Chapter Fourteen
Fourteen
Music was playing loudly at Gianni and Francesca’s flat—something with trumpets, twanging guitar, and tinny drums. A harsh female voice belted Spanish from the speakers.
The baby in Gianni’s arms was wailing as he answered the door.
“Oh good,” he said. “You’re here. Can you hold Fredo?”
“No…wait!” Nikki protested as he transferred the screaming child to her.
He retreated rapidly from the room, shouting, “He’ll be here any minute! Francesca, text my father. Tell him to bring more wine!”
Nikki stood rigidly, not sure what to do with the warm, squirming, noisy human.
Children terrified her. The only other baby she’d been forced to hold was Bea, Gianni’s first child, and she’d passed on that privilege as soon as possible.
She looked around for someplace to put Fredo. He smelled bad, and was leaking.
Gianni and Francesca’s posh flat had upscale furniture, a wide-screen television, speaker system, and personal temperature controls.
Modern art on the walls included an oil portrait of Francesca in her wedding gown.
Nikki couldn’t begin to guess how they afforded any of this.
Gianni owned an unremarkable clothing shop in a questionable part of the city that, by all accounts, was a spectacular failure.
She hadn’t seen her brother since the summer, when Gianni had appeared on her doorstep, bleeding and delirious—tortured by loan sharks, begging for help.
The panic of that day, the terror she’d felt asking Tito Calandra for money, the frantic drive to Pozzuoli to deliver the funds, had been eclipsed in her memory by what came afterwards: the cave with Durant Cole.
Those frozen minutes were etched into her.
Sometimes the details arose with sudden, paralyzing clarity.
Yet when she turned deliberately to it, ran her mind over those recollections, like running her finger over broken glass, she instinctively avoided the jagged edges.
—
Her phone rang. Nikki shifted Fredo to answer.
“Hi,” chirped Audrey Lake. “It’s me.”
“Audrey, you shouldn’t call me,” said Nikki.
“We’re not leaving,” said Audrey. “We were supposed to go home, but the police say we have to stay.”
“Really?” said Nikki, curiosity getting the better of her. “Why?”
“Mummy says it’s because of the fucking drugs. Fucking drugs.”
Nikki extracted herself from the call. Jostling Fredo to calm him, she phoned Sonia and told her what Audrey had said.
“We got the passport,” Sonia said. “It tested positive for the same cocaine we found on Monica and Kami. It was good you handled it appropriately—but I wish you’d told Lake to give it directly to the police.”
“I should have,” Nikki agreed.
“Chain of custody should be fine,” said Sonia, her voice softening. “But the Lakes are a powerful family and their lawyers are involved. We’ve put a judicial order on the Lakes’ yacht, so they can’t leave the country. And we’re trying to get a search warrant, but they’re resisting.”
—
She was jolted by a loud rap on the door.
Nikki expected Gianni to return. When he didn’t, she answered.
The man at the door was in his early forties. He had thinned brown hair, pale skin, and a rectangular face with jowls, eyes like buttons pressed into dough. He wore a suit jacket and checkered shirt, stretched over a barrel chest and hefty belly.
“You must be Nina!” He spoke English with a foreign accent, a wide smile pushing out his apple cheeks. “Gianni and Francesca didn’t tell me you were such a looker. And there’s Fredo! Hello, little Fredo.”
He grabbed and waggled the baby’s foot. Fredo’s wailing intensified.
“And you are?” Nikki asked.
He snapped his heels together and saluted.
“Lieutenant Commander Mac van den Berg, at your service!”
“How do you know my brother?”
He gave a conspiratorial wink. “Mutual friends.”
Gianni was back in the room now, rushing towards them. He brushed past Nikki and embraced the visitor, kissed his cheeks.
“Mac! Mac! You’re here,” he said in English. “Wonderful!”
Francesca followed close behind, gliding forward in a floor-length red dress slit to the thigh.
Nikki intercepted, extending the baby. “He needs a diaper change.”
Francesca shifted deftly away. “Take him to my mother, will you?” she said, then, pushing past, greeted Mac with a kiss.
Nikki toted the howling Fredo into the kitchen, where Francesca’s mother, Salvatrice, was slicing bread and scowling.
“Can’t you see I’m busy?” she barked. “I spend the whole day cooking…cleaning. Tell Francesca this is her party. I’m not her slave.”
The relentless screaming was starting to induce panic when the doorbell buzzed and Nikki heard her father’s booming voice: “Sì, sì! Raoul Serafino. Pleasure to meet you. And this is Massimo Fattore, a good friend.”
Gianni’s voice: “Oh hello, Massimo. I didn’t expect you…. Well, welcome, of course.”
A shriek of joy pierced the air, then the pounding rush of little feet as three-year-old Bea raced through the flat.
—
Nikki entered the living room in time to see her niece flinging herself against Raoul, who bent to pick her up.
“Buona sera, bellissima,” he said. “How was your day?”
Massimo, looking sharp in a velvet smoking jacket, came towards Nikki. Wordlessly, he lifted the screaming baby, bounced him gently, and made a “shh, shh” sound.
“Signore, what are you complaining about?” he said. “Oh, I see. You have a very stinky diaper…well, that’s not something I can help you with. Come, let’s find your mother.”
He pursued Francesca and pressed the baby on her until she was forced to take him.
—
Gianni served beers and prosecco in the living room.
He wore jeans, a stylish shirt, and a maroon jacket.
He seemed to relish the role of host, ushering everyone to sit, and filling glasses.
Nikki was glad to notice how much he’d healed.
He looked the same as ever, although he limped a little, and wore a glove on his damaged hand.
“No alcohol for me,” said Massimo with a sigh as Gianni extended a glass. “Too tricky with the insulin. Such a nice house you have.”
“Yes!” Raoul agreed, looking around the space—the new furniture and electronics. “You seem to be doing very well for yourself. How’s the shop these days?”
“I’m looking to expand,” said Gianni. “Mac has some ideas about taking the business international. He’s got some contacts in the Netherlands that we’re exploring. There’s a real market there…. We would need some initial investments, of course….”
“Wonderful! Wonderful!” Raoul exclaimed, clapping Gianni on the shoulder.
Nikki wanted to shake her father. Despite his otherwise keen perception, he seemed forever blind to his son’s schemes.
He’d already poured tens of thousands of euros into Gianni, and would continue until it bankrupted him.
Before she died, Beatrice had warned Nikki to stay away from Gianni’s troubles—but that had proved impossible.
Raoul took a seat on the sofa. Bea climbed onto him. She searched his jacket pockets, coming up triumphant with two small toy cars and a wrapped candy.
In the next room, the voices of Francesca and her mother were raised, arguing about who should put the kids to bed.
“Fons was disappointed you didn’t come this afternoon,” Raoul scolded Nikki. “You need to keep your commitments.”
“I couldn’t come,” Nikki said. “I was called into work. I texted you about it.”
“All we have is our word,” he said. “I thought I taught you that.”
“How are you recovering?” Massimo asked Gianni.
“Fine. Fine…” Gianni replied, red rising to his cheeks.
“Yes, how’s your knee?” asked Raoul. He turned to Mac and explained in English, “I’m sure you know: Gianni was in a hit-and-run last summer. They never caught the driver.”
Nikki nearly spit her prosecco. She hadn’t realized that this was the story her brother had been telling to explain his injuries.
Massimo, who knew better, raised an eyebrow. Then, pointedly to Gianni, said, “With your business going so well, I’m sure you’ve repaid Nikki the money you owe her.”
Gianni gave a dismissive gesture. “Tito forgave the loan—so that’s taken care of.”
“What the fuck? That’s not—” Nikki began.
Gianni spoke loudly over her in English: “Mac is a Dutch naval officer. Covert intelligence. Isn’t that right, Mac? Doing some very important, very secret work for NATO.”
Mac chuckled heartily.
“Well,” he said. “That really isn’t something I should talk about.”
“What are they saying?” Massimo asked Nikki. She translated into Italian.
“What sort of idiot intelligence officer brags about his profession?” Massimo said derisively. “That’s the problem with movies. Everybody wants to be James Bond. Real spies aren’t glamorous. They’re despicable moral cowards.”
“What did he say?” Mac asked Gianni.
Gianni laughed. “He doesn’t think much of your profession.”
“It’s a very important job,” Mac articulated slowly in English to Massimo. “The public rarely sees the details of our operations. Unfortunately, we never get the credit we deserve.”
Nikki translated this to Massimo, who snorted.
“Tell us more about it,” urged Gianni. “Just the parts you can share, of course.”
Mac looked as if he’d been waiting for just this invitation.
“Well, it’s very elite,” he said. “Obviously, I can’t say much. But we’re keeping an eye on some very bad actors, and we always need boots on the ground—eyes and ears. It’s what we in the business call HUMINT.”
He sucked air through his teeth and took a swig from his beer.
Francesca sashayed into the room with a tinkling laugh. “Oh, I’m pleased it’s going so well! Come, Bea. Time for bed! No fighting. Give Nonno a hug.”
Bea clung on to Raoul’s neck, so that Francesca had to peel her away with much protest and tears. Raoul hugged her, and kissed her cheeks, then kissed them again.
Salvatrice came in from the kitchen, fanning her face with her hands. “It’s boiling in there! Gianni, pour me a prosecco, won’t you?”