Chapter Twenty-Nine
Twenty-Nine
Trapped in the dark, mind foggy, pain pulsing through his body.
The smell was intolerable. A choking, foul odor—human waste and something worse. Valerio took short, shallow breaths to stop himself from gagging.
Then there were the flies. Swarming. Crowding his face and hands, coming into his mouth when he tried to breathe.
Valerio did his best to calm the rising panic and assess his situation.
He started with his injuries. His face, head, arm, and belly hurt—but most urgent, most likely to kill him, was his leg.
He didn’t think the bone had been hit. The bullet seemed to have torn through the muscle.
He felt it, trying to tell if the bleeding had stopped.
But everything was wet, and he wasn’t sure how much of this was blood.
—
He turned his attention next to his prison. His eyes adjusted to the pitchy blackness, light filtering through chinks in the masonry above. He was in a rectangular structure about four meters across, with a cement floor and drain in the center—where the smell originated.
He scooted to a corner of the structure and, grunting, straining, used the walls to push himself up, balancing on his left leg. Experimentally, he touched his right foot to the ground. Pain shot through—so intense, he shouted, eyes watering, and nearly collapsed.
Maneuvering unsteadily along the wall, he began a slow investigation.
Concrete blocks formed the walls to about head height—and, reaching above, Valerio felt heavy wood beams. Outside, beyond the frenzied insect buzz, he heard birdsong.
Along one wall, two metal rings were fixed into the concrete, grooves worn into the block below, where the rings had dragged across the surface.
Valerio pulled hard at the fixtures, trying to loosen or twist them around. They didn’t budge.
Suddenly, everything seemed to tilt and tumble, a sort of disorienting nausea. He lowered himself, and sat with his back against the wall. His mouth and body were parched—an aching burn and a straining for water that eclipsed the other miseries.
The small space was humid and cold, and his teeth chattered. But he was also feverish.
He tried to slow his breathing, push down the panic. He couldn’t afford to numb up or lose his mind.
—
He continued investigating the edges of the structure, running his hands along the space between the cement floor and the blocks forming the outer wall, looking for weaknesses—perhaps a crack he could exploit, or a loose block.
He didn’t find this, but after several minutes, he came across a small, delicate piece of wire.
He held it up, squinting, but couldn’t make out what it was.
He ran it between his fingers. It took him several moments to realize: It was a woman’s earring.
Understanding settled like a boulder in his belly.
The iron rings affixed in the walls and the drain in the floor should have told the story—but he’d somehow refused to see it. This delicate earring was the clue that made it impossible to interpret this any other way. He wasn’t the first prisoner here.
Who had she been—the woman with the earring? Had she been imprisoned here last week while he met with Luca—only steps away—his only concern ridding himself of his obligation?
—
He lost consciousness. The first time, it was like falling asleep, but so rapid he couldn’t be sure. Then it happened again. And again. He didn’t know how to prepare for or prevent it. And each time he awoke in agony, disoriented, struggling to think.
The involuntary escape, the relief from pain, was difficult to resist. Part of him welcomed it.
“Stay awake,” he told himself.
—
He’d set himself beside the door—and ran his hands along the bottom, and up to the latch. He knelt, putting his eye up to the small gap beside the bolt. Nothing.
He didn’t know how long he was there, drifting in and out of awareness. Every once in a while, desperation would get the better of him and Valerio would shout and slam his fist on the door. There was no response.
If they forgot him—without water, without medical care, he would die.
—
He awoke as the door opened. A flashlight beam found him.
“Water,” he said to the dark figure. “I need water.”
“Smells like shit in here,” someone exclaimed in Italian.
Men dragged him out.
Unbearable, exquisite, crystalline pain.
Valerio heard groaning and was ashamed to realize the sound was coming from him.
At last, they dumped him in a heap. Valerio wanted to move, to fight, but his body was sluggish, unresponsive.
He struggled to sit.
The area was brightly lit by electric lamps. Beyond this, blackness.
Men pointed guns at him. Lazarov wasn’t one of them.
Nearby was the sound of splashing water—a stone fountain and, beyond that, Luca’s house. As Valerio watched, a door opened, and the strains of distant jazz music drifted out.
Luca Errichiello paced towards Valerio, feet crunching on gravel.
He was dressed casually, hair glossy with pomade and stinking of cologne.
“You are one dumb motherfucker,” Luca said, squatting down. His face was inexpressive. “You just had to do what you were told. Look at you now. What a dumb fuck.”
He was so close—Valerio considered attacking. But how? And what then? It would be suicide.
“You killed Gaetano,” he croaked.
“It was necessary,” said Luca with a small shrug.
“He was your son.”
Luca grimaced and sighed, then stood.
“You are burdened with sentiment for your children, Capo,” he said without affect. “I’ve never suffered from that affliction.”
“You have other weaknesses,” said Valerio. “Yasen Lazarov, for one.”
“Who?”
“Il Fantasma. Your Ghost. Except he doesn’t work for you, does he? You aren’t the boss at all. You work for him.”
Luca kicked him. The movement was fast and vicious.
Valerio toppled, and the strikes continued.
Valerio balled up, trying to protect his head and middle.
But Luca was in a frenzy, and a few of the blows landed badly—one on his head, near his broken cheekbone, and another on his cracked ribs.
At last, Luca stomped on his wounded leg. Valerio roared in pain.
When Luca had exhausted himself, he stood back, breathing hard.
“Even a dumb fucking animal knows better than to run towards danger,” he said.
Then he swiveled around as a headlight beam cut across them, and a new sound: a car engine and the crunch of tires on gravel.
It pulled to a stop, and a door opened, then Lazarov’s voice in broken Italian: “What the fuck are you doing, Errichiello? He’s no use to us dead.”
Valerio’s head was ringing, the world closing in around the edges.
“Not now,” he said, struggling to stay conscious.
Everything faded to black.
—
He was wet, dripping. Someone had tossed water on him. He tasted it on his chapped lips.
Gradually, he became aware of the sounds of screaming.
His eyelids were heavy, but he forced them open.
She was centimeters away, face twisted with crying, tears streaking her cheeks, dark eyes wide and full of terror.
“Valerio!” she shrieked. “Valerio!”
He’d been a thinking man once, full of plans and observations. He’d had ideas. But there was no more strategy left. Only terror. It overwhelmed him. He was drowning. Desperate.
“Ravenna! No!”
He reached for her, but someone grabbed Ravenna by her hair and dragged her back. She screamed and fought, clawing at the man.
He punched her, and she bent over, coughing.
“Ravenna,” Valerio called. “Look at me! Stay calm. I’ll get us out of this.”
“There you are,” said Lazarov, grabbing Valerio by the collar and yanking him upright. “Time to answer some questions. You know this woman? Good. I found her at your apartment. Who is she? Girlfriend? Wife? Sister?”
“What do you want?” Valerio demanded.
“Tell me the truth, Alfieri. That’s all I’m asking. The truth.”
Slow as he was, weak with blood loss and infection and pain, Valerio knew better than to tell Lazarov the truth. The truth was desperate and stupid and pathetic and would get them killed. The truth was: He’d gotten himself into this mess, and managed to drag Ravenna into it, too.
The truth was: Nobody knew where he was. Nobody was coming to save them.
“Alright,” Valerio said. “Don’t hurt her. What do you want?”
“How do you know my name?”
“They gave me your dossier,” Valerio lied.
“Who?”
“They don’t exactly hand over their ID cards,” Valerio said.
“Why? What does he want you to do?”
Valerio hesitated. Had he heard correctly? Not them. Him. The shepherd Valerio had imagined, the hidden force behind Lazarov. Maybe it was a trick—Lazarov testing him.
He took the gamble anyway: “He doesn’t trust you to get the job done properly.”
Lazarov scoffed. “And he thought you would? You’re a mess, Alfieri. A fucking mess. Of course he trusts me.”
“Not after Gaetano,” Valerio said.
Lazarov stopped laughing.
It was something about what Luca had said—that it was necessary to kill Gaetano. What was necessary about it?
Valerio strained to get his thoughts in order, trying to remember what Ines had told him. Gaetano had seen something. Lazarov had been angry about it. What had he seen? Valerio didn’t know. A secret meeting between Luca and Lazarov—and someone else?
“Two weeks ago, in Salerno,” Valerio continued. “When Gaetano came into the restaurant. He wasn’t supposed to be there. He wasn’t supposed to see…that was why you punched him—and why Gaetano needed to die. He was young…sloppy…undisciplined. The stakes were too high and he couldn’t take the risk.”
Lazarov’s silence told Valerio that he was on the right track.
“He won’t be happy if you kill us,” Valerio continued. “I promise you that. Lazarov, I’m in trouble. I’ve been bleeding out. I’m not going to last. Ravenna is a nurse. Let her treat my injuries.”
—
His attention was on Lazarov, watching that cunning, cold face. He saw the clockwork behind those pale eyes. For the briefest moment, it was as though the air pressure had changed. The calculation Valerio needed him to make was slotting into place.
—
Then everything fell apart.
The loud bang of a gun shattered the calm. Valerio turned to the sound and saw that Ravenna had somehow gotten hold of her guard’s handgun. The guard was on the ground, writhing, shouting, blood gushing from his stomach.
Ravenna pointed the gun around towards the other men, a terror in her face.
“Let him go,” she said. “Just let Valerio go…let us leave. Valerio, please. Come with me.”
But he couldn’t go anywhere. He couldn’t stand or walk—and he was far too weak.
It was obvious Ravenna didn’t know how to handle the weapon. Her hands shook violently. She’d shot the first man at point-blank range, but it was clear she wouldn’t be able to hit anyone else.
Valerio said her name.
She looked at him—was looking at him—when Lazarov put a bullet in her head.