Last summer, he’d been so surprised to see her coming from Calandra’s place, carrying a bag full of cash. He guessed that, like him, she’d been desperate—willing to make a deal with the devil. He’d wanted to bring it up with her, to ask what had happened that night. But she never mentioned it, and as the months went by, the subject became more difficult to broach. Nikki was a private person and he didn’t want to pressure her. If she wanted to tell him, she would tell him.
But he was also an investigator and, curious, he’d made some inquiries. The rumors shocked him: that Nikki Serafino and Tito Calandra had once been in a relationship. He’d wondered if this was true, and whether Nikki maintained her ties to the powerful Camorra capo.
Now, he was ashamed for asking. Nikki believed that Calandra had burned down her studio, and that was hardly a sign of affection.
Well, he wouldn’t ask again.
—
After Ivan’s ambush last Saturday, Valerio made it a point to take different routes home, and practice good countersurveillance. These careful efforts were wasted today, since the white-haired thug and two buddies loitered outside the entrance to his building, with no attempt at subterfuge.
Valerio strode to them, speaking loudly, with more confidence than he felt: “Are you really this desperate? Coming to my home in daylight, where I’ve installed surveillance and have guys waiting nearby?”
Of course, he’d done none of these things, although it occurred to him now that they might have been reasonable precautions.
Ivan, wearing sunglasses on this overcast day, pushed back from the wall where he’d been leaning.
“You don’t answer your phone. That’s not smart.”
“What isn’t smart is you giving me a bruise for the whole station to see. If you wanted to keep this low-key, you’re really fucking up.”
A group of tourists coming down the narrow street must have sensed the tension. They rapidly changed direction.
“What do you want?” Valerio demanded.
“Just a little job,” said Ivan. “A small document we need you to recover from your boss’s office.”
“Boy, your intel must be shit,” said Valerio. “After you shot up Gaetano Mancusi in front of me, my boss put me on leave. I have no business going to the station until it’s over.”
Ivan smiled. He held up his phone and Valerio heard a recording of his own voice:Tell me what you want.Then Luca explaining his request for help with Gaetano Mancusi. He wasn’t surprised they’d recorded this.
“So what?” he challenged. “I’ve done nothing illegal. If this is blackmail, you’re shit at it.”
Ivan lashed out with surprising speed.
Valerio fought back, and was able to return some solid hits before they grappled him into submission, gripping tightly while Ivan punched and kicked.
The thrashing was predictable, Valerio told himself as it was happening. As if this knowledge somehow made it more tolerable, as if he’d chosen it himself. He noticed, with detachment, the practiced nonchalance of those expert blows and kicks.
He heaved and vomited from the gut punches.
They dumped him on the pavement, then one of the men wrestled his hand open, forcing his fingers around the handle of a gun.
Ivan crouched next to Valerio, and spoke in his ear. “Two women were shot last night. Your fingerprints are on the murder weapon. How’s that for blackmail, Capo? I’ll text your instructions. You go to Bonetti’s office and get the file we want.”
When they left, Valerio worked his way to the wall, then pulled himself to sitting. He stayed for a long time, assessing the damage, and trying to catch his breath.
From the balcony above came the thin voice of his upstairs neighbor, Agata.
“Valerio, have you seen my little dog? He left his basket and hasn’t come back.”
—
It took a handful of paracetamol, and ice on his kidneys before Valerio thought he might be able to leave his apartment again. He moved like a ninety-year-old man—gingerly, every movement bringing pain.
He considered it a good sign that they hadn’t hit his face. This meant they still believed they could control him, and so needed to keep his face intact. This new pretext for blackmail was also a good sign, since it took the target off his family. Well, he could take a thrashing if that meant they were paying attention to him instead of his kids.
If it protected Gemma and Davide, he’d turn himself into the biggest fucking punching bag in the world.
