Chapter Fourteen #2
She wore a tight, low-cut shirt, the crepey softness of her tanned skin bunching up at the pinched points.
“Raoul,” she exclaimed as Nikki’s father rose to his feet. “It’s been far too long.”
She kissed his cheeks, greeted Mac, and was introduced to Massimo.
“Will your husband be joining us?” Raoul asked.
Salvatrice pulled a pouting frown. “He has other priorities these days, I’m afraid. May I?”
She indicated the sofa. Raoul nodded and she settled in beside him. Gianni handed her a glass.
“He doesn’t talk much about it,” Gianni said to Mac, “but my father used to be in naval intelligence. He was the head of the Servizio Informazioni Operative e Situazione, SIOS.”
“Oh, it’s not called SIOS anymore,” Raoul said.
“Tell us more,” Salvatrice encouraged, placing fingers delicately on his arm. “It sounds fascinating.”
“Oh, I retired nearly a decade ago,” said Raoul. “I’m an old has-been.”
She gave a gentle laugh. “I don’t believe that for a moment.”
“Yes, do tell us, Mr. Serafino,” Mac encouraged. “Gianni said they called you out of retirement.”
Raoul sipped his wine, and leaned back. “I’m consulting on an old case—from nearly twenty years ago.”
“Tell us!” Salvatrice urged.
“Very well,” Raoul agreed. “There was a man called Lotterio Patalano. Customs and excise official. Married. Two boys. We came to suspect Patalano of falsifying shipping documents…. I can’t give details—but we became sure he was involved in smuggling operations.
Some members of my team wanted to arrest him.
Others, including myself, wanted to wait and understand his game. ”
“You were quite right about waiting,” Mac interjected loudly. “It’s important to find the criminal networks and how they operate.”
Massimo muttered something under his breath.
“Sì,” Raoul said, then continued. “The thing that puzzled us was this: The system was far more complex than Patalano’s capability. He wasn’t stupid, but he wasn’t particularly clever—and this system was far more sophisticated than anything we’d seen.”
“What did you do?” Gianni asked.
“We arrested him, and he agreed to cooperate. But his stories were outrageous. He claimed that he was just a pawn in some global conspiracy. He talked about agents inside the Italian and US governments, and inside NATO intelligence.”
“You never told me this,” said Massimo sharply. “Did you ever identify these agents?”
Raoul shook his head.
“NATO intelligence?” Gianni said, grinning at Mac. “What do you think of that, Mac? You have leaks in your organization.”
“Counterespionage is one of our core capabilities,” Mac said with cool confidence, then launched into the history of intelligence operations in Europe. Nikki translated for Massimo, who seemed increasingly irritated.
“If he’s an intelligence officer,” Massimo said, “then I’m the Queen of Denmark.”
“Tell us more!” Salvatrice said breathlessly to Raoul. “What happened to this Patalano?”
“He ate a bullet. Just like that. We could never verify his claims, and the case fizzled out. It was shelved years ago. Then last week, something interesting happened—which is why they called me in. Patalano’s widow died.
As her sons were sorting through their mother’s items, they came across the key to a safety deposit box in Rome.
And what do you think they found there? Patalano’s ledger!
The bastard had detailed notes of all the work he’d done during nearly twenty years of smuggling operations.
Of course, it’s useless now. Expired long ago. ”
From a back bedroom, Francesca’s voice rose: “I’m not going to say it again. Go to sleep!”
This was followed by the sound of a door closing, then a disconsolate wail. Francesca returned to the living room wearing freshly applied lipstick.
Gianni clapped. “Well, I hope everyone’s hungry. My beautiful mother-in-law has prepared a fantastic meal for us tonight. Grazie, Mamma.”
He gestured towards Salvatrice, who placed a gracious hand on her heart.
They migrated to the dining room. Nikki was about to sit when Francesca touched her arm and asked sweetly, “Can you help serve?”
—
According to everyone at the table, Salvatrice’s cooking was excellent. Unfortunately, it was also full of meat and fish, and apart from a dish of zucchini, eggplant, and tomatoes, Nikki couldn’t find much to eat.
“Vegetarianism isn’t natural,” complained Salvatrice as Nikki refused a meatball.
“I’ll take hers,” offered Mac, holding out his plate.
He grinned at Nikki. “Watching what you eat? You look like you work out. Spend a lot of time at the gym? Lift weights?”
Nikki stared back, unsmiling. “Does the Dutch Navy have fitness requirements?”
“Ha, ha,” said Mac. “Funny, as well as hot. That’s one thing about me, you know: Not a lot of men like strong women, but I do. I like a challenge.”
“Tell me, does your father like the melanzane?” Salvatrice asked Nikki with a jab in her ribs.
“Excuse me?”
“Does your father like the melanzane?”
“I don’t know,” Nikki said.
“Well, ask him,” urged Salvatrice.
Confused, Nikki turned to Raoul. It took a moment to get his attention. “Salvatrice wants to know if you like the melanzane.”
“Delicious,” said Raoul to Salvatrice, across Nikki. “The best I’ve tasted.”
“You flatter me,” she replied. “It’s such a pleasure to cook for a man with refined tastes.”
“Your brother tells me you’re dating Tito Calandra,” Mac said to Nikki with his mouth full.
Nikki flushed hotly. “What? No. I’m not. Why would you say that, Gianni?”
Her brother, red-faced, laughed.
“C’mon,” he said. “Everyone’s talking about it. Even Enzo says you are.”
Nikki was incredulous. “Why the fuck are you talking to Enzo?”
Raoul coughed.
Francesca scolded, “There’s no need for such language.” Then, to Gianni, in Italian, “I told you she wasn’t.”
Nikki glared at her sister-in-law, who, she was fairly certain, had spent time in Tito’s bed.
Gianni said to Nikki, “There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. You and Tito dated for years. It would be perfectly natural for you to start again.”
“Why should it matter to you?” demanded Nikki, rage rising.
“He clearly cares about you,” said Gianni. “Look at what he did for you!”
“You forced me,” said Nikki, trying, failing, to keep her voice calm. “I had no other options. And now I owe him. Do you understand? You did this, and now I can’t get out.”
This exchange was in Italian. Mac, clearly not comprehending the contention, smiled affably.
“Would you make an introduction?” he said in English.
“No,” said Nikki. “My brother is misinformed. I’m not affiliated with Tito Calandra. I strongly recommend that you stay away. He’s dangerous.”
“You can ask,” Gianni pushed. “He would take your call.”
“Why don’t you call?” she snapped.
Gianni glanced down and picked at the food on his plate.
“He’s not taking your calls,” Nikki realized.
Gianni turned red to the roots of his curly hair.
Francesca pushed back from the table, announcing, “I’ll open another bottle of wine.”
Nikki’s phone pinged.
The message was from the landlord who rented her the Krav Maga studio. It was a picture of a building on fire.
—
Nikki barely saw where she was going as she sprinted out of Gianni’s flat. Racing through the crowded streets on her Hornet, she heard only the engine and the rush of blood in her ears.
—
Fire crews were still battling the blaze when she arrived to stand with the watching crowds gathered in the rain. Smoke mixed with steam, the choking stench filling the streets.
A woman with frizzy grey hair, glasses, and a housecoat sat on the curb, barefoot, head in her hands, weeping as she looked up at the orange inferno.
“What happened?” Nikki asked, but the woman only stared.
She asked another bystander, dreading the truth before it actually emerged.
“Three men torched it,” he told her. “It was il Sistema. The System did this.”
She thought of the intensity of De Rosa’s face when he visited the studio, and his threat: Change your patterns. Stop teaching. I won’t tell you again.
De Rosa had warned her to stop teaching. She’d told him no. This was his response, Tito’s response, to no.
—
It took only a few minutes to reach Tito’s stronghold in the city. Last summer when she’d visited him, the building had been open, filled with music and company. Now, the giant gates were shut. Locked. High stone walls stretched up into the dark night.
She knocked. There was no sound or movement. She kicked the doors, slammed them, pounded, and screamed.
She’d been so naive to think she could be rid of him.
Tito contaminated everything—was everywhere. There wasn’t a crime or mercy he didn’t know about. Worse, he was inside her, in childhood memories, in her sense of her own body, his voice in her thoughts. She wanted him gone.
“Fuck you!” she shouted. “Do you hear me? Fuck you, Tito!”
—
Time passed, and as the anger drained away, she became aware of the passersby who slowed to watch, including a cluster of teenage girls filming with their phones. She strode past them and into a side street, where she sagged against a wall, breathing through the hot tears.
She didn’t know how long she crouched like this in the dark, a creeping shame settling in where the rage had been.
Gradually, she became aware of her phone ringing.
She held it to her ear.
At first, all she heard was sobbing. Then her aunt Izzy’s voice.
“Oh, sweetheart…Nikki. It’s Preston. He’s fallen…. Oh, darling, I don’t know what to do. He’s hurt so badly.”