“We can’t choose our family,” I said, suddenly thinking about my own fractured relationships with my father and brother.
Luna nodded. I was about to walk away when she took my hand. “Please do not go against the Fates. They are dangerous, and Milan Verde is a monster.”
“I go where the truth leads me,” I replied. Looking wistful, she nodded.
“I understand.”
She let go of my hand and I joined the villainous men who would take me back to Rome.
CHAPTER31
SILENCE SOMEHOW SEEMS deeper in certain cars. The sound-proofing of the Mercedes was exceptional and my two companions, captors perhaps, didn’t utter a word as we drove toward the city. There was no radio, nothing but the muffled rumble of tires on road and the steady hum of the engine, cruising easily as we wound along deserted hillsides. The soft leather upholstery seemed to deaden everything.
I couldn’t risk holding a conversation in such circumstances, so I used my phone to text Faduma, the journalist who had been so eager for me to learn about Luna’s background:
I know about the cop.
There was a pause, followed by the dots that showed someone was responding. Then:
And?
We should meet,I replied.
OK.
Where?I asked.
Quadriportico Verano Cemetery. 7 p.m.
OK.
I pocketed my phone.
It took us an hour to reach the outskirts of Rome, and the traffic grew heavier with each passing mile until, by the time we were on Via Tiburtina, which curled into the center of Rome behind the main train station, the Mercedes was at a crawl, and my two companions were showing fidgety signs of impatience.
“You can let me out at the next intersection,” I suggested.
The driver looked at the man next to him, who shrugged and then nodded at me.
We ended up getting caught in an unbreakable stream of traffic. It wasn’t until we reached the intersection with Via Nola, to the south of the ancient Castrense amphitheater, that the driver was able to pull to the side of the road and let me out.
The Mercedes continued south while I headed in the opposite direction toward the old red-brick wall that delineated the amphitheater grounds. The heavy traffic limited the prospect of a car tailing me, but I was mindful of the scooters and bikes weaving through the crowded streets, and the pedestrians on the sidewalk. It would have been foolish not to assume Elia Antonelli would try to have me watched.
I walked a couple of blocks, along the wide avenue flanked by elegant terra-cotta-brick apartment blocks constructed in theclassical style. When I neared the amphitheater, I passed a large motorcycle showroom set on the ground floor of one of the blocks, and the glare of the sun against the picture windows created a mirror that allowed me to see if anyone was tailing me. I saw nothing.
I circled round the amphitheater and walked along Via di Santa Croce in Gerusalemme, a broad street with more of the terra-cotta apartment blocks to either side. I found a street café and took a seat at one of the exterior tables, where I ordered a double espresso and watched the people passing by. When I’d finished my drink, I paid, made use of the café’s restroom and left the place via the staff entrance near the kitchen to the rear of the building. It took me into a courtyard parking lot flanked by apartment blocks on three sides. I walked through the entrance to the courtyard and joined Via Eleniana, a busy road that ran north to south.
Satisfied I wasn’t being followed and that I’d been in the café long enough to exhaust the batteries of a drone, I gave my surroundings one last check before concluding that if Elia Antonelli had assigned anyone to follow me, they had either given up or been thwarted by my precautions.
I hurried along the street and found a cab sitting in a line of vehicles waiting at the next set of lights. The driver, a slim middle-aged man with the worry lines of the perpetually stressed, grimaced when I asked him to take me to Quadriportico Verano Cemetery, but he eventually nodded and I jumped in the back.
I realized why he’d grimaced when I got to experience the full weight of Rome’s evening traffic on the journey to the cemetery. We crawled through a city choking on the sheer volume of people it hadn’t been designed to accommodate.
The driver finally pulled over by Piazza San Lorenzo, a square surrounded by the makeshift booths of florists serving the streams of mourners visiting the huge cemetery. I settled the fare and climbed out.
I found Faduma waiting for me on the cobblestones near the main gates. When she saw me, she started walking, but rather than heading through the arched gateway into the cemetery, we followed the perimeter wall north, toward the column of San Lorenzo, a tall monument that stood in front of a church of the same name.
“I know who Luna Colombo’s father is,” I said. “I understand why you didn’t trust me. I’ve been consorting with the daughter of a gangster, but Luna says she has nothing to do with his activities.”
