“We got the passport,” Sonia said. “It tested positive for the same cocaine we found on Monica and Kami. It was good you handled it appropriately—but I wish you’d told Lake to give it directly to the police.”
“I should have,” Nikki agreed.
“Chain of custody should be fine,” said Sonia, her voice softening. “But the Lakes are a powerful family and their lawyers are involved. We’ve put a judicial order on the Lakes’ yacht, so they can’t leave the country. And we’re trying to get a search warrant, but they’re resisting.”
—
She was jolted by a loud rap on the door.
Nikki expected Gianni to return. When he didn’t, she answered.
The man at the door was in his early forties. He had thinned brown hair, pale skin, and a rectangular face with jowls, eyes like buttons pressed into dough. He wore a suit jacket and checkered shirt, stretched over a barrel chest and hefty belly.
“You must be Nina!” He spoke English with a foreign accent, a wide smile pushing out his apple cheeks. “Gianni and Francesca didn’t tell me you were such a looker. And there’s Fredo! Hello, little Fredo.”
He grabbed and waggled the baby’s foot. Fredo’s wailing intensified.
“And you are?” Nikki asked.
He snapped his heels together and saluted.
“Lieutenant Commander Mac van den Berg, at your service!”
“How do you know my brother?”
He gave a conspiratorial wink. “Mutual friends.”
Gianni was back in the room now, rushing towards them. He brushed past Nikki and embraced the visitor, kissed his cheeks.
“Mac! Mac! You’re here,” he said in English. “Wonderful!”
Francesca followed close behind, gliding forward in a floor-length red dress slit to the thigh.
Nikki intercepted, extending the baby. “He needs a diaper change.”
Francesca shifted deftly away. “Take him to my mother, will you?” she said, then, pushing past, greeted Mac with a kiss.
Nikki toted the howling Fredo into the kitchen, where Francesca’s mother, Salvatrice, was slicing bread and scowling.
“Can’t you see I’m busy?” she barked. “I spend the whole day cooking…cleaning. Tell Francesca this is her party. I’m not her slave.”
The relentless screaming was starting to induce panic when the doorbell buzzed and Nikki heard her father’s booming voice: “Sì, sì! Raoul Serafino. Pleasure to meet you. And this is Massimo Fattore, a good friend.”
Gianni’s voice: “Oh hello, Massimo. I didn’t expect you…. Well, welcome, of course.”
A shriek of joy pierced the air, then the pounding rush of little feet as three-year-old Bea raced through the flat.
—
Nikki entered the living room in time to see her niece flinging herself against Raoul, who bent to pick her up.
“Buona sera, bellissima,” he said. “How was your day?”
Massimo, looking sharp in a velvet smoking jacket, came towards Nikki. Wordlessly, he lifted the screaming baby, bounced him gently, and made a “shh, shh” sound.
“Signore, what are you complaining about?” he said. “Oh, I see. You have a very stinky diaper…well, that’s not something I can help you with. Come, let’s find your mother.”
He pursued Francesca and pressed the baby on her until she was forced to take him.
