Chapter Twenty-Seven #2
“You and I need to talk, Lazarov!” he called out in English. Another bullet hit the ground nearby. Then, to his surprise, there was a pause.
“Lazarov!” he called out again, trying to remember what Nikki’s message had said about the man. “Yasen Lazarov, we need to talk!”
An eerie silence filled the air, broken only by the patter of rain.
Then Lazarov’s voice: “How do you know that name?”
“I know more than your name. I need to talk to you, Lazarov. Don’t shoot. We’re on the same side.”
Another pause, and Valerio’s mind worked furiously to fill in the lie.
He glanced around, trying to work out where he was.
They were in a field that looked as if it had once been a factory dumping ground.
Enormous rusted machine parts rose up on all sides, hulking and bare like the fossilized skeletons of monsters.
Valerio calculated. There had been five men in Silvestri’s house, and two vehicles at the property.
But he’d only seen three men here: Lazarov and his two buddies.
He’d killed one of the men, and badly injured—or killed—the other.
He hoped this was all—that the other vehicle wasn’t following close behind.
The odds were better now than they had been.
But he needed luck. He needed the gun to work.
“Who are you working for?” Yasen shouted.
There wasn’t a good way out of this.
He needed time. That was all. He needed to live just a little bit longer. He’d figure out the next step later.
Mouth dry, Valerio gambled: “Did you think you were the only one sent to keep Errichiello and Silvestri in line?”
Another pause, then the voice was closer than before. “How do you know my name?”
The response brought a surge of hope. Lazarov hadn’t called his bluff.
“Let’s stop playing games,” Valerio shouted. “You know I can’t discuss my mission with you. If you let me die, it won’t be the Naples police you answer to.”
“You’re a bullshitter, Alfieri. Prove it.”
Valerio scoffed, warming to the role. “Fuck you, Lazarov. You prove it. That idiot Silvestri shot me—I need medical attention. Make whatever calls you need to make to confirm that what I’m saying is true. But stop shooting, and let’s get the fuck out of here.”
—
When Valerio saw Lazarov, he knew his words had found their mark. The clever, brutal face was full of suspicion, but there was also a reluctant agreement in his eyes. His hand gripped the gun still, finger on the trigger.
“Put that thing down,” Valerio said, reaching towards him as if he expected support. “And help me up.”
“You killed my men,” said Lazarov. “Put down your weapon, and get back in the trunk.”
“I’m not going back in there,” Valerio snarled.
“Then I’ll shoot you now.”
“Fuck it, Yasen. I’m bleeding out. I don’t have a lot of time. Get me out of here.”
Yasen was close enough for a head shot, but Valerio didn’t dare use his jammed weapon again. He offered the handle to Lazarov, as if a peace offering.
“Cuff me if you need to,” Valerio said. “But I’m riding in the front. And you’d better get someone out here to get rid of those bodies.”
Lazarov took the gun and stared at it for a moment as if considering. He squatted down and looked Valerio in the face. There was a frenzy in those eyes—dark and chaotic. Valerio felt the calculation of the moment. Lazarov might decide to kill him after all.
“I don’t like you, Alfieri,” he said. Then, holding the gun like a hammer, slammed it into Valerio’s cheek. It was so sudden, so brutal, Valerio didn’t have time to brace. His head jerked back, something crunched in his cheekbone.
“Get back in the trunk,” Lazarov said. “I won’t ask again.”
—
Trapped once again in the dark and stink, Valerio vomited. He tried his best to keep it in—but there were some things out of his control right now, and this was one of them.
He took deep breaths and tried to slow his heart rate. The last thing he needed now was a heart attack.
“Worry about one thing at a time,” he told himself.
—
At least his hands were free this time. He used them to investigate his wounds.
His leg was still bleeding and excruciatingly painful.
It was swelling badly and was hot. He felt around in the trunk for the roll of duct tape he’d located earlier.
Then, adjusting the belt he’d secured earlier as a tourniquet, Valerio wrapped his leg tightly in tape.
The blood and the damp and the mud made it tricky work, but he managed to get several layers secured.
He hoped this would slow the bleeding. He used the rest of the tape to stop the bleeding from the dog bite on his forearm.
He felt the rest of his body. He was bruised, and his cheekbone was fractured, but those injuries weren’t life-threatening.
—
Keep thinking, he told himself. What do you know? What do you have? What can you use?
He was alive. He’d killed two men, and somehow convinced Lazarov not to kill him.
Now, he thought more carefully about the lies that had bought him more time.
We’re on the same side, he’d told Lazarov. Did you think you were the only one sent to keep Errichiello and Silvestri in line?
He’d acted instinctively, guessing and bluffing in equal parts—and the gamble had paid off. Why exactly had he said that?
Valerio had watched Lazarov’s interactions with both Errichiello and Silvestri—the disdain and entitlement he seemed to have towards both.
The attitude made some sense when it came to Silvestri, since Lazarov owed the rich old pedophile no allegiance or respect.
He’d been merely a tool—useful for his connections and proclivities—and Lazarov had treated him accordingly.
But Lazarov had also been contemptuous towards Errichiello, and this had surprised Valerio from the outset. Lazarov had treated Luca like a nuisance, not a benefactor. Luca had clearly bristled at this, telling Lazarov to “Fuck off.”
It made little sense for Lazarov to disrespect his employer.
The power structure had felt off. And Valerio realized: Errichiello wasn’t actually in charge.
So, who was?
Was Lazarov actually in control—the mastermind of this operation?
No.
Valerio had met men like Lazarov—talented in a kinetic operation.
Quick to assess an opponent, with a reactive instinct.
He’d combined these skills with a taste for brutality.
But a natural physical prowess was its own vulnerability.
He relied on strength and fear to rule the men who worked for him; fear to dominate his prey.
But reliance on his physical abilities meant he was never forced to think creatively—and you needed to think creatively if you were in charge.
No, Lazarov liked to be close to power, was drawn to those who could appreciate and harness his vicious skills, yet he lacked the finesse and patience to claim real power himself.
Lazarov was the sheepdog. And that meant there was a shepherd.
So, who was the shepherd?
Valerio’s mind felt out the edges of this missing piece—rough outlines in the dark. There was just enough here to know that it was bigger than the individual players.
Whoever it was, Valerio felt certain that it was connected to his name. He’d introduced himself to Valerio as Ivan—and was known in the underworld as il Fantasma. But he’d clearly been surprised when Valerio called him by his name: Yasen Lazarov, the Bulgarian operator wanted by INTERPOL.
Valerio had bought himself time by claiming affiliation with Lazarov’s master. Maybe Lazarov believed him, maybe he didn’t. But he wouldn’t kill him until he knew for certain that Valerio was lying.
—
Valerio was shivering badly by the time the car slowed, tires crunching on gravel, and stopped. He was wet, his hands frozen, fingers numb, when the trunk opened.
Lazarov wasn’t taking any chances. He stood a meter back, gun aimed at Valerio.
“Get out,” he ordered.
Eager though he was to escape his cage, Valerio was also stiff, leg badly swollen, every movement an invitation to agonizing pain. He maneuvered gingerly, easing over the rim of the trunk. He balanced on his good leg, and leaned against the car.
They were in a narrow gravel area close to Luca’s compound. Through the trees, Valerio could spot the pool behind Luca’s house, a winking patch of blue.
Valerio spoke urgently: “I know you don’t want to fuck this up any more than I do. But Luca’s ambitious and self-interested—this could blow up in our faces. You’re here to make sure he doesn’t fuck up. That’s why I’m here, too. Let me go. Let me get back to my mission.”
He didn’t have a chance to see if Lazarov believed him. Two men came around the side of the house, weapons drawn. They glanced between Lazarov and Valerio.
“Put him away,” Lazarov ordered.
“I’ve been shot. I need medical care,” Valerio said.
But Lazarov strode off. The men grabbed Valerio harshly. Finding he couldn’t walk, they dragged him down a stone path into the trees—to a small windowless concrete outbuilding with a padlock.
“I need water,” he told them. “If I die, you’ll have a big fucking problem to deal with. Your boss won’t be happy.”
As they approached the building and opened the door, Valerio struggled, shouting, hoping someone on the nearby property might hear—might think to report this to the police.
“Lazarov isn’t telling you everything,” he told his captors as they shoved him inside. “You don’t know who you’re working for!”