I froze as a memory floated up through my brain.
A summer evening seven years ago…
When my father was still alive, and we didn’t know yet that Dario would go to prison.
I was an apprenticeconsigliereat the time, and I’d sat in on a meeting between my uncle and a guy my age.
The boy’s father was a judge who’d taken our money, then refused to follow our orders during a murder trial.
Ordinarily, that was something Fausto would have him killed for.
Instead, my uncle had used that leverage to pressure the young man into working for him as a mole…
In Naples.
Until today, my memory of that meeting had been no more important than a dozen other times I’d watched my uncle ‘persuade’ a poor bastard to work for him as a mole. In fact, until Sofia’s comment, I’d forgotten all about it.
I could remember the guy’s face – he’d been young at the time, just like me –
But what was his name?
…Marcello?
“Actually… maybe we do,” I said to Sofia, and walked over to the desk in the corner of the room. I had put Fausto’s flip phone inside earlier when I gave the presentation on Cesare.
“‘Maybe we do’ what?” Sofia asked.
“Have a mole inside theCamorra.”
If only I could remember specific details from the meeting ten years ago… maybe I could decipher the vague text conversations…
Sofia snorted. “What are the odds?”
“Not good,” I said as I opened the desk drawer, “but – ”
I froze.
On the outside of the flip phone, on the LCD screen, there was a message:
1 New Text.
It was the first message the phone had received since I came into possession of it.
I opened the flip phone excitedly –
And saw a Florence telephone number and a text.
THEY’RE COMING.
GET OUT NOW.
I stared at the message.
The time stamp said 52 minutes ago.
“Niccolo?” Sofia asked, concern in her voice. “What’s wrong?”
I started to pick up the landline –
