Chapter Twenty-Four #2
Her breath came in short, sharp gasps. She slammed a fist against her ribs to force her lungs open.
It didn’t work.
“Fuck.”
She was angry at herself for not catching this in time, for not restoring the uneasy camaraderie with Angelo she’d worked so hard to establish. This collision felt inevitable. Like an asteroid hurtling towards the planet. She’d seen it coming from far away, and had been powerless to stop it.
—
Three years ago, the Americans had lauded Angelo for hiring the first-ever female investigator in Phoenix Seven.
Proud of himself, he’d used the American euphemism “equal opportunity” and paraded her around as his special project, telling everyone he was taking her “under his wing.” But, for all his talk of mentorship and equality, her increasing competence clearly grated.
Until now, she’d been able to maneuver around Angelo’s fragility. But events last summer had disrupted the power dynamic.
That he had never viewed her as a serious investigator had been her protection. This was gone now.
She considered calling him back. But if she reasoned with him, if she protested, or fought, he would only dig in.
To be effective, she would need to be repentant.
At one time, she could have feigned this.
But something had shifted and, desperate though she was to keep her job, she didn’t think she could force herself to kneel.
—
Nikki worked the punching bag and lifted weights until she was drenched, muscles burning, then scrubbed her kitchen.
Her stomach was too tight for food, so she drank espresso while shuffling through unopened mail.
Among the bills was an unmarked envelope. Inside, a stack of legal papers.
She skimmed the first page—an NDA.
A note was clipped on top—in Enzo’s handwriting: If you ever loved me, please sign.
She dropped it in the rubbish bin.
—
Her phone pinged. Another message from Audrey. A selfie. Close up. Pink freckled cheeks and bushy brows.
Nikki texted back: Never send anyone pictures of yourself. It isn’t safe. Show this message to your dad and tell him to talk to you about online safety.
Audrey texted: Can you come over?
No, Nikki typed, and set the phone down.
It buzzed again. She almost didn’t check it—but then saw that the message was from Sandro: I found your guy.
It took her a moment to remember what she’d asked him for. Then it hit: the man from Valerio’s photo. Great! Thanks so much. Who is he?
He wrote, Better discussed in person. Coffee?
—
The clouds had been threatening all morning, rain dripping in fits and starts. By the time Nikki reached Piazza San Domenico Maggiore, the sky cracked open, and people scrambled for cover. She ducked into Massimo’s café, joining the crowd pressing into the humid space.
The scent of espresso and damp clothes mingled with the acrid cigarette stink from the men smoking outside, sheltered beneath the awning.
Competing conversations echoed in the small space, and the air thrummed with the beat of ambient music, the hiss of the steamer, coffee grounds slammed out, ceramic cups clinking.
Sandro had already arrived, and reserved a small table overlooking the piazza.
He stood as she approached, leaning in to kiss her cheeks.
It was an odd feeling to see him; a profound recognition and familiarity tempered by the strange newness.
Sandro had been such an integral part of her childhood, Nikki couldn’t remember their first encounter; she’d been only six or seven years old at the time.
He and her brother Adriano had met during their first year at the Scuola Ufficiali Carabinieri in Rome—and Adriano had brought him home on weekend and holiday visits.
She remembered youth in that handsome face, and eyes bright with possibility.
There was a gravity to his features now; experience etched in the grooves around his mouth, sorrow in those eyes, and alert focus.
—
Adriano would be the same age now, she realized. The image came unbidden: her brother with a lived-in face, kindness in the lines of his laugh, and the bend of his body.
—
“You’re looking well,” Sandro said, after they ordered. “Tell me about yourself, Nina. Married? Any kids?”
She shook her head. “Not for me. You?”
“Divorced. Two sons,” he said. “They have good hearts—but my youngest has a wild streak like his father. Needs to get it out of the system.”
His smile was heavy.
Their coffees arrived.
“Sixteen years, isn’t it?” Sandro said.
Almost exactly. Last week was the anniversary she hated. The date she never forgot.
“After Adriano,” Sandro continued, “I should have visited your parents more. They were always good to me.”
“They left Naples,” Nikki told him. “Moved back to the mountains. Benevento.”
“That’s understandable,” he said. “It was an awful time. Adriano was the best of us.”
She nodded, but couldn’t speak.
“I heard you went to London,” he said. “Then I lost track of you.”
They talked about Izzy and Preston, about the years Nikki had spent building a life in London, her martial arts training, her return to Naples, her work at Incendio, then Phoenix Seven.
It felt so natural telling him, and Sandro listened with careful attention.
Only when she’d nearly finished did Nikki realize how much she’d said.
Her neck burned—a sudden hot flush of exposure.
Out the window, rain pooled in the slick black paving stones, and a parade of trainers and umbrellas marched past.
“I’d always seen you following in his footsteps,” he said. “I should have known better. You were always your own person.”
“What about you?” she urged.
“After Adriano…I thought about quitting the service, but I’m glad I stayed. I’ve done well for myself.”
“I’m glad for you,” Nikki said.
He nodded towards the window. “Rain’s clearing. I need to get back soon.”
He set a file on the table.
Nikki flipped it open. Printed photographs. The white-haired man from Valerio’s picture.
Sandro’s voice lowered. “He’s known as ‘the Ghost’—we believe his name is Yasen Lazarov. Former Bulgarian special services. We learned about him during a joint operation two years ago. He’s wanted by INTERPOL. Red notice. Cop killer. Dangerous fucker. You aren’t mixed up with him, are you?”
“Not me. A friend.”
“Tell your friend to be careful,” he said. “We’d love to get Lazarov under lock and key. Would your friend talk to someone on my team?”
“I’ll ask,” Nikki said.
He slid his cup aside and pushed back from the table. “I’m glad to see you, Nina.”
“There’s one more thing,” Nikki said, and he settled in again. “My father’s been visiting your offices recently.”
“Yes.” His smile was kind. “It’s been good to see him again.”
“Did he happen to mention what he’s working on?”
He nodded, then leaned in, dropping his voice. “He’s telling everyone about your mother’s theory: that Adriano’s death was an assassination. A conspiracy.”
Nikki cringed at the unadorned description.
“I don’t mean to disparage your father,” he said, expression softening. “I have tremendous respect for Raoul—but he’s been off the pitch for a while. He’s knocking on doors, and shouting in the street. Even my most patient colleagues are getting fed up.”
“You don’t think there’s anything to find?” she asked.
“I don’t.” His voice was steady. “Raoul asked me to pull the records, so I did. I read every piece of evidence very carefully. Let me be clear about this: Adriano’s death was a tragic accident. Wrong place, wrong time. They caught the guys, Nina. Ballistics matched. They confessed.”
Nikki had testified in the trial. Stared them down across the courtroom. If she’d had a gun, she might have shot them herself.
“So…the code names he found? Diogenes, Damascus, Zosima?”
Sandro shook his head. “Raoul asked me that, too. I couldn’t find much. Diogenes was a code name from a case in the eighties. Source went cold decades ago.”
“And the others?”
“Nothing in our records. Damascus is just a city in Syria.”
“And Zosima?”
“As far as I can tell, Zosima was a character in a novel: a priest.”
“Which book?”
“The Brothers Karamazov. Dostoevsky.”
Nikki was suddenly hot, the need to move flexing into her body. She wanted nothing more than to run and keep running.
“I don’t know what your father is hunting,” Sandro said. “But I don’t think it has anything to do with Adriano’s death.”
Nikki clenched her hands beneath the table. “I see.”
“I’m sure it hasn’t been easy for him since your mother died,” he said. His expression was kind.
She agreed. “It hasn’t.”
They sat for an awkward moment.
Sandro looked at his watch. “I’ve got to get going.”
—
After Sandro left, Nikki said a quick goodbye to Massimo and Carlo, then stepped into the cool drizzle.
—
Several blocks away, her phone rang—an unfamiliar UK number.
Wary of Teddy Sexton, she hesitated, then answered.
The voice was friendly. “Good afternoon, Investigator Serafino. Jayston Lake speaking. Do you have a moment?”
She said that she did.
“Audrey just showed me the…numerous texts she’s been sending you. You’ve been exceptionally patient and kind. I wanted to extend my gratitude, and to apologize for any trouble.”
“It’s fine,” Nikki said. “But I do recommend you educate her about online safety.”
“I quite agree,” he chuckled. “You rescue us yet again!”
“How is Audrey?” Nikki asked.
“I fear I’ve done her no favors by bringing her on this cruise. She’s lonely and in need of a proper carer…and friends her own age. We’re eager to get underway.”
“You’re still in Naples?”
“Regrettably, yes,” he said. “Still entangled in this unfortunate business with Claire. We’re doing our best to be patient, but it’s unsettling. Are you certain I can’t tempt you with the nanny position? Audrey would benefit from someone of your caliber.”
“I’m flattered,” she said. “But caring for children isn’t for me.”
—
As she put her phone away, a text from Sonia appeared: British police have Kevin Walker in custody.
Nikki called. Voicemail. Sonia texted again: Busy.
—
Nikki stopped by the shops for some vegetables to sauté for lunch. She’d returned home and was unpacking groceries when Sonia called.
“Teddy Sexton hasn’t reached out to you, has he?”
“No,” Nikki said. “Why?”
“Sexton’s lawyers got him released from custody a few hours ago. Now he’s missing. We need to find him. Kevin Walker was just stabbed in jail.”
“Fuck. How bad?”
“He’s at the hospital, and it doesn’t look good. I need all the help I can get.”
“Did they interview Kevin?”
“Yes. He swore he didn’t kill Claire. Said he saw the stabbing, panicked, and ran.”