In Rome, at dawn, when everyone is asleep, there’s one man who isn’t sleeping. That man is called Giulio Andreotti. He isn’t sleeping because he has to work, write books, be a socialite, and, last but not least, prey. Calm, ambiguous, inscrutable, Andreotti is synonym of power in Italy for over four decades. At the beginning of the nineties, without arrogance or humility, immobile, ambiguous and reassuring, he advances relentlessly towards his seventh mandate as Prime Minister. Nearing seventy, Andreotti is a gerontocrat who equipped like God, fears nobody and doesn’t know what fear is: Used as he is to seeing this fear painted on the faces of his interlocutors. His contentment is dry and impalpable. His contentment is power, with which he lives in symbiosis. A power which he likes, always immovable and immutable. Where everything, election battles, terrorist massacres, infamous accusations, slide over him through the years without leaving trace. He remains passive and the same as ever before everything. Until the strongest counter power in the country, the Mafia, decides to declare war against him.