Luca MORETTI
My father's study smelled of old cigar.
Twelve years shut. Donna Beatrice went in once a month to dust. No one else.
The Cuban cigars were still in the humidor. The whiskey decanter, empty. The photo from Raffaele's baptism, on the desk—my father in the center, holding six-month-old Raffaele; Carlo Acquaviva on the left, Salvatore Rossi on the right.
Two godfathers, both of them false.
Raffaele leaned against the door behind me.
"Fratellone."
"Fratellino."
It was the first time in fifteen years I'd called him that without irony.
"You want to tell me?"
"I do."
I sighed. I sat down in my father's chair for the first time in twelve years.
"Carlo."
Raffaele didn't move.
"Do you have proof?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"I am."
He sighed, running a hand through his hair.
"I felt something too, fratellone. Last Friday." He rested his hand on the desk. "He asked me where Valentina would be sleeping that week."
I clenched my fists.
"I plant false information tomorrow. For him. About a shipment in Bagnoli on Thursday. If Salvatore moves a man to Bagnoli, it's him."
"Sì."
"If he moves, I kill him."
"I'm going with you."
"No."
"Fratellone."
"No, Raffaele." I looked at him. "I bury him in silence. Alone."
He didn't argue, only lowered his head once.
I picked up the baptism photo, looked at my father in the center. Looked at Carlo, gray suit, short smile. I turned the frame against the bookshelf wall.
Forty years, Carlo.
I bury you in silence.