“Is this supposed to mean something to me?” Sonia demanded.
“Kevin Walker,” said Nikki, “is the connection between Monica Lissom and Claire Sexton.”
Twenty-Three
“It isn’t enough,” said Valerio. “Even if Ines cooperates, the investigation could take weeks…months. Also, she may be right about people protecting Errichiello and Silvestri.”
Valerio and Ravenna huddled beneath the inadequate protection of the awning of a closed wine café in Piazzetta Divino Amore. They’d been caught here when it started to rain.
Ravenna didn’t respond. Valerio followed her gaze across the small piazza, to a trattoria preparing for evening customers, arranging chairs and tables beneath a plastic cover.
They were silent a long moment.
“I didn’t know what she was,” Ravenna said at last.
“I’m sorry,” Valerio said.
Emerging from the horror of that disgusting apartment, he felt the residue of childhood nightmares: old fairy tales and witches who ate children. He wanted to take a shower, wash away the hideous woman’s filth.
He took Ravenna’s hand. It was cold and trembling. He pulled her close—an instinct, a need to offer comfort, and receive it. She seemed to feel the same, and the voluptuous warmth of her body pressed into him, her dark curls against his face. He breathed the lilac fragrance of her shampoo. Then her caresses found the fresh bruises. He inhaled sharply, but didn’t pull back. Instead, he kissed her cheek, and she kissed his. With calm deliberation, she turned to him, and looked into his eyes for a long moment before kissing him on the mouth. It was like nothing Valerio had ever experienced—at once erotic and deeply comforting. He remembered being lost as a child—wandering for hours in the cold city before catching sight of a familiar street. Therewas something of that in Ravenna’s kiss: a feeling that he might, finally, find his way home.
“Grazie,” she said, and tucked back into him again.
They stood like this for a long time. Then the rain let up, and they walked together.
—
She left him near the Obelisco di San Domenico. He wanted to invite her home with him, lay her gently on his bed, undress her, feel her against him, pleasure her—but Luca’s men had been waiting at his house earlier today, and he didn’t want her in danger. He said this. She kissed him and said, “There will be time later. This has been a heavy day. I feel it in my heart. I hope to see you soon, Capo.”
He kissed her again, a feeling of longing and loss as she left the piazza—as if he were losing something precious before he’d had a chance to warm it in his hand.
—
He continued thoughtlessly along Via Benedetto Croce, until he came to the open air of a piazza. Preoccupied as he was, it took a moment before he realized that, without meaning to, he’d arrived at the stone wall of Chiesa del Gesù Nuovo. He’d avoided this church, wondered if he’d ever feel comfortable walking through this piazza again. Exactly a week had passed since he’d seen the young woman, bloody, stretched out on the cold marble.
He hadn’t intended to go inside but, as he drew near the entrance, he followed a sudden impulse and stepped into the church.
—
It was strange to have the cathedral open again—priests in purple and black in the dark wooden confessionals; the pious kneeling in prayer; tourists strolling, heads tilted up towards the spectacular views. Everything was as it should be: gentle, contemplative motion, echoing sounds of footsteps and quiet conversations.
The edifice was like a giant train station, passengers moving in and out of life—families and friends to greet them or bid goodbye.
He didn’t cross himself, or kneel at the pews. Instead, he strodeforward, glowering at Mary with her cherubim. He thought about his mother’s prayers, the way she wheedled and bargained with God as if he owned the corner shop and could be persuaded to make her a better deal.
He stared at the gaunt form of Jesus on the cross, at the agonized, inhuman expression.
“I don’t expect you to save me,” he told God. “I’ve gotten myself into this mess, and I need to get myself out. But I could use some help, if you don’t mind.”
Valerio thought about Errichiello, and considered his options.
He understood better what Luca was doing, but didn’t have enough to sway a magistrate. He needed something he could use—a solid piece of evidence that couldn’t be ignored. And he needed it soon—to keep Luca away, or somehow get protection for his family. Even with evidence, though, he wasn’t sure how, precisely, to extract himself. The System was a lifetime membership—the only way out, at the wrong end of a gun.
Suddenly ashamed of his superstition, yet wary of discarding it entirely, Valerio turned and, shoving his hands into his pockets, strode away.
At the church entrance, he paused. He did know one man who had done the impossible—who had gotten away.
—
