The car park was in a vineyard, grass and flowers wending through concrete slats, twisted vines teeming with leaves. It was drizzling, and the air was humid, thick with the earthy smell of plants, and diesel from the nearby road. Peering through the bars of the high metal gate, Nikki saw only luxury vehicles: Ferraris, Lamborghinis, and a Bugatti.
“This is it?” she asked Federico.
Behind her, on the motorcycle, the old man gripped tightly.
His voice was muffled by the helmet. “That’s what they told me.”
Nikki, who never considered she might need to find De Rosa, hadn’t known where to look. But Federico made some calls, and they were directed to this thermal spa in the rural hills of Campi Flegrei.
On the other side of the high concrete wall and gate, Nikki heard men speaking, and the sounds of a television program. She shouted, and the voices stopped. A muscular figure in a T-shirt stepped into view. More bull than man, with a large forehead and burly forearms, he was chewing something. He gazed for a moment, then scooped his large hand through the air, pushing them along.
“No loitering.”
His voice was gravelly.
Nikki worked against the mad thrumming of her heart to keep the words steady: “We’re here for Benedetto De Rosa.”
“He expecting you?”
“Yes,” she lied, meeting his gaze.
He chewed for a moment, evaluating. Then smiled.
“You’re not his type, sweetheart.”
“Call. Tell him Nikki wants to talk.”
“Nikki…Nikki…” he muttered, strolling away.
Nikki pulled the bike to the curb.
When the guard returned, he pointed at her as the gate screeched slowly open on its rails.
“Just you. The old man stays here.”
—
Leaving Federico, Nikki followed the man through the gate and car park, past flowering gardens and a pond, to a glass-fronted building among the trees. A guard in a Kevlar vest sat by the door, rifle propped on his knees.
Her beefy escort stopped, turned, and said, “Arms up.”
He frisked her, hands lingering a little on her thighs and buttocks, then said, “Give me your phone.”
She handed it over, noticing that she’d missed two calls from Phoenix Seven.
—
Inside the building, a woman with long hair and immaculate lipstick hurried to greet them. She gestured with an impersonal smile and nod.
“This way.”
They followed her into a high-ceilinged room with rows of white lockers. It was warm, smelling of hot stones, eucalyptus, and bergamot, with the underlying stink of sulfur and sweat. They walked past two young men in towels and flip-flops, and a tattooed old man with an overhanging belly, drying his hair with a towel.
The woman handed Nikki a key on a lanyard, and indicated a locker.
“Undress and put your things in there.”
“I’m not going into the spa,” Nikki protested. “I just need to talk to Signor De Rosa.”
