Nikki kept her bike in a tiny spot in the alley behind a nearby jewelry store, the privilege for which she paid a monthly fee to the owner. Carefully, she maneuvered the Hornet into its place, then walked the few blocks home.
The door in the large metal gate wasn’t secured. It creaked wide open and she stomped into the bare space, glancing briefly at the old chapel in the courtyard with its chipped stone cherubs before heading up the steep concrete stairs.
—
Arriving on the landing, she heard the shuffle of steps, the muttering, the dull scratch of metal. A figure stood at her door, trying a key in the lock. Nikki paused, heart suddenly loud in her ears, watching someone try to break into her house.
A moment later, she realized the truth.
“Massimo?” she called.
The old man’s back was to her—the peculiar erectness of his posture a contrast to the disheveled appearance: white hair mussed, a flattened tangle at the back of his head. He wore a threadbare cardigan, wrinkled slacks, and leather loafers tight on swollen feet.
Nikki cleared her throat, and called his name again. But still he startled when he turned and stared, rheumy eyes drooping and tired.
“The key doesn’t work,” he said.
In the decades before Nikki inherited the flat from her mother, Massimo had managed the property. He’d been a fixture in her childhood, and memory showed him as a stylish playboy, a fashionable woman always on his arm. That memory seemed cruel now—a contrast to this quavering form.
Massimo’s face was pale and sweating. His hands had lost their elegant definition and strength. They were gnarled, spotted, gripping the jangling key ring.
“Massimo?” Nikki said again.
At her voice, he seemed to relax.
“Oh, Beatrice,” he said. “I’m glad you came. I got the signal. Last-minute visitors and the place isn’t ready.”
“It’s Nikki, not Beatrice,” she said gently. “That key won’t work. I changed the lock. What are you doing here?”
Massimo returned to his task, fumbling through the keys.
“It’s here somewhere,” he muttered.
“I’ve got it,” said Nikki. She unlocked the door, and guided Massimo through to the living room, settling him on the sofa.
“I’ll get you water,” she said.
—
In the kitchen, standing at the tap, she checked her watch: 06:49.
She badly wanted sleep, but she couldn’t abandon Massimo. She’d never seen him in this condition. He was usually sharp—ready with a quip or a compliment.
She dialed her father’s number.
—
Raoul Serafino was an early bird—a habit left over from his military career. He answered on the second ring, voice clear and resonant. She imagined him on the porch in Benevento, sipping coffee.
“Ciao, bella.”
That voice, frigid and formal, had softened with age.
“Massimo Fattore’s at my house,” she told him. “He was trying to use his old key to get in. He’s confused; I think he’s sick…he thought I was Mom.”
Raoul made a low noise. “Where is he now?”
“In the living room. I think he needs to go to hospital. Do you have a number for his family?”
