wince as I gently sponge the skin surrounding the crocodile bite. When I am finished, I step out of the bathtub and don my galabia-the only clothing remaining in my possession-but I leave the niqab sitting on the hotel room bed.

I understand now why the Villa dei Papiri was never fully excavated.

If a major medical find authored by Queen Cleopatra were unearthed from the ruins of the Herculaneum villa, the modern town of Ercolano would be swarmed. The Pompeii and Herculaneum fever of the Enlightenment and beyond would once again explode. The area surrounding the ruins would become a veritable hotbed for archeology, tourism, and international press. And as the legitimate money poured in, the clandestine drug network running out of Ercolano would be destroyed.

So I was not surprised to learn, during my overnight Internet searching, that the landowners of Ercolano-mostly camorra bosses-repeatedly block the excavations of Pompeii and Herculaneum. They demand exorbitant sums of money from the Italian government for even a cursory, non-disruptive dig. And they interfere with every effort made to re-enter the Villa dei Papiri.

The tension between camorra and the government has been increasing dramatically since 2010. That was when a new, massive eruption of Mount Vesuvius was predicted to occur within the next eight years.

It is now five years overdue.

The situation is becoming desperate. Many of the buildings of Pompeii and Herculaneum, as well as many of the major historical sites of Naples, have begun to crumble. Some of this is attributable to natural wear-and-tear, and some not.

On February 15, 2013, a corruption probe into the most recent excavation of Herculaneum was announced. This had been the dig that revealed the second and third stories of the Villa dei Papiri, just before the maps of Karl Weber were declared erroneous and the excavation halted.

Two weeks later, arson destroyed a prominent Naples museum. Camorra was highly suspected. No charges were ever filed.

And so the rift continues between archeologists, the Italian government, and the ubiquitous camorra. The camorra bosses seem to be winning, and the evidence of this is the fact that one of the richest archeological databases in history remains virtually untapped despite the fact that it may soon be lost forever.

This time, I drape my purse over my shoulder, unconcerned about whether or not its soft camel-colored leather is recognizable. I grab the pistol off the nightstand and eject the magazine. There are only three bullets remaining. I hope that two will be enough.

My shoulder-length brunette hair is flowing freely as I limp slowly out of the hotel.

I ride the subway to the Museum of Egyptian Antiquities. I enter the baggage claim area and find an employee who speaks English. I explain that I lost the claim check for my bag. A description and a wad of cash are sufficient to retrieve it.

I sit in a cafe long enough to charge my iPhone, and then I find a secluded park. I walk to a bench and sit. When I am sure I am alone, I withdraw my phone, and I begin making calls.

Although I desperately want to, I cannot call Jeff's mother because what I need to say to her must be said in person. And I'm not in a position to do that. Not yet.

So I call my own mother, even though she has no idea who I am anymore. I call her just to hear the familiar voice of someone who I know holds no hidden agenda. I need to hear the voice of someone I can trust.

"Hi, Mom. It's me!" I say enthusiastically.

"Oh, hi, honey," she says in her relaxed, tired, carefree tone. "How are you?"

"I'm great!" I say, always as cheerful as possible when speaking with the woman whose only connection to reality is the voice of another person.

"That's wonderful," she says. "Who is this?"

"It's me, Mom. It's Katrina."

"Are you my sister?"

"No, Mom. I'm your daughter."

"Oh," she says. "Do you live with me?"

"I live next door to you."

"Have you seen my parents? I'm looking for my parents."

"Mom, your parents died a long time ago."

"Oh." Silence for a moment. "Who is this? Are you my sister?"

And the conversation begins again.

My mother's caregiver assures me that all is fine at home, and I hang up the phone.

Then I call Alexis. My sister Kathy answers the phone.

"Alexis is sleeping," she says quietly. "She sleeps a lot these days." Her voice becomes barely more than a whisper when she says, "Trina, I don't know how much longer she's going to hold on."

"Wake her up," I say.

"Hi Mom," Alexis says groggily.

"How are you feeling, sweetie?"

"Like ass," she says, and a distant memory comes back to me. I push it aside.

"Listen to me," I say. "I'm almost there. I swear to you, I am so close. You just hold on. It can't be more than another day or two. So hold on. Because I'm going to need you. When this is all over, you will have a new little brother or sister to babysit."

I hear Alexis laughing softly for a moment before she answers.

"Are you serious?" she finally asks. "Aren't you a little old?"

"I'm forty-two!" I say indignantly. "And I have wanted Jeff's baby since the day I first saw him naked on the beach."

I call John. When he answers his cell phone, I ask him if he found Moretti.

"Yeah, I found him," John says. "He's here now. I'm in the lab in Naples. We've been working our asses off. But, Kat, we're not having any luck. What did you expect to see? Did the document give any hint about what to do with the two plants?"

"Not really," I say. "It read 'when the sky opened and the gods cast their anger upon our enemies, the wine soured and the nardos by the bedsides turned from green to red.' It also indicated that the effect was quite transient, over in just a matter of moments."

"Well, the gods aren't doing anything now," John says.

"Let me speak to Moretti."

"Sure," John says, and his voice becomes more distant as he holds the phone away from himself to call for the Naples chemist.

"Romano," he says. "Jeff's wife is on the phone. Her name is Katrina Stone. She'd like a word with you about the isotope."

I hear a muffled voice in the background and the shuffle of feet.

I know that voice, I think.

Then there is a thud, and the line is disconnected.

A moment later, my phone is ringing. It is a video call.

The camera on John's cell phone is evidently projecting from a desk or table. I can see a horizontal edge at the bottom of my field of vision. Beyond it, John is seated in a low chair. Blood is trickling down one cheek from a gash in his forehead. Behind him, I can see the Naples laboratory. It is unpopulated.

A pistol is held to John's head. There is blood on the muzzle.

"Katrina!" John says urgently. "Hang up! Hang up the phone! Don't let him see where you are-"

The muzzle of the gun crashes into John's skull again, and his head drops to his chest for a moment. When he looks back toward the camera, the blood running down the side of his face is flowing steadily. He stops trying to speak.

The chest of a man comes into my field of vision as someone steps in between John's chair and the cell phone propped on the desk. He stoops down casually and stares into the screen.

"Hello, Dr. Stone," Carmello Rossi says casually. "It's nice to see you again."

"You bastard!" I shout. "I'll fucking kill you!"

"Oh, that would be magic indeed," he says. "And it appears you are incapable of such tricks. Perhaps your New Isis has led you astray."

"You let him go-," I begin.

"Shut up!" he shouts. "No, no, no, you will listen to me! You will listen to me, or your friend will have the privilege of dying just as valiantly as your husband did. Except, of course, for the fact that, while Dr. Wilson died utterly alone, this man's death will have an audience of one.

"So instead, here is what you'll do. You will hang up the phone now, and you will call my sister's son. I am sure you have his phone number. You will give him your location in Cairo, and, when he has reached you, the two of you will call me back."

"NO!" John shouts from behind him. "Don't do it, Katrina!"

Rossi turns, and the muzzle of his pistol smashes across John's head a third time.

"Shut up!"

"What he wants is in this lab-," John manages, before the gun crashes down a fourth time, and this time he is out.

"Why did you kill Jeff?" I demand. "My husband was no threat to you!"

"Incorrect again, Doctor Stone. He would have found it. You-I underestimated you. I will soon fix that. But I knew from the start that your husband would find it. He would have brought international attention to my hometown. And that, I could not have.

"My network has survived for two thousand years. Without the interference of you and your husband, that Italian bitch, and this poor gentleman"-he points the pistol at John's head-"it is sure to survive for two thousand more."

"Now call my nephew," he says again and leans into the phone once more so I can see his face. "This should not take so much thinking about. Do you not realize that I still have the power to kill your daughter? Your mother? Your sister? Perhaps I have not yet clarified the extent of my power. Just hang up the phone and call Dante-"

"That won't be necessary," a voice says from behind me.

I try to turn, but there is a flash of ink. Dante's thick, tattooed arm snakes forward and snatches the purse from over my shoulder. And with it, the stolen gun that was my only means of self-defense.

"I warned you about Naples," he says. "It's never a good idea for a woman alone to carry a purse." He tosses the bag to the ground.

Slowly, I raise my arms and turn around. Dante is aiming a pistol at me. He shakes his head sadly. "I tried to tell you back in Naples. I tried to tell you in Pompeii. I tried to convince you to just go home. Just let it go. Just forget about it. You wouldn't listen.

"We make our own medicines, Katrina. They bring us a lot of money, but they also kill a lot of people. I'm tired of it. The isotope is our chance to finally control the traffic of a legitimate drug."

You can make them kill each other.

But I cannot. Not when one is in Naples and the other in Cairo.

"Dante, do you really believe that?" I ask. "Do you really believe that the killing will end if you monopolize the isotope?"

My arms are still raised over my head, but Dante doesn't seem to notice when I slowly lower them.

"My uncle said-"

From my laboratory in Naples, I can hear Rossi laughing.

"Of course it will, figlio," he says. "It is the reason I dedicated my life to the study of chemistry. It is the reason I built a legitimate name for myself as a chemist. Do not listen to the woman. She has her own agenda." He chuckles. "And besides, you should realize, my dear nephew, that the isotope is safer in our hands than in those of her pharmaceutical industry."

Dante leans down toward the screen of my video phone and glares at Rossi. As he moves toward the phone, I, too, look into its screen. Rossi's expression is sorrowful as he pleads with Dante.

"You must kill her," he says. "And it will all end."

He steps out of view of the screen, and I can see John again, unconscious and immobile.

Rossi approaches him. "Thank you, Doctors, for your sacrifice," he says.

I squeeze my eyes shut and simultaneously turn away as the shot rings out.

I am sobbing. I am sobbing so hard I can barely breathe. I set the phone down on the bench beside me. I cannot look at the screen.

"It's over, Katrina," Dante says. "It is finally over. For whatever it's worth, I never wanted any of this. I didn't want it for you, and I didn't want it for myself."

He motions with the pistol, directing me to walk. Slowly, I comply, lacing my hands over my head as I limp, resigned, toward a small thicket of trees in the park. Dante follows from behind.

"Turn around," he says. "Look at me."

I turn to face him, but I cannot look into his eyes, the eyes of the boy who just days ago was my only ally.

Dante raises the gun in my direction one more time. Then he turns it around in his hand and offers me the butt.

For a moment I only stare at him, confused.

"Go ahead," he says. "Take it."