“Sure, you’re not,” said Gemma, still smiling.
There was a knock on the door—a soft double tap. Distracted, Valerio nearly forgot to bring his weapon. But Ravenna called out before he could ask who it was: “It’s me again.”
He opened the door.
Her face was flushed, and she was breathing hard, as if she’d run back up the stairs.
“What if we found out?” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“What if we found out what Gaetano knew? Maybe it’s enough to get Errichiello arrested…put him into jail or…I don’t know. Maybe it’s enough to give you leverage…so he lets you out.”
Valerio thought. “I don’t understand. What are you saying?”
She spoke slowly, as if trying out the idea. “I want to know whathappened to Gaetano. I’m going to ask around…maybe it helps you if I find something.”
“No,” said Valerio. “Stay away. Leave it alone.”
She looked stricken, and he softened. “I’ll look into it,” he said. “I promise.”
She shook her head vigorously. “I knew Gaetano…. I know his girlfriend, Natale…and the kids Gaetano used to hang out with. I’m going to ask my own questions, whether you help me or not.”
Fourteen
Music was playing loudly at Gianni and Francesca’s flat—something with trumpets, twanging guitar, and tinny drums. A harsh female voice belted Spanish from the speakers.
The baby in Gianni’s arms was wailing as he answered the door.
“Oh good,” he said. “You’re here. Can you hold Fredo?”
“No…wait!” Nikki protested as he transferred the screaming child to her.
He retreated rapidly from the room, shouting, “He’ll be here any minute! Francesca, text my father. Tell him to bring more wine!”
Nikki stood rigidly, not sure what to do with the warm, squirming, noisy human. Children terrified her. The only other baby she’d been forced to hold was Bea, Gianni’s first child, and she’d passed on that privilege as soon as possible. She looked around for someplace to put Fredo. He smelled bad, and was leaking.
Gianni and Francesca’s posh flat had upscale furniture, a wide-screen television, speaker system, and personal temperature controls. Modern art on the walls included an oil portrait of Francesca in her wedding gown. Nikki couldn’t begin to guess how they afforded any of this. Gianni owned an unremarkable clothing shop in a questionable part of the city that, by all accounts, was a spectacular failure.
She hadn’t seen her brother since the summer, when Gianni had appeared on her doorstep, bleeding and delirious—tortured by loan sharks, begging for help.
The panic of that day, the terror she’d felt asking Tito Calandra for money, the frantic drive to Pozzuoli to deliver the funds, had been eclipsed in her memory by what came afterwards: the cave with Durant Cole. Those frozen minutes were etched into her. Sometimes the details arose with sudden, paralyzing clarity. Yet when she turneddeliberately to it, ran her mind over those recollections, like running her finger over broken glass, she instinctively avoided the jagged edges.
—
Her phone rang. Nikki shifted Fredo to answer.
“Hi,” chirped Audrey Lake. “It’s me.”
“Audrey, you shouldn’t call me,” said Nikki.
“We’re not leaving,” said Audrey. “We were supposed to go home, but the police say we have to stay.”
“Really?” said Nikki, curiosity getting the better of her. “Why?”
“Mummy says it’s because of the fucking drugs. Fucking drugs.”
Nikki extracted herself from the call. Jostling Fredo to calm him, she phoned Sonia and told her what Audrey had said.
