“Come with me,” he said in English.
Without looking to see if Valerio followed, he strode away.
They walked onto a gravel path on the outside edge of the house, under a bower overgrown with grapevines.
“People call me Ivan,” said the man. “And you’re Capo Valerio Alfieri, of the Naples police—the Sezione Falchi Squadra Mobile. Are you going to make trouble for me?”
He spoke with a thick accent, in a mix of English and Italian. Valerio struggled to decipher the words, then answered in Italian: “Is there a reason for me to make trouble for you?”
“Not at all,” Ivan said. “I have many friends in your unit. We get along well. Who knows? One day, you might be grateful for a friend like me.”
“You know what I think, Ivan?” said Valerio. “Liars and bullies are like mushrooms: everywhere. I’m never impressed by men like you. I put them behind bars. Who knows? One day, I might see you there.”
Ivan laughed.
“The ego of a man who lies to himself!”
His pale eyes held a manic gleam. He said something in a language Valerio didn’t understand. Then, in English, as if to let Valerio in on the joke: “If you listen to your own lie, you can’t see the truth. See? I know you better than you know yourself. I’ll enjoy this. I’ll enjoy you, Capo.”
Valerio glared back.
“If you know me so well, then you should know I don’t respond to threats,” he warned. “Keep out of my business, and I’ll stay out of yours.”
Ivan shrugged and continued walking.
They emerged to an elaborately tiled pool glinting blue in the sunlight, a handful of faded grape leaves curled on the surface.
—
Luca Errichiello sat at a tile-topped metal garden table, drinking Coca-Cola, a platter of salami and cheese before him.
As with their last encounter, Valerio was struck by the banality of Luca. He was an unremarkable man in his fifties with mild, forgettable features. Today, he wore leather loafers, a puffer jacket, and a tan felt hat. The unassuming, even features and bored expression gave no suggestion of what he really was. Luca exploited immigrants and refugees, cashing in on EU money for asylum seekers, pressuring and starving the most vulnerable: populating his brothels with them, and exporting sex and agriculture workers and domestic slaves throughout Europe and Russia. The only prosecutor able to get close to proving the case against Luca had been killed by a car bomb in Licola last year.
“Capo Alfieri’s here,” announced Ivan in a cheerful tone. “Want me to stay and protect you, Errichiello?”
“Fuck off,” snapped Luca, the hot burst of irritation disturbing an otherwise expressionless face.
As Ivan strolled away, Luca ate salami and watched Valerio.
“You took your time,” he said, voice flat. “I don’t like to be kept waiting.”
Valerio had meant to stay cool, but now he battled for control against his fury.
“Don’t you ever,everthreaten my kids again!” he growled.
Luca stretched out his jaw with a click, like a snake preparing for a large meal.
“You appear to care for your offspring,” he said. “Society considers this laudable. It only interests me as a means to achieve your attention. I see I have it. Next time, I expect you to come when I ask.”
“You want something, you deal with men,” Valerio said. “Leave the children the hell out of it, or I will hunt you down. I promise I will kill you.”
“Pointless threats don’t interest me, Alfieri.”
“What the fuck do you want?” Valerio demanded.
Luca chewed. “You owe me a favor.”
“I found my daughter without your help,” Valerio said, even as he felt the futility of trying to constrain the borders of his debt.
