1980
Mestre, January 28
Sergio Gori, 47 years old, Deputy Technical Director of the Petrochemical Plant in Porto Marghera

“That morning of January 29, 1980, Sergio Gori had left at 7:30 from the main entrance door that opens onto Viale Garibaldi.
As always, he had disregarded the company’s recommendations regarding habits, the repetitiveness of the routes.
He could have used the small door under the stairs, the one that leads directly to the garages, as many tenants of the Cavour Condominium did. He would still have had to unlock the padlock of the chain that prevented strangers from parking in the space in front of the garages and perhaps he could have seen any people lurking at the back in time to go back into the basement. It could have made a difference.
For them, it was too easy to note the passages of a person who every day, at the same time, leaves through the same door, turns left until the end of the building, then left again, and after a few steps bends down to unlock a padlock to release a chain and go out with his car, a white Fiat 500, certainly not a bulletproof car.
Too easy to lurk on a busy street, between a newsstand and cars parked on the sidewalks.
Too easy to strike a man who doesn’t believe it, who they will kill, him, why?
Too easy to strike a man who does nothing to make the task even a little more difficult, who wants to see if someone can really go so far.
Too easy to strike a man who maybe has in his mind the thought of his heart attack, his daughter far away, the problem of phosgene, and who certainly doesn’t care about them, it will be what it will be, there are no precautions that can stop a written destiny.
Out of incredulity, challenge, resignation, or extreme desire for freedom, a freedom that does not bend to fear, Sergio Gori had become the ideal target.
So, closing the door behind him and heading towards the back to unlock the padlock, Sergio Gori had heard footsteps behind him, an extremely elegant man, in a camel coat with scarf and hat, and he had turned around. They used to ask before shooting.
“Mr. Gori?”
“Ye..s?”
Four shots had whipped through the air and then, among the groans of a dying man and the screams of a woman, the last, the fifth.”
It was the dawn of the 1980s, and also on that January 29, when, at 7:30, Gori went down into the internal courtyard of his home to go to work. Even before reaching his parked car, he found the killers who fired six shots at him with a .32 caliber pistol. His partner Maria Letizia had just said goodbye to him on the landing and practically witnessed the execution of her man after hearing the muffled noise of the shots, albeit muffled by the silencer.
Among the first to arrive at the condominium on Viale Garibaldi, the scene of the murder, was the head of the anti-terrorism section of the Venice Digos, Alfredo Albanese. He could not know that the same fate would befall him no later than four months later, less than half a kilometer away and by the hand of the Red Brigades who had initiated the season of armed struggle in blood. In Mestre, one year later, another executive of the Petrochemical Plant, Giuseppe Taliercio, would lose his life after a long period of captivity.