Chapter Thirteen #2
“Without a live witness, my hands are tied,” said Bonetti.
“My predecessor may have done things differently, but I believe we should be careful…before painting someone with the brush of such ugly accusations! Now, back to the Mancusi case. We must investigate properly. I hope you understand. It isn’t personal, but we need to be thorough.
We’ll be examining your actions last night. ”
Valerio nodded. “I would expect nothing less.”
“I’m placing you on administrative leave until the investigation is complete,” Bonetti said.
Valerio raised an eyebrow. Administrative leave was reserved for extraordinary situations, like cop shootings. But if Bonetti expected protest, Valerio disappointed him.
“The kid deserves a complete investigation,” he said.
—
Valerio sat in an outdoor café and had another espresso and rinsed it down with water, stomach churning.
He thought about getting on his motorbike, riding to Luca’s compound, and…
what then? Scream impotently? Lay the murder of Gaetano Mancusi at Luca’s feet—accuse him of being a cheat and a liar?
He’d known what Luca was. Known it when he begged for his help, when he agreed to do what he wanted.
And Valerio had done the one thing you must never do with a predator: exposed his throat.
Luca had preyed on his obvious need to protect his children and clear his debt.
He’d been stupid and blind, and Gaetano was dead.
—
His sister Orlanda called.
“You never answer!” she complained when he picked up.
“I’m answering,” he said.
“You don’t answer our texts. You don’t come by. Mamma’s too much to handle. You can’t just leave this to Penelope and me. It isn’t fair.”
“I can’t,” he said.
“We’re busy, too, you know,” she said. “You’re not the only one with obligations.”
In the background, female voices were shouting.
“What’s happening?” he asked.
“Giorgia came by with the kids; she has a date and wants them out of the house. She wants them to spend the night at Mamma’s, but Mamma isn’t well. Penny told her she can’t just dump them here.”
“She’s saying this in front of Davide and Gemma?”
Fuck. That was the last thing they needed.
“It isn’t Penny’s fault,” Orlanda defended. “I told you, it’s been a lot.”
“Tell Penelope to shut her mouth! Tell Giorgia to leave. I’ll come and get them.”
“But you’re working.”
“Not now, I’m not. Tell them I’m on my way.”
—
Valerio heard raised voices as he walked along the landing, towards his mother’s apartment.
“You’ve never liked me,” Giorgia’s voice rang out. “You hated me from the first day we met. You were jealous of me then, and now you’re even more jealous!”
“Oh, get over yourself!” Penny scoffed. “Why the hell should I be jealous of you?”
Giorgia’s voice: “Look in the mirror sometime.”
Penny again: “You’re right, I never liked you. That’s because I know what you are: a spoiled, delusional bitch. My brother was too good for you, but he’s an idiot and never saw you properly.”
“Shut up, both of you!” screamed Orlanda.
The door opened and Davide stormed through, slamming it behind him, his face a mask of disgust. He crossed to the iron railing and leaned heavily on it. Then he turned and saw his father, and Valerio watched something wrestling in his expression.
Thirteen years old, Davide was nearly as tall as Valerio, voice deepening as he raced out of childhood.
He’d always been such a funny kid—quiet and shy, intensely interested in music and football and extreme sports.
He’d recently started to notice girls, and took painful care to douse himself in body spray, and to comb and gel his hair into a rigid crest. Easily embarrassed in front of his friends, he kept his distance from Valerio in public, telegraphing disinterest. But there was the tender child in him still, the little boy who had bad dreams and cried out for his babbo.
This was the face Valerio saw now: the core of unshielded loneliness and grief.
Valerio rapidly closed the distance to his son, and pulled him in close.
The feel of Davide in his arms was almost too much to tolerate. Valerio’s throat was tight with the pain of love, the image in his mind of a young body broken and bloodied in front of Poggioreale.
“Go get your sister,” he said. “You’re coming home with me.”
—
Valerio’s anger towards his sisters and ex-wife came out as revulsion. He couldn’t stand to look at them.
Giorgia, in a skintight black dress and heels, hair curled and draped down her back, trailed behind as he marched through the apartment.
“If I’d known you would take them, I would have called…but you never have time for us! You can’t just expect my life to stop—”
Valerio gave her a look and she shut up.
His mother sat in her armchair, a vacant expression on her face, the rosary clutched in her hand. He kissed her on the head before leaving.
—
They spent the rest of the afternoon in the city center, the kids dipping in and out of the shops on Via Toledo. On another day, Valerio would have left them on their own. But he didn’t want them out of his sight.
There was one diversion: Sonia called, asking for the passport Nikki had given him, so he dragged Davide and Gemma to the police station to drop it off.
For dinner, Valerio took the kids to Cosimo’s pizzeria, then, afterwards, back to his place. They were sitting together on the sofa, watching a superhero movie, when there was a knock at the door.
Not wanting to alarm the kids, Valerio turned up the volume and crossed out of sight before taking his Smith about those horrible moments outside the jail.
Gemma came up behind him and pressed against his back, peering on tiptoe over his shoulder at Ravenna.
“Hi,” she said. “I’m Gemma.”
Ravenna pushed the tears away and sniffed.
“Oh, Babbo!” Gemma said, squeezing around Valerio’s middle, tugging him away from the door. “Don’t just stand there like a big dummy. Invite her in! Can we do something for you? Can we get you water? Tea?”
Without waiting for an answer, she darted back into the living room shouting, “Davide! Turn off the TV. Babbo has a guest!”
Valerio stared at Ravenna, heat rising in his cheeks and neck. She looked at his hands and he noticed that he was still holding the gun. He tucked it out of sight.
“For safety,” he mumbled.
“Are those your kids?” Ravenna asked.
Valerio nodded. “Gemma and Davide.” Then, not knowing why, added, “I’m divorced.”
After a long pause, he stepped back. “Will you come in?”
Her eyes were wide as she looked at him. Then, slowly, she nodded.
—
Valerio became suddenly, uncomfortably conscious of his apartment as Ravenna followed him: shabby secondhand furniture, posters on the wall masquerading as art, stacks of books and newspapers, wires looping out of boxes—entrails of dead electronics that he hadn’t gotten around to burying.
Dust on everything. It bothered him that it mattered what she thought of him.
—
In the kitchen, Gemma put the kettle on, and Davide slipped away into the back room with his laptop. Valerio pulled out a chair for Ravenna and she sat, clutching her bag in her lap.
“How do you know each other?” Gemma asked.
“We don’t,” said Ravenna. “We met this week.”
“I like your scrubs. Are you a doctor?”
“Nurse.”
“Babbo’s a cop. Did he tell you?”
“Yes. He told me.”
“He’s really good at his job,” said Gemma. Then, to Valerio, “Did you tell her?”
Valerio passed a hand across his face, and sat heavily in a chair. “I’m sure she isn’t interested.”
He looked around the room—dirty dishes stacked in the sink, the floor that needed sweeping.