Federico was still sleeping when Valerio climbed into the Ape and headed off into the unusually quiet city streets.
—
From the cliffsides of Sorrento, the wide expanse of the bay was a tumultuous blue, the occasional gleam of sunlight breaking through the dark rainclouds, glistening on the roiling waters. The Ape complained and whined as he pushed it, clattering, up the steep roads.
Early morning was the best time for police raids and arrests. Cocooned behind locked doors, deep asleep, people were vulnerable. Startle them with chaos and noise, and their brains took a while to make sense. Confusion created mistakes; they might spontaneously confess, implicate conspirators, or unlock cabinets and safes.
Valerio was operating with few advantages in this poorly planned scheme, and considered this early-morning arrival a necessity. As he approached the gate to Silvestri’s villa, however, he doubted himself.
He considered calling Maurizio and asking for advice, but his partner would try to talk him out of it. Valerio didn’t want to waste time arguing, or to implicate Maurizio in what he planned to do next.
—
Valerio stepped from the Ape, and pressed the button on the speaker. When nobody answered, he pressed again.
A sleepy male voice said, “What is it?”
“Delivery for Silvestri.”
He was loud, efficient, looking into the camera and gesturing towards the Ape.
A pause, then, “It’s very early.”
“My apologies, signore. I have a full schedule today.”
A buzz, and the gate slid open. Valerio drove through.
—
To his relief, the courtyard was empty—no armed guards pouring from the house.
Silvestri himself opened the front door.
A large black rottweiler bounded forward, putting its paws on Valerio as he stepped from the Ape.
“Down, Brutus,” ordered Silvestri.
“He just smells the pancetta,” said Valerio, and held up the box with the cured meats and eggs and mozzarella.
He approached Silvestri, holding out the clipboard for signature, then nodded back to the Ape. “Where do you want these?”
Valerio had reviewed footage of Silvestri last night: television appearances and interviews. He’d laughed and joked, seeming robust. Lively. Now he was shrunken. Centimeters shorter than Valerio. The characteristic smile from his photos was missing. His tanned face was thick and leathery, eyes swollen and sleepy. He wore velvet loafers and a silk bathrobe, boxers visible beneath—and a rounded potbelly.
Silvestri checked and signed the delivery list, then led Valerio into the extravagant cliffside villa. The floors and staircase were in artisanal hand-painted tile, and the furniture was in leather and ropy canvas. White plaster walls displayed large canvas oil paintings in ornate gold frames.
—
They arrived in the kitchen, and Silvestri pointed. “Put that there.”
Valerio set the box on the marble countertop.
Continuing through the villa, Silvestri led him down stone steps into a cellar with a metal grate.
“Put the wine and other goods in here,” he instructed.
—
The dog, Brutus, followed Valerio on his first few rounds, before settling on a carpet in the living room area to watch. To extend his time in the house, Valerio unpacked and moved slowly, carrying fewer boxes each time.
