Chapter Twenty
Twenty
Valerio stood beside his motorbike at the Capodichino airport pickup curb, his usual calm displaced by a restless energy and rare scowl. He greeted Nikki and kissed her cheeks. His whiskers scratched her, and she caught the sour waft of old wine.
“Ciao, bella,” he said. “How’s your uncle?”
“Better. What’s up? What didn’t you want to tell me on the phone?”
He handed her a helmet.
“Not here.”
—
The air was warmer and more humid than in London, an intermittent drizzle flicking against them as Valerio navigated through the chaotic roar of morning traffic, down the steep streets into the city below.
Nikki gripped onto him, rucksack slamming against her back as they jostled over paving stones, dodging vehicles and pedestrians.
Valerio was one of the few people whose driving Nikki could tolerate.
He was just as enterprising as every other Neapolitan motorist, but he handled the bike capably, and Nikki relaxed into the movement.
—
It had been strangely difficult to leave Izzy and Preston in the hospital.
She had the sense of pressed flowers—every color and delicate fold carefully preserved, translucent, desperately fragile.
Not one for sentimentality, Nikki had nonetheless experienced a pang of anxiety as they waved her out of sight.
Izzy had insisted, with a smile, “Oh, don’t worry about us.”
Nikki considered her aunt. The burden of Preston grew weightier every day, but she couldn’t lift any part of this when Izzy made it clear she wanted to carry it alone.
—
Crowds thickened, slowing their progress as they approached Nikki’s flat in the city’s historic center.
With several blocks to go, Valerio pulled up to the curb.
Nikki dismounted and, removing her helmet, turned to say goodbye.
But Valerio switched off the motor and took off his helmet, too—clearly intending to come with her.
Business had resumed in the busy Gesù Nuovo piazza, the sellers’ stalls in their usual places: one hawking jewelry, another ceramic tiles, another black Pulcinella masks and dangling cornicelli. Beside these was an army vehicle in green camo and two uniformed soldiers cradling assault rifles.
The church doors were open again. Tourists joined the faithful in their slow march inside.
At the base of the Guglia dell’Immacolata, set against the iron railing, a makeshift shrine had formed, filled with handwritten notes, and carnations wrapped in cellophane.
Assuming this was for Claire, Nikki drew near.
But the framed photograph at the center showed a different young woman: large eyes outlined in kohl, and bleached curls.
Nikki stared for several seconds before recognizing Signora Dorotea—at least three decades out of date.
She paused, and whistled sharply for Valerio, who was bulldozing through the mob.
A plump woman with an umbrella stood at the shrine. She set a bundle of carnations on the ground, crossed herself, then pivoted to the church and crossed herself again.
“What happened here?” Nikki asked.
The woman turned. A scarf was wrapped tightly around her head, showing a broad face and arched eyebrows penciled into an expression of surprise.
“Signora Dorotea. God rest her soul.”
“The fortune teller?”
“Sì,” said the woman. “She had the sight. Assisto. Guided by the souls of the dead. She interpreted my dreams, and gave me my numbers.”
“What happened?” Nikki asked.
The woman crossed herself again—a motion that seemed more compulsive than religious. “You haven’t heard?”
“No.”
“A robbery. In her home. They killed her.”
Nikki’s pulse quickened. Not even a week had passed since Claire’s murder. A dreadful coincidence—if that’s what it was.
“When was this?”
“Sunday. Pray for her soul.”
The woman hurried off.
The memory of Signora Dorotea felt strangely present: the garish orange scarf and fierce eyes, the lipstick leaching into the crevices around her lips, and cool chapped skin as she gripped Nikki’s hand.
Valerio had returned to Nikki’s side and was following her gaze to the memorial shrine.
“Who was it?” he asked.
Nikki seemed to sense something hidden; some pattern of shadows she should be able to decipher if she looked carefully. She glanced from the shrine to the grey facade of the church, where her mother had once seemed to see a secret message. Her skin prickled with a sudden chill.
“Fortune teller,” she said. “Murdered.”
—
When they arrived at Nikki’s house, Valerio diverted to the kitchen and began making coffee.
“Don’t you need to get back to work?” Nikki called from the back room, where she was changing.
“I’m on leave,” he shouted back. “Where are your espresso cups?”
Nikki pulled on a new shirt and jogged back into the kitchen.
“I’m antisocial,” she told him. “You think I have cups for guests?”
She rummaged in cupboards and located shot glasses. Then she opened the window and metal shutter, letting in the morning light and street sounds.
“Did you know the fortune teller?” Valerio asked.
Nikki shrugged. “I interviewed her last week—after the murder.”
“What did she say?”
“She claimed Claire knew her killer,” Nikki said. “But then she admitted she hadn’t even talked to Claire. I think she was just trying to trick me into paying more.”
Nikki had been repulsed by the fortune teller’s exaggerated playacting. Maybe that was why she hadn’t followed up after those initial questions. She regretted this now. If Signora Dorotea had known more, she’d taken it with her.
“Predatory leeches,” Valerio said with disgust. “My mother paid an assisto for years, for messages from my father. And the numbers, of course.”
It was a prevalent, if secretive, superstition: that the dearly departed sent dreams with winning lottery numbers beyond the grave. Interpreting dreams had likely been a large part of Signora Dorotea’s business.
“Did she ever win?” Nikki asked.
“No.”
She cleared space on the table.
“So, why are you on leave?” she asked.
Valerio shrugged, and turned his back to her, checking the coffee as it heated slowly on the burner.
“I fucked up,” he said, still not turning around. “Did a favor for someone I shouldn’t have. A boy got killed.”
Nikki studied him for a long moment: the hunch of his shoulders, the tension in his neck—and a purple bruise behind his right ear.
“What happened to your head?” she asked.
He leaned on the countertop, and gave a dark laugh.
“I’m really fucked,” he said.
Turning to face her, he took a seat.
Last summer, he told her, his daughter had gone missing.
He’d turned to the human trafficker Luca Errichiello for help.
He said this calmly. Dispassionately. As if giving court testimony.
If Nikki didn’t know better, she might believe her friend was unaffected.
But he seemed heavy, and his right hand pressed against the table as he talked.
He told her about his efforts to return Errichiello’s favor, to release Gaetano Mancusi from jail, only to have Luca’s men gun down the boy. He described his investigation into the billionaire socialite Paride Silvestri, and Silvestri’s abuse of underage girls.
Nikki was cold with disgust.
“Silvestri…Errichiello—will they get away with it?” she asked.
“They have so far,” Valerio said. “Like Beppe says: They have people everywhere—in the police, the judicial system. You know how it is.”
This reminded Nikki of Adriano’s words about the system: To kill the beast, you need to understand it completely.
“Do you have an idea which ones?” she asked. “Can you investigate? Can you build a case against them?”
Valerio sighed.
“I’ll try,” he said. “But that will take months—maybe years. I don’t have that kind of time. What I need is leverage on Errichiello—to get him to back off…to keep Gemma and Davide safe.”
There was something frighteningly raw in his usually unshakable demeanor. Valerio had never shared anything so personal, or so difficult.
“What do you need from me?” Nikki asked.
He stared for a long moment.
“You’re not part of the police…no—I don’t mean it like that. I just mean, nobody’s watching you. We know there’s corruption at HQ, and you don’t have the same exposure.”
She nodded. “Tell me what to investigate.”
“I’ve found a link between Errichiello and Silvestri,” Valerio said. “The head of Errichiello’s security team, Ivan. I took a photo at Silvestri’s place. Maurizio tried facial recognition, but he came up empty. Someone must know him.”
He hesitated, searching her face.
“What?” Nikki asked.
“I wouldn’t ask, but I’m running out of time…and I know you know Tito Calandra….”
Nikki had sprung to her feet, chair crashing to the floor, before she registered that she was standing. Her heart raced. A high-pitched ringing in her ears.
She stared at the spot on the tiles where her brother had bled just months ago, begging her to save him and Francesca and the kids.
That had been the only time she’d turned to Tito. She regretted few things more.
Valerio rose slowly and silently, palms out. They locked eyes.
She should say something, but the words caught in her teeth.
When she finally spoke, her voice was shaky and too loud: “He burned down a whole fucking building because I wouldn’t do what he wanted.”
Behind Valerio, the Moka gurgled. He turned to switch off the flame.
A strange detachment settled over Nikki, and violent waves of heat. If it had been anyone else—anyone—she would have made them leave.
But this was Valerio. His comfortable manner and easy competence. There was a sort of unspoken agreement between them to put the friendship first—to never risk their mutual respect and understanding. He’d never pried into her life, never asked anything in return.
But she couldn’t do it. She’d spent years carefully cutting connections with Tito, a painful surgery that required a sacrifice of healthy tissue to completely excise the disease. Now, the infection had returned, and she couldn’t host it. Not even for Valerio.