Chapter 39 Fon
Fon
Fon cut his ignition, listening to the engine idle down as his eyes tracked the landscape for something – anything – that shouldn’t be there: a distantly parked truck, the glint of sunlight reflecting off binoculars, branches chopped from a tree to give a better sightline, a still-warm cigarette butt in the red dust …
In his experience, it paid to be paranoid.
He stepped out, the door closing heavily behind him as he stared at the tiny round stone hut ahead, the trullo stuffed with hidden treasure: millions’ worth, in human form.
He walked over and put his key in the padlock, hearing the locking bar clunk and turn, the shackle unclipping.
He saw the dust motes spin in the air as daylight fell in with heavy indolence.
It took him a moment to find Fede on the ground, his back pressed against the wall.
He had curled into a foetal position, perhaps to sleep, and his head lolled heavily as he slowly pushed himself up, his palms spread on the ground.
Fon watched him adjust to the brightness and wondered if his captive listened out for the sound of his car with anticipation or dread.
After all, the abduction notwithstanding, Fon had made sure Fede was treated with kindness and civility during his spell here.
He had insisted Francesco treated him with as much respect as possible in the circumstances.
He was brought good food and fresh water every day, and the mess bucket was cleaned and replaced without comment. He was afforded his dignity.
‘Polpette di melanzane,’ he said, holding out the package wrapped in baking parchment.
Fede’s eyes flickered towards him in surprise at the upgrade on his usual bocadillo.
Fon shrugged. ‘We don’t want you losing weight. We don’t know how long this is going to go on for.’
There was a pause before Fede reached for the package. He held it in his palms tenderly, as if it was a newborn. ‘… My father has not paid?’
‘Not yet, no.’ Fon paused. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘You’re sorry?’
‘Of course. I wish it hadn’t come to this. This isn’t how I like to do business.’
‘Business.’
A small scoff echoed the word and Fon felt himself bristle, retracting like a hermit crab back under his shell.
Fede watched him. ‘And how do you like to do business?’
‘With mutual respect. Negotiation. I have a talent for contract work and homing in on detail.’
Fede smirked. ‘We could do with you in the state attorney’s office, then.’ His eyes flashed. ‘You’re wasted here; nothing more than a paid thug. Is this what you imagined your life would be? Kidnapping and ransom? Bribery? Extortion? Racketeering?’
‘I never dared to dream that high,’ Fon hit back.
‘I never imagined I would get to marry my wife or live in my villa; I never thought I would be able to do more with my life than fish for mackerel and drop lobster pots. But perhaps such lack of imagination is impossible for you to consider. You, the son of a duke, to whom anything and everything is available.’
‘So I’m being punished for being born rich?’
‘It’s not personal, Fede. It’s not about you at all. You are simply leverage. All this is nothing but a waiting game.’
‘And if I fall ill?’
‘I won’t let that happen. It’s in our interests to ensure you remain a viable transfer commodity. You are no good to us dead.’
Fede smiled, resting his head back on the wall, the sunlight falling on his throat. It had been several days now since his capture and his beard was coming in thickly; it made him look older. ‘You’re lucky, then, that you took me and not my brother. He would die just to spite you.’
‘I believe you. He would do anything to spite me.’
‘Can you blame him?’
Their eyes met as they trespassed into another area of shared history. Cosimo hadn’t been the only brother to lose Romola.
Fede looked away first, the silence between them filled by the song of a distant blackbird, and Fon glimpsed the pain behind his eyes.
Like him, Fede was a master of repression, hiding his true feelings beneath smooth manners and a ruthless intellect.
Fon felt a rush of pity for him, knowing he was living a lie.
Was he lonely too? Did he sit in filled rooms as a stranger among friends, showing his family a face that had no reflection?
‘… For what it’s worth, I want you to know how sorry I am about what happened to Romola.’
Fede winced. ‘You’re very apologetic today. Why the bleeding-heart confessions?’
Fon shrugged. ‘There’s no one else to hear them.’
‘You mean you can’t be seen to be a decent human?’
The comment was like a whiplash and Fon inhaled sharply. ‘We all hide in plain sight, Fede. Even you.’
Fede’s eyes narrowed at the pointed comment but Fon turned away and stepped back into the light, refusing to reveal what he knew just yet. He was a keeper of secrets and that gave him power here, even if Fede was unaware of it.
‘I’ll give you some privacy,’ he said – it had become their code phrase – as he lit a cigarette and paced slowly outside. There was no rush to leave.
Fede had finished by the time he came back in, and he emptied the contents of the bucket into the hole Francesco had dug on his initial stakeout.
He had brought another bucket and soap on his second visit, specifically for Fede to wash in, and he filled that too from the standing tap outside the farmhouse, watching as Fede washed his face and hands.
Fon had meant what he said when he’d told Fede he wasn’t a savage.
He knew his captive would never see him as a social equal, and any long-held hope of becoming friends was unthinkable now; he accepted that.
But it mattered to him that he rose in Fede’s estimation at least as a businessman.
‘So … married life,’ Fede said, unwrapping his meal as Fon leaned against the doorway. ‘Does it suit you?’
Fon shrugged. ‘Three years now and we’ve never been happier.’ He watched Fede’s eyes travel over him curiously, sceptically – as if it was inconceivable to him that Fon might have found a woman prepared to pledge her life to his.
‘And where does your lovely wife think you are right now?’
‘Today? In Taranto.’
‘Are we in Taranto?’ Fede asked quickly, glancing at him.
Fon gave a wry smile. It was easy to forget that his captive had no idea at all where he was. For all he knew, Fon could have taken him over the border into France, Switzerland, Austria … ‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Ah …’ Fede’s fingers were slow and clumsy unwrapping the paper. He was stiff from lying immobile for so long. ‘What does she think you do?’
‘Import cigarettes.’
Fede laughed at that, truly amused, the sound sudden and unexpected so that Fon almost jumped.
‘It is technically true. It’s just, it’s only one of the things I do.’
‘A cover story.’
‘If you like.’
Fede nodded as he took a bite of the polpette, a small groan escaping him as the flavours burst on his tongue.
Deprivation of light, comfort, touch … any positive sensation at all was enough almost to break a man.
Fon had discovered this over the years when needing to extract information.
Once someone was in a state of privation, the carrot was usually far more effective than the whip.
It played better to Fon’s nature, whereas Dante loved the whip.
‘Good?’ he asked, taking pleasure in this small mercy as Fede nodded appreciatively, too overcome to speak. Fon took no joy in these baser aspects of his job, and Fede was a cultured companion, after all. ‘Then I shall bring some more tomorrow. Unless there’s something else you’d prefer?’
Fede pinned him with a look. ‘You’re taking requests now?’
‘No, I—’
‘Am I your prisoner or your king?’
Fon swallowed, immediately regretting his hospitality and rueing his need to impress this man who was by turns a bear cub, then a viper. He had been supplicatory, not commanding, and had relinquished his authority by trying to chase Fede’s respect.
‘I must go,’ he said abruptly, turning and reaching for the door.
‘No, wait!’ Fede cried, just as it was slammed shut and darkness fell upon him again like a velvet cloak. ‘Alfonso, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean—’
Fon clicked the lock shut and strode back to the car, blood rushing in his head. He’d been such a fool to think there was a place here for compassion. For decency.
Even here, with the keys in his hand to freedom and riches, he was nobody.
He stood at the window of the apartment, looking out towards the sea.
The restaurants and bars were filled up along the promenade, the castle walls dramatically lit, tourists weaving in and out of the boutiques that stayed open late in the hopes of selling a decorative tile or handwoven basket after dinner.
Behind him the television was playing a game show, canned laughter setting his nerves on edge. Gabriella was through in the kitchen, fixing him a drink. She had been surprised when he’d turned up here unexpectedly again, agitated.
Fede’s disdain had wounded him more deeply than he cared to admit and Fon was already resolved not to go back tomorrow, to teach him a lesson and show him who wielded the power between them now.
Alone in the dark, with no food or water, Fede would soon feel the minutes begin to stretch like hours, realizing too late that he had deprived himself of the only person in the world who could keep him alive.
Fon might even leave him for two days. Could he survive that long without water?
He remembered the second bucket – it had been freshly filled for washing, but the soap …
He turned away from the window. He would decide tomorrow, he told himself; see how he felt after a good night’s sleep. He might feel more merciful on a full stomach.
‘Here.’ Gabriella crossed the room and gave him his martini.
He took a deep drink and closed his eyes with fleeting pleasure as it slipped down, but he was still angry and discomfited at Fede’s scorn; he couldn’t throw it off.
It was as if a piece of his soul had been turned over and now sat at an odd angle to the rest of him, jarring with every movement.
Why did Fede’s opinion matter so much to him?
Why did he care what that man thought, when he was the one with all the power?
He looked back out of the window, trying to recover his equilibrium before he went home. His wife was seven minutes from here in their beautiful home, caring for six orphans with Flavia.
Flavia. He didn’t like having a stranger in his house.
Her eyes followed him, watchful. Lustful?
Money and power attracted women, but the wrong sort.
He wanted her gone. They needed her while the Church was still looking for the children’s father, but if that went on much longer without success, Fon would send one of his own men up there to find him and haul him back here to face his responsibilities.
‘Will you stay tonight?’ Gabriella asked him, grazing a nail against his chest. She had had them filed into sharp talons and he knew they were supposed to excite him, but she could rarely satisfy him in the way he liked.
Most of the time she earned her money simply by living here; it was far more important to him that he was seen to keep a mistress than it was to enjoy having one.
Rafaella was expecting him home – he had told her he wouldn’t be late. She would be feeding a stranger’s children their dinner, running their baths, brushing their hair …
Gabriella pressed the nail harder against his skin, looking up at him through slitted eyes, before she slowly sank to her knees and reached for his flies.
‘Yes, I’ll stay,’ he murmured, dropping his head back and closing his eyes. Images – always the same image – stepped out of the shadows and filled his mind as she began to work on him. This was what he needed. It was the only release that would bring him peace.
Collura had been right to call Rafaella a saint. She was the Madonna.
But when he was like this, there were things only Gabriella could do for him – and tonight he needed the whore.