Chapter Thirty-Two
Thirty-Two
Maurizio met Nikki at the emergency entrance to Sant’Anna and San Sebastiano Hospital, together with the medical staff who had prepared for her arrival.
They moved Valerio from the rear of the SUV onto a gurney, then Maurizio and Nikki ran alongside as they raced him down the passageway.
Nikki tried to tell them about his injuries—the gunshot wound and the beatings…
the loss of consciousness…the dehydration.
But she felt inadequate as they asked more questions.
“Blood type?”
“I don’t know.”
“Any allergies?”
“I don’t know.”
It felt somehow significant that she didn’t have answers—like she’d let him down.
Her knowledge of Valerio was something Nikki had trouble measuring.
She knew the shape of his hands when he tied a bowline.
She knew the way he puffed out his breath as he dashed around Calypso, trimming the sails.
She knew the way he liked to knock the cap off his beer, the irresistible sound of his belly laugh, and the pungent stink of him after a day of hard work together under a hot sun. But she didn’t know his blood type.
—
Afterwards, Nikki stood with Maurizio in the waiting room.
“Sonia called,” he said, handing her coffee in a thin plastic cup. “The whole department is out there. She says it’s a massacre…dozens of men killed. Everything burning. Nikki, how the hell did you get him out?”
She was saved having to answer when an orderly in blue scrubs called her name.
“They’re bringing him into surgery,” he told her. “He wants to talk to you first.”
—
In the harsh lights, Valerio’s bloodied and swollen face put an ache in Nikki’s chest—something like homesickness and panic.
She maneuvered past the tubes and equipment.
Valerio’s words were slurred. “Lazarov—not in charge,” he told her. “Just the sheepdog…keeping Luca in line.”
“That’s what Federico and De Rosa thought, too,” she said quietly. “Lazarov tried to kill Tito.”
“Should’ve killed me,” he said. “…Told him I worked for his boss…bought me time. Obedient sheepdog.”
His eyelids drooped.
Obedient. She remembered the passage from The Brothers Karamazov: “Having chosen an elder, you renounce your individual will and surrender it to him in complete obedience…”
“Got to find the shepherd,” Valerio said, eyes suddenly wide, meeting her gaze. “Now. Before it’s too late.”
Nikki pushed back. “What do you mean?”
“Luca’s gone,” Valerio said. “There’s a small window…now…got to find the shepherd. Understand? You. Everyone else is…compromised.”
Nikki was suddenly cold. An icy current surged through her.
“I wouldn’t know where to start,” she said.
“The rats are running,” he mumbled. “See where they run.”
—
Nikki watched as they pushed Valerio out of sight, frigid juddering, heavy with the weight of his expectation. Why had he asked her? Why not Maurizio?
Everyone else is compromised, he’d said. Did he think this included his partner?
Federico had believed the police were corrupt, too—and he’d been right about everything.
If you own a man’s secret, he’d told her, you own the man.
And hadn’t that been the point of Errichiello’s business? Powerful men invited by Paride Silvestri to abuse underage girls. Compromise and leverage—a ruthless blackmail machine. So where were Errichiello’s files now that he was gone?
Luca was dead, but he’d only been one head of the hydra. His death didn’t stop any of this.
It’s never enough to just take a head, Adriano had once said. To kill the beast, you need to understand it completely…you must watch and learn…find its beating heart.
She needed to find that beating heart. The man Lazarov obeyed. The shepherd.
She strode down the corridor, and left the hospital.
—
Outside, the air was chilly and dry. Pale sunlight bleached the trees, chipped concrete, and asphalt—an unsettling contrast between light and shadow. The sounds of traffic filled the air, and nearby, a dog barked. Behind these noises, she imagined she still heard the choppy static of gunfire.
She shut her eyes, willing it to pass.
Then, she seemed to hear her mother’s voice. Not words of comfort, but that guttural hiss: If the devil doesn’t exist, but man has created him, he has created him in his own image and likeness!
Her mother—with those wild eyes and rigid hands. Spending the last years of her life hunting for the devil who had murdered her son.
She didn’t trust the formal investigation, Raoul had told Nikki. She thought it was corrupt….
Nikki had assumed her mother’s obsession had been a distraction from reality—a place to put her grief. But what if Beatrice’s devil had been real? Like Valerio’s shepherd?
She thought of Adriano again, his voice clear in her thoughts: You must see—must understand the players and how they fit together.
The corruption was so deep, so hidden, the hunt felt impossible. Beatrice had tried, and failed, to find the devil in the darkness.
Was it possible her father had found a clue?
Nikki dialed Raoul’s number.
“What’s the news on the Patalano case?” she asked.
He sighed. “There’s nothing there. We’re shutting down the investigation.”
“But what about the sophisticated system you told me about?” she demanded, striding across the car park. She was exhausted yet oddly animated, as if her body was a puppet, strings frenziedly twitching. “What about the code names—Damascus, Diogenes, Zosima?”
“Patalano’s ledger is two decades old,” he said irritably. “If I’d been able to ask him—or if we’d gotten to it earlier—I could have put the pieces together. It’s just too late.”
—
Fuck.
—
It was too late to ask Patalano. Too late to ask her mother. Adriano. Claire. Gaetano. Federico.
All too late. The dead took their secrets with them.
Even Signora Dorotea, with her cold dry hands and long nails, had seen more than she’d said. You are a child of Napoli…full of light and darkness…the divine and infernal wrestling….
What had she known? What secrets had she hoarded?
Nikki seemed to see the sly black glance as Dorotea adjusted the charms on her rucksack, as she arranged the items in the votive shrine.
“What were you doing?” Nikki asked the dead woman.
The question was an itch—something important close to the surface.
She closed her eyes, and tried to remember. But all she could think about were the fluorescent lights of the hospital passageway flickering past, and Valerio’s battered body on the gurney, and the doctor’s questions: “Blood type? Allergies?”
Suddenly, Nikki’s eyes flew open. She understood now—not anything she could speak aloud yet, but the larger picture was coming into focus: the reason for all the killings.
The dead took their secrets with them! That was the point, wasn’t it? A cold, efficient way to bury the truth. It was all connected. Everything!
The rats are running. See where they run.
She knew where to look for the shepherd.
—
Nikki raced to the SUV. Bullets had torn through the doors and fenders, punching through the leather upholstery. Blood and glass on the seats.
Starting the engine, she dialed the number for Jayston Lake. She was directed to voicemail. She called Audrey’s phone. Nothing.
As she sped towards Naples, she dialed Sonia, and then Maurizio. No answer.
—
In the city, along the waterfront, she passed cafés, ma?tres in pressed white shirts and long aprons among thickets of tables and chairs.
She pulled up illegally near the marina and jogged the rest of the way to the pier.
The smells of coffee and fresh bread wrapped around her, the bracing sea air rushing against her.
—
The gate guard refused to listen. Refused to accept her Phoenix Seven ID card.
“It’s urgent,” she insisted. “I need to speak with Signor Lake immediately.”
“No,” he said firmly, staring with disdain at her bloodied and disheveled clothes, then speaking into his handheld radio.
She dodged around the barrier. He grabbed her arm.
“Don’t fucking touch me!” she yelled. Twisting, she broke free and, ignoring his shouts, sprinted.
—
The Prophet was gone. She saw the gap before she was midway down the pier.
She was too late!
She thought about Audrey Lake, and was gripped by a sudden spasm of fear for the little girl.
“It departed about an hour ago,” called a voice behind her.
Nikki turned to see Vincente Di Pavola, near the tail of his yacht. For a moment, she nearly mistook him for his son, Enzo.
He strode towards her. “What’s this about?”
Nikki jogged to meet him.
“Can you track them?” she demanded. “How fast is your boat? Can you intercept?”
He seemed to consider.
“If their AIS is transmitting, I can track them,” he said. “A superyacht like that will manage a maximum of twenty to twenty-five knots. The Fidelis is arguably the fastest of her class. If we leave now, we could rendezvous in under an hour.”
He spoke these words with enthusiasm—then his expression shifted, shrewd businessman peering through his eyes.
“I can get you there,” he said. “You know my price.”
—
They sped out of the marina, passing enormous cargo and cruise ships navigating from the busy port. A white winter sun reflected off the water, sea spray flicking against the screen.
Nikki’s thoughts refused to hold steady. Heavy with fatigue, not even the jostling slam of the boat or her own worry seemed able to keep her alert. Her mind drifted, and she dreamed that she was flying just above the waves, wings reaching down to brush the white crests below.
—
They were passing Capri when Vincente said, “We should be getting close.”
Nikki spoke into the VHF: “Motor vessel Prophet, this is motor vessel Fidelis. Over.”
She repeated. And again. No response.
Nikki’s phone pinged. Texts from Audrey Lake.
- Nikki help
- I’m scared
Nikki called. There was no answer. She texted: I’m on my way.
No response.
—