The attack came without warning: a sudden blow to the back of his head. Valerio staggered, stunned and temporarily sightless, flashes of light and color. Time stalled, and he fought to stay conscious. Battling the encroaching darkness, he scrabbled in his waistband for his weapon.
Then someone was choking him. A face close to his, features distorted, and the pungent stink of cigarettes and garlic.
“You stupid fuck,” growled the man.
Valerio’s fingers reached his gun. Struggling for air, he jammed thebarrel into the man’s gut, but his grip wasn’t firm—he hunted for the trigger. The man suddenly released and stepped back.
Valerio saw the heavy black weapon aimed at him.
“Put your gun down,” said the man.
“You first,” wheezed Valerio. “I will blow your fucking head off.”
He considered shooting anyway but he was too shaky and he couldn’t see properly. His head was ringing from the blow, heart racing so hard it hurt his chest. He wasn’t confident he could kill the man before he was killed first.
He took several panting breaths and, in that time, recognized the white hair and intense expression of Luca’s thug Ivan.
“What the fuck do you want?” Valerio demanded.
“You work for us,” said Ivan. “We call. You answer. You do as you’re told.”
“I did what Errichiello wanted,” said Valerio. “We’re finished.”
Ivan’s eyes lit with a manic glare. “You stupid fuck. We’re a long way from finished.”
Seventeen
After waking, Preston seemed clear and calm, an outcome neither Nikki nor her aunt had imagined possible. He joked with the nurses and doctors as they did their evaluations. When they were finished, Preston held Izzy’s hands and kissed her palms.
“ ‘Thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings,’ ” he said. “ ‘That then I scorn to change my state with kings.’ ”
By afternoon, however, his good humor and clarity were gone.
“He’s not out of the woods yet,” the doctor told them. “We’ll keep him here a few more days. When he’s stabilized, we’ll talk about moving him to a rehabilitation facility.”
Nikki offered to stay the night again but her aunt gently rejected this.
“I need to be here,” she said. “I simply won’t sleep without him next to me.”
—
Nikki left the hospital and walked to Whitechapel station. Her mind felt stretched out. Wobbly. She considered going back to Izzy and Preston’s house, but the thought depressed her. She checked her watch. It was 17:32. If she hurried, she would make it in time for the memorial for Claire Sexton at the pub near Gidea Park.
—
Nikki shucked her jacket as she entered the Three Horseshoes. A handful of people clustered in the dim space. These seemed to be locals—three middle-aged men in construction boots, a family of four, and a couple on a date. It smelled of fried fish, vinegar, and malty beer. There weren’t any signs about the memorial—a shamble of papers pinned to a message board showed rooms for let, and declared the upcoming Friday as pub quiz night.
Nikki asked the woman at the bar, who said, “To the left and up the stairs, love.”
—
The room upstairs was wide and deep, but felt cramped, due to a low plaster ceiling with heavy wooden beams. About two dozen people milled together, talking and cradling drinks. Others sat at tables, eating sandwiches and crisps. Most were in their twenties—friends or colleagues of Claire. They wore an awkward array of clothing—some in busty black funeral dresses, others in jeans and sweatshirts. A Taylor Swift album was playing.
One table near the entrance was draped in a white tablecloth and set with pink roses, artificial candles, and a condolence book. Nikki crossed to the book and scanned the notes and names, discreetly snapping a few photos with her phone before leaning in to write a message. Then she went past the beverage table and grabbed a bottle of Fosters to keep in her hand.
—
A woman in her early twenties sat alone. She wore an oversize sweater, jeans, and no makeup. Her cheeks were full and pink and dimpled. Her long, reddish-blonde hair was pulled back into two clips, frizzing a little with the humidity.
