—
They waited in the paint-chipped concrete hallway. Angelo seemed eager to get away from Sonia and took a few long strides, his hands clasped behind him, forehead creased as if in deep contemplation.
Nikki said to Sonia, “I need to apologize for losing my temper with Fiona Lake.”
“It’s okay,” said Sonia.
“It really isn’t. I should have been better. I will be better.”
Sonia looked long, then nodded slowly. “Thank you for your apology.”
“I lost my temper with Signora Lake, too,” Emilio volunteered, grinning. “I thought Sonia would punch me.”
The smallest hint of a smile twitched the edge of Sonia’s mouth.
Relieved to have some restoration of their professional relationship, Nikki exhaled.
“If I knew I was meeting you today, I would have brought the passport myself,” she said.
“What passport?” Sonia asked.
Thirteen
It was late morning by the time Valerio sobered up. The hours after the shooting had been grim and horrifying. His mind, dulled and disrupted by the alcohol, had been unable to think logically, and reality collapsed into a dark dream state, a jolting slurred mess of blood and guilt. Immediately after the shooting, he’d called for backup and rushed to the boy, but there was nothing left to save. Gaetano’s young body was decimated—chewed up by machine-gun fire. Arriving on the scene, the ambulance workers seemed relieved that there was nothing for them to do; it was a dangerous business to save someone il Sistema had appointed to die.
Valerio had insisted on staying with the responding investigators. Only now could he comprehend that his drunken attempts to assist must have been thoroughly obnoxious, because at some point, his partner, Maurizio, showed up and took him home. There, Maurizio had pressed him to drink water, received his rambling sobs, and dragged him, stumbling, to the toilet to puke. Eventually, Valerio passed out.
He woke to sunlight through his open window and street sounds below. His mouth tasted foul, tongue swollen and sandpaper-dry, head throbbing. For one blissful moment the pain was only physical. Then the nightmare reasserted itself and, empty though he was, he wanted to throw up again.
—
Maurizio was in the living room, the fabric pattern from the sofa imprinted on his cheek.
Valerio collapsed into a chair, pressing palms against aching eyes.
“Did you know?” Maurizio asked.
Valerio shook his head. “Fuck no. I should have known. I should have…”
Words failed him.
He and Maurizio had both experienced plenty of violence. They’d seen murders and waded into the aftermath. This was different.
“He was only eighteen,” said Maurizio. “I helped you.”
Valerio thought of Davide. Thirteen years old.
“It was a fucking trap,” said Valerio. “I walked right in. Like an idiot. I should have seen. I thought…fuck, I don’t know what I thought.”
“How did this get so fucked?” asked Maurizio. “Who did this? What did you do for them?”
Valerio felt like shit. His head hurt. His muscles and joints felt like they’d been pulled apart, and his neck…God, his neck!
He deserved it all—every dose of this pain. He clung to it as he told Maurizio everything.
“You’re right,” said Maurizio when he was finished. “You are a fucking idiot. You gave Errichiello your balls on a silver platter.”
“I’ll turn myself in,” said Valerio. “Report everything, and take the consequences.”
