Chapter Sixteen
Sixteen
“I need new football boots,” said Davide. “Mine are totally wrecked…like, seriously fucked up. They’re too small anyway—they pinch—and now I can’t even use them.”
Valerio shuffled to the sink and emptied yesterday’s coffee grounds from the Moka into the drain, rinsing the filter.
“Next paycheck,” he said.
“Please!” Davide moaned. “We have a match next Saturday. The guys are counting on me.”
“You can’t use them for even one more match?”
“Like I said, they’re fucked.”
“Don’t use that word,” said Valerio. “It isn’t nice.”
“So what? You use it.”
Valerio sighed and, tamping fresh coffee in the Moka pot, screwed on the top and started the flame on the gas stove.
His one-bedroom apartment wasn’t really large enough to host both kids at the same time.
Last night, he’d given Gemma the bed, and Davide slept on the sofa.
Valerio had gotten a sleeping bag and fold-out army cot for cheap from a buddy at work.
After this first test run of the contraption, he felt like his body had been worked over with a hammer.
The shooting sciatic burn down his right leg was killing him.
“You snore like Godzilla,” said Gemma, coming into the kitchen. “Davide, how could you sleep with Babbo’s snoring?”
“Can I please get the boots?” said Davide. “I need them!”
“What do you want to eat?” Valerio asked.
“Let’s go out to breakfast,” said Gemma. “Can we go to a café, please?”
“This is a café,” said Valerio with a sweeping gesture. “Caffé Alfieri. What can I offer? Toast? Juice?”
“I want a cornetto,” said Gemma.
“Me, too,” said Davide.
“That isn’t food. It’s sugar,” said Valerio, who, in the ensuing argument, considered that he often had a chocolate cornetto for breakfast.
It was a matter of minutes before he capitulated.
“Okay. Fine. Go get dressed.”
—
It was raining outside. A steady, miserable drizzle. He made everyone carry an umbrella.
At the café, while they ate pastries and looked at their phones, Valerio thought about Ravenna. He was strangely moved by her bravery. She’d been so frightened, had seen the gun in his hand, yet stayed to accuse him of Gaetano’s murder.
“Hey,” said Gemma, looking up from her screen. “Gina and Annalisa are on their way here. Can I hang out with them today?”
“I thought that we would hang out today,” said Valerio. “Just the three of us.”
“But it’s Saturday!” Gemma protested. “Seriously, Babbo!”
Davide looked up. “Actually,” he said, “a bunch of guys are heading to Fabio’s house to play video games. I told them I would come.”
Valerio tipped his empty espresso cup into his mouth, hoping for another drop. Nothing.
“Fine,” he said, setting it back down.
His phone rang. Luca Errichiello. He sent it to voicemail.
“Can I have some money for shopping—and lunch?” said Gemma. “Please?”
“Yeah,” chimed in Davide. “Me, too. And can I get the boots?”
Valerio opened his wallet and distributed the cash.
“We’ll get the boots after my next paycheck,” he promised Davide.
—
Watching them rush out of sight, Valerio was stabbed through with love and fear. He needed to protect them, yet felt the emptiness of his hands.
He sat in the café for another few minutes, then stood and started moving, a weird pressure inside his body propelling him through the misting rain.
He thought about Ravenna, about her probing questions, her drive to investigate: What if we found out what Gaetano knew? If it was important to Errichiello, maybe it’s enough to get him arrested…enough to give you leverage….
The idea glimmered in the darkness of his thoughts. Tempting as it was, Valerio resisted the relief it offered. Every condemned man has the delusion of reprieve.
Digging through the wreckage of Luca’s crimes carried tremendous risk. If Luca found out, he might simply drop the blade. And this wouldn’t just mean exposure and loss of Valerio’s career and pension; Luca had killed Gaetano for whatever he had known.
Valerio’s work had prepared him for the possibility of death, and perhaps that was why he was willing to take the risk.
But Luca had made it clear that Davide and Gemma were also in the balance—and that was intolerable.
Yet his children were in danger, whether he took action, or waited like a pig penned for butchering.
He had one advantage and it was this: Luca didn’t know him. Not really. Not yet. The longer Valerio waited, the greater the opportunity Luca had to learn about him, to understand his tolerances, to pressure and corrupt him. He was compromised, but he wasn’t corrupt. Not yet.
—
To his surprise, Valerio realized that, like a homing pigeon, he’d returned to his roost: police HQ on Via Medina.
He greeted the door guard, took the stairs, and jogged the long hallway to his office.
He unlocked the door to familiar odors of rusted metal, stale cigarettes and coffee, sweat, and yesterday’s lunch.
It felt empty without the other men. He sat at his desk and logged in to his computer.
He started with Gaetano’s mother, Ines Mancusi, and the man he’d seen in the photograph with her. Valerio flipped through his notepad to find the name Gaetano had given him: Paride Silvestri.
There were a handful of police files on Ines—traffic violations. Apart from two anemic social media accounts, there was little about her online.
Silvestri was a different matter.
Valerio was surprised by the trove of information: articles and photographs spanning decades.
With wealth that traced back to a foreign exchange trading firm in the Virgin Islands, he was rumored to be a billionaire.
He owned villas in Sorrento, Rome, and Florence, where he hosted lavish parties attended by international elites as well as local and national government dating back to the Berlusconi administration.
Movie stars and businessmen beamed beside him in photographs, his pearly teeth flashing against a deep, unnatural tan.
At a recent art exhibition hosted by Silvestri, NATO men and women in military dress uniforms mingled with the black-tie crowd.
Silvestri’s past was elusive. The name was Neapolitan, but the earliest records Valerio found were from the 1990s. One journalist claimed he’d been raised in Argentina and migrated to Naples, but Valerio couldn’t corroborate it.
On paper, Silvestri was a saint. Not so much as a parking ticket.
The financial police had investigated him a handful of times, but he’d come up squeaky clean.
There was a solitary police report from 2008: a complaint from a woman named Agnese Cuomo, its contents sealed by a magistrate.
Valerio recognized the name of the officer who had taken the complaint: Giuseppe Riccio—known by his friends as Beppe.
Beppe had retired years ago, but Valerio found him on Facebook, and sent a message, inviting him for a coffee and catch-up.
To his gratitude, Beppe responded almost immediately with a yes.
—
Valerio checked his watch. It was nearly lunchtime and he was hungry. He tapped his hand on the desk and thought for a minute before picking up his phone.
He’d kept the thing on mute and noticed now he’d missed several more calls from Luca Errichiello. Well, fuck him.
Valerio dialed Ravenna’s number. She didn’t answer. He thought about her for a moment—the way her eyes had flashed when she stood at his door. He texted, asking her to lunch.
—
He was just leaving the station when his phone rang. Giorgia.
“Are the kids with you?” she asked.
“They’re off with their friends.”
“Why did you let them do that? They were supposed to come home. They need to do their chores.”
“That isn’t fair,” Valerio said. “You couldn’t wait to get rid of them last night. You can’t push them away when it’s inconvenient for you—and then demand that they come back.”
“And you can’t just give them whatever they want!” she retorted. “They think you’re so wonderful—but that’s because you’re always forcing me to be the mean parent. You don’t respect me. Your family doesn’t respect me—and they know that.”
“If you need them home for chores,” said Valerio, “then call and arrange that with them.”
—
Cosimo’s pizzeria was busy with the weekend lunch rush, but Cosimo waved at Valerio when he entered, and one of the servers hurried another customer out of a table.
He had just taken a seat when Ravenna came through the door.
Valerio had only ever seen the nurse in her scrubs and sneakers.
Today she was dressed in a pair of well-cut jeans and black boots, tight dark ringlets framing her face.
She removed her winter jacket to reveal a long burgundy blouse draping against her soft curves, a gold chain around her neck.
Valerio rose to his feet and was surprised when she came close enough to kiss his cheeks.
She glowed with warmth and smelled soapy.
They sat, and Valerio wanted to say something nice about how she looked, but words wouldn’t come.
She leaned across the table and spoke quietly. “Who are we interviewing first?”
“What?”
Her face creased. “I thought that was why you wanted to meet—to investigate Gaetano’s death.”
Valerio hesitated. “I am investigating. But you shouldn’t be…. As I told you, it isn’t safe. You should stay away from this.”
Cosimo was suddenly at the table, looking between them.
“Valerio, introduce me to your beautiful friend!”
“Ravenna.” She offered a hand. “And you are?”
“Piacere, Ravenna. I’m Cosimo.” He took her hand in both of his. “Welcome to my restaurant. You’re a lucky woman—dating one of Naples’ finest! And he is certainly lucky to have the pleasure of such charming company!”
He winked at Valerio, who, like a teenage boy, had the irrational urge to duck under the table.
—
When Cosimo had taken their orders and hurried away, Ravenna said, “I know you think I should be careful…and I will. But I can’t just sit back and do nothing. I’ve never been able to just look away. I don’t think you can either.”