Federico Errichiello wasn’t in his salumeria, so Valerio went to his home—a one-bedroom apartment in Secondigliano. Valerio had spent time here a few years ago, when Federico had a sobriety lapse and, worried his addiction would drive him to return to his brother for drugs, begged for Valerio’s help.
—
Federico didn’t open the door when he knocked, but Valerio could hear the muffled sounds of a television program. He knocked again. The sounds from the program stopped—but there was no other noise.
Valerio knocked again, this time harder, and shouted, “I know you’re in there, Federico. It’s no good pretending.”
The door opened, and Valerio saw the barrel of a shotgun.
“Fuck,” he said. “Put that thing away. It’s just me. I need to ask some questions.”
“You’re not welcome here,” Federico growled.
Valerio considered. He’d helped the old addict in the past, but Federico had long since paid back that debt.
“That’s fair,” he agreed. “I knew you didn’t want anything to do with your brother. I knew how hard you worked for your sobriety. But I pulled you back into the worst addiction of all. And I never thanked you for helping me.”
The barrel dropped a centimeter.
“I don’t need to come in—and I don’t need any favors,” Valerio continued. “But I want to know: How the fuck did you get out? How did you get Luca to leave you alone?”
Federico lowered the gun, then turned and stepped inside, leaving the door open for Valerio to follow.
—
Everything in Federico’s sparsely furnished apartment was threadbare, as if he’d salvaged the pieces from dumpsters, mended and polished them into use again. Even the television was reclaimed—a gouge on the side of the monitor. Yet, it was all tidy, scrubbed, with the faint piney odor of disinfectant.
Federico set the gun on the table, and gestured for Valerio to sit.
“I warned you,” he said. “Told you not to get involved with Luca.”
“I know.”
“He doesn’t have feelings like a regular person. He’s psychopathic…cruel because he can…because he likes it. We’re insects to him—he wants to pull the legs off.”
“Yeah,” Valerio said, rubbing a hand across his head.
“What does he want from you?” Federico asked.
Valerio told him about Gaetano Mancusi—and about the visits from the Ghost and his friends, the order to retrieve evidence in Bonetti’s office.
Federico scoffed. “He doesn’t know how to use you yet—or what you’re good for. He just wants to know he owns you. You’re his new plaything.”
Valerio had wondered whether the random demands and jabs were part of a systematic strategy. They had the feel of a cat toying with its food.
“How do I stop being his plaything? How do I get away?”
“You don’t,” said Federico. “You can’t outsmart him, and you’ll never overpower him. He has people everywhere—and I meaneverywhere.”
Valerio thought of the rich and powerful men at Silvestri’s parties. If even a few were part of Luca’s system, they could easily cripple any legal action.
“How did you do it?” Valerio asked. “Why did he let you go? Why aren’t you dead?”
Federico sat calmly for a moment, oversize hands in his lap, his glasses and skull reflecting the glare of the overhead lamp.
“I was there from the beginning,” he said. “He knows my weaknesses. Used them for years—controlled me. But I know his weaknesses, too. What he is. How he works.”
“What weaknesses does such a man have?”
