Chapter Twenty-One
Twenty-One
Valerio strode from Nikki’s apartment feeling uncomfortable. His neck and head were stiff and painful from Ivan’s attack three days ago. He’d been so distracted he’d forgotten to drink the coffee—leaving the Moka steaming on Nikki’s stove.
Yesterday had been complete shit. He’d been heading to the gym for some much-needed weight training, when he was called into HQ and spent hours going through mug shots.
The CCTV footage of Gaetano’s shooting hadn’t captured the men in the sedan, so Valerio was the only eyewitness.
But he was loath to finger anyone when he didn’t trust himself. He’d been far too drunk.
The investigators used the interview room with the two-way mirror—a procedure Valerio didn’t like at all, but that they said had been insisted on by Director Bonetti.
Afterwards, Bonetti himself strolled casually in, acting for all the world as if he just happened to be stopping by instead of having watched the entire exchange.
“How are you holding up, Capo?” he asked, putting a hand on Valerio’s shoulder.
“Fine,” Valerio said.
It was never good to be completely honest with a boss—particularly one inclined towards politics.
“That’s a nasty bruise,” said Bonetti.
Valerio shrugged. “Just catch the bastards and let me get back to work. Have you looked into Errichiello?”
“There’s no reason to suspect his involvement,” said Bonetti. “He has an alibi.”
“He’s scum,” said Valerio. “Look again.”
Bonetti gave a hard stare.
“That sounds like a personal grudge,” he said. “Is there anything I should know about?”
“You should know that he trafficks girls and women,” Valerio said.
“Last year, I took a course about confirmation bias,” said Bonetti. “We must be constantly on our guard to ensure our feelings don’t drive our policing. Go home, Alfieri. Let us worry about the investigation.”
—
Valerio stopped by Maurizio’s desk on the way out.
“Did you run the plates?” he asked.
“Looks like they’re stolen. It’s a dead end.”
“How about our white-haired friend? Any hits on facial recognition?”
Maurizio shook his head. “None. Sorry. I’ve sent it to a friend at Europol. Maybe he’ll get a match.”
—
This morning, Maurizio had called with the bad news: no hits in Europol’s databases.
This surprised Valerio, who couldn’t believe that the white-haired Ivan had a clean record.
He was a clever and experienced operator, and had likely moved in criminal circles for a long time.
There had to be an ID somewhere. Valerio wondered if the problem was in organizational information sharing—everybody with their own system and data.
If he’d had any other option, he wouldn’t have asked Nikki. Thinking about her violent reaction, though, how she recoiled at Tito Calandra’s name, he regretted his request.
Last summer, he’d been so surprised to see her coming from Calandra’s place, carrying a bag full of cash.
He guessed that, like him, she’d been desperate—willing to make a deal with the devil.
He’d wanted to bring it up with her, to ask what had happened that night.
But she never mentioned it, and as the months went by, the subject became more difficult to broach.
Nikki was a private person and he didn’t want to pressure her.
If she wanted to tell him, she would tell him.
But he was also an investigator and, curious, he’d made some inquiries. The rumors shocked him: that Nikki Serafino and Tito Calandra had once been in a relationship. He’d wondered if this was true, and whether Nikki maintained her ties to the powerful Camorra capo.
Now, he was ashamed for asking. Nikki believed that Calandra had burned down her studio, and that was hardly a sign of affection.
Well, he wouldn’t ask again.
—
After Ivan’s ambush last Saturday, Valerio made it a point to take different routes home, and practice good countersurveillance. These careful efforts were wasted today, since the white-haired thug and two buddies loitered outside the entrance to his building, with no attempt at subterfuge.
Valerio strode to them, speaking loudly, with more confidence than he felt: “Are you really this desperate? Coming to my home in daylight, where I’ve installed surveillance and have guys waiting nearby?”
Of course, he’d done none of these things, although it occurred to him now that they might have been reasonable precautions.
Ivan, wearing sunglasses on this overcast day, pushed back from the wall where he’d been leaning.
“You don’t answer your phone. That’s not smart.”
“What isn’t smart is you giving me a bruise for the whole station to see. If you wanted to keep this low-key, you’re really fucking up.”
A group of tourists coming down the narrow street must have sensed the tension. They rapidly changed direction.
“What do you want?” Valerio demanded.
“Just a little job,” said Ivan. “A small document we need you to recover from your boss’s office.”
“Boy, your intel must be shit,” said Valerio. “After you shot up Gaetano Mancusi in front of me, my boss put me on leave. I have no business going to the station until it’s over.”
Ivan smiled. He held up his phone and Valerio heard a recording of his own voice: Tell me what you want. Then Luca explaining his request for help with Gaetano Mancusi. He wasn’t surprised they’d recorded this.
“So what?” he challenged. “I’ve done nothing illegal. If this is blackmail, you’re shit at it.”
Ivan lashed out with surprising speed.
Valerio fought back, and was able to return some solid hits before they grappled him into submission, gripping tightly while Ivan punched and kicked.
The thrashing was predictable, Valerio told himself as it was happening. As if this knowledge somehow made it more tolerable, as if he’d chosen it himself. He noticed, with detachment, the practiced nonchalance of those expert blows and kicks.
He heaved and vomited from the gut punches.
They dumped him on the pavement, then one of the men wrestled his hand open, forcing his fingers around the handle of a gun.
Ivan crouched next to Valerio, and spoke in his ear. “Two women were shot last night. Your fingerprints are on the murder weapon. How’s that for blackmail, Capo? I’ll text your instructions. You go to Bonetti’s office and get the file we want.”
When they left, Valerio worked his way to the wall, then pulled himself to sitting. He stayed for a long time, assessing the damage, and trying to catch his breath.
From the balcony above came the thin voice of his upstairs neighbor, Agata.
“Valerio, have you seen my little dog? He left his basket and hasn’t come back.”
—
It took a handful of paracetamol, and ice on his kidneys before Valerio thought he might be able to leave his apartment again. He moved like a ninety-year-old man—gingerly, every movement bringing pain.
He considered it a good sign that they hadn’t hit his face.
This meant they still believed they could control him, and so needed to keep his face intact.
This new pretext for blackmail was also a good sign, since it took the target off his family.
Well, he could take a thrashing if that meant they were paying attention to him instead of his kids.
If it protected Gemma and Davide, he’d turn himself into the biggest fucking punching bag in the world.
—
Ravenna was wearing hospital scrubs when she met him a few hours later at Cosimo’s pizzeria.
She apologized. “I didn’t have time to change. What’s so urgent that you couldn’t discuss it on the phone?”
Valerio searched her face—glad for those bright eyes and full cheeks, the mobile expression brimming with curiosity. He actually liked the shapeless purple nursing uniform. It seemed to express something essential about her: determination, competence, compassion.
He had a sudden fantasy of being Ravenna’s patient: this angel bustling into the room, tucking him in, and leaning over to adjust equipment; the warm fragrance of her perfume, her laugh when he reached up to caress and kiss her, pulling her down onto the bed with him.
It was a ridiculous daydream that, given his dire situation, he couldn’t possibly act on yet. But it made him grin.
She returned his smile.
“Are you hungry?” he asked.
“Starving. You?”
“I’m always hungry when I’m upset…or happy…or sad,” he said with a chuckle, fighting back the pain of his bruised and tender torso—and his kidneys! He was pretty sure one of his ribs was broken. It hurt to breathe. And his stomach clenched, an ache he didn’t think pizza would resolve.
Cosimo was at his shoulder.
“Ah, the beautiful Ravenna! A pleasure to see you again. This big oaf isn’t bothering you, is he?”
She laughed. “Not at all!”
Cosimo leaned in and kissed her cheeks. “If you get tired of him, you know where to find me.”
He took their orders and winked at Ravenna before hurrying away.
“What happened with Maria?” she asked. “Is that why you’re worried?”
“I’ll tell you more about that in a minute. Can you answer a few questions for me, first?”
She nodded.
“Ines Mancusi,” he said. “You’ve known her a long time. What kind of person is she?”
Ravenna’s face crinkled.
“Did you have a good mother?” she asked after some thought.
The question called Leonora to mind. Not her face—perpetually turned upwards to the Immacolata—but her hands, strong and capable, bulging at the knuckles, and always moving: chopping, stitching, scrubbing, repairing, tucking…holding.
“Yes,” he said. “A very good mother.”
Ravenna said, “That must have been nice. My mother wasn’t good. I can see that now. She must have had a very bad childhood to give me one, too. She was…difficult. And there was never enough…”
Without realizing or intending it, Valerio reached out. Her fingers were cold. He squeezed, giving her his heat.
“It’s okay,” Ravenna said. “I’m fine. Really. I survived.”