“I have the number for Stefania, his niece. Tell me more. What did he say?”
“He looks awful. He’s shaking. He said something about a signal.”
Raoul grunted again. “Sounds like low blood sugar from his diabetes. Give him juice—and I’ll call Stefania.”
—
Nikki poured orange juice.
Carrying the cold glass to the living room, she stopped, taking in the unexpected disorder.
During her short time away, chaos had erupted.
The coffee table was upended, papers strewn across the floor. Massimo was pushing on the sofa, the rug beneath rippling and bunching.
“Hey! Hey! What are you doing? Massimo!”
His arm was slick with sweat as she tugged him away and helped him sit. His movements were sloppy, uncoordinated.
“We have to warn Adriano!” he pleaded. “We have to warn him!”
At the name, Nikki froze. She remembered her nightmares in the early hours of the morning, the anguished sense of missing her brother. Today was the bitter anniversary of Adriano’s death, and the world was that much darker.
“Adriano’s gone,” she said.
She pressed the glass into his trembling hands. “Drink this.”
Childlike, he complied, a shudder across his fragile shoulders.
Gradually, Massimo’s breathing became less labored, color returned to his cheeks, and his hands stopped shaking. His face lost its sheen of sweat.
“Grazie, bella,” he said. “Grazie.”
Five
Valerio’s sisters were awake and in the kitchen of their mother’s apartment when he let himself in at nearly three a.m.
He found Orlanda at the stove, scrambling eggs. She wore an old T-shirt and pajama pants, long hair tied in a sloppy bun. The burnt remnants of an unsuccessful earlier attempt were blackened and wet in the kitchen sink. The stink still hung in the air.
“Oh good,” she said, glancing up at him. “There you are. Penny wouldn’t let us go to bed until you got here.”
“Did you catch the bastard?” asked Penelope from her seat at the table.
His older sister had their mother’s way of stacking and sorting. The pile of detritus on the stiff plastic tablecloth was organized into rows: little battalions of teaspoons, sugar packets, chocolate wrappers, and breadcrumbs.
“Working on it,” said Valerio. He crossed to the sink for a glass of water. “How’s she doing?”
“The doctor gave her a pill to calm down,” Penelope said. “You know her heart isn’t good. You know that, Valerio! This sort of thing is dangerous for her.”
Her glare was accusing.
“Did she say anything about what happened?” he asked.
“She says it’s in God’s hands,” said Orlanda. “She prayed all night. You want eggs?”
His stomach, achingly empty for hours, lurched.
“Yeah,” he said. “Thanks.”
