New Day
Chapter Ten
Mrs Bellacci insists on telling the doctor about my tattoo before he leaves.
He appears less intrigued and, like me, believes it’s either a birthmark or a poorly executed inking, and reads no significance in the design.
But she is insistent and will not let the matter drop.
After saying something to him in Italian, he sighs and glances at me, and I agree to let him take a photo on his phone to show a colleague.
When I bid him farewell in the hallway, Lorenzo accompanies him into the morning sunshine, out towards his car, but not before turning to check on me. I say nothing, assuming they are inspecting their human cargo and that Lorenzo will return shortly.
“Would you like help searching in the library?” asks Mrs Bellacci.
“Not right now. I need a swim to clear my head,” I say, and I am about to turn towards the stairs when she responds in Russian.
“Rabota ne volk, v les ni ubezhit!”
I laugh aloud. The humorous idiom translates that work is not like a wolf and will not wander away into the forest. The closest English equivalent, I suppose, would be something like being okay to put off work for a time because it will still be waiting for you when you return.
“I understand,” she says. “I also have tasks to finish. But before you swim, I will show you our secure room. It will not take long.”
Now she has my full attention. During my casual search of the villa, I found nothing to indicate any secret room or stronghold.
“Lead the way,” I respond—in Russian, of course.
She returns to the kitchen, to what I had mistaken as the door to a larder.
After she reaches in and clicks on a light, we descend a flight of concrete steps down to what I assume used to be a wine cellar—at least in the villa’s original incarnation.
We stop before a strong room entrance made of dark fortified metal and with metal studs, the door and frame barely distinguishable from each other.
She places her face in front of a display, punches in a code on a digital keypad, then turns an industrial-sized handle with both hands.
The heavy door swings inwards. Using her shoulder, she pushes into a room of pitted reinforced concrete, housing a simple table and chairs and bunk beds to one side.
When I turn, the door is matte stainless steel with solid handles top and bottom that presumably engage locks integrated into the door, activated from the inside.
My attention is instantly drawn to the back of the room, where a low desk sits before a bank of CCTV monitors.
I notice screens showing the lane leading to the house and assume cameras have been placed strategically in trees along the approach.
Perhaps that is how Bellacci knew to be at the gate when I arrived.
As I take in the other angles, I spot Romano’s burgundy SUV heading off down the lane.
The picture quality is superb. I’m still watching, mesmerised, when Bellacci strides to a sliding metal door to one side of the room and summons me over.
When she slides the partition open, I am only allowed to peer in from the entrance.
Neon lighting illuminates a deep recess housing a well-organised wall of weaponry from handguns, assault and long-range rifles, to grenades and even a couple of tactical rocket launchers.
I notice her watching for my reaction. Apparently, she merely wants to show me the arsenal and is about to slide the door closed when she hesitates. A second later, she strides into the space, plucks something from the wall, and grabs a clutch of what looks like gun magazines.
“Here. Keep these safe in case.”
She thrusts the handgun at me, a nine-millimetre Colt that fits perfectly in my palm. I love the weight and handling. Activating the release causes a magazine to pop out.
“Be careful. It is loaded.”
“I will,” I reply, stuffing the weapon into the back of my jeans. “Can I ask you, Mrs Bellacci. Why were you so interested in my tattoo?”
“I may be mistaken. Il dottore will find out. Do not worry. It is probably nothing.”
Not the answer I wanted, but she is busy closing doors and ushering me back out of the strong room.
She stops at the top of the stairs and assesses me for a moment before telling me to follow her into daylight.
We head to a part of the grounds I have not explored before, around the back of the kitchen, through the olive grove and out into a clearing.
The area is cordoned off by dry stone walling and a gate which leads onto a fallow field.
Now that I am looking for them, I notice cameras set up on posts, and partially hidden in trees on either side of the gate.
She tells me to stay where I am before heading to the right of the glade and pulling covers from two rubber dummies.
They’re already riddled with bullet marks, but instead of using those, she pulls down paper targets from a roller secured above and fixes them securely into place.
When she returns to me, she instructs me to take out the gun and fire three shots at one of the targets.
I don’t hesitate. Handling a gun ought to feel alien or unfamiliar, but as I’ve come to understand, I may have learnt the skill in my lost past. The weapon certainly feels comfortably familiar in my grip.
I take aim and fire the first shot, too far away to tell if I’ve hit the target. Steadying the gun, I repeat the process for the next two shots. Once I’m finished, Bellacci pulls a weapon from her housecoat and does the same, this time into the second target.
I’m interested to see how I’ve done. I follow her to my target and see her smiling grimly and nodding. I’ve managed to hit two nines and a ten.
“Beginner’s luck?” I venture with a shrug. She grins but does not appear surprised.
When we check her target, she has scored a full house, three tens. While she tears off our paper targets and begins covering the target area, she tells me to go swim. As I turn to head away, she explains that she will be tidying the kitchen and beginning preparations for lunch.
A woman of rare talents.
Today’s swim is punishing, and only as I stop for breath and peer around the grounds do I realise I’ve seen no sign of Lorenzo since the morning.
When I climb out, I also notice that Bellacci has not set the single porch table for lunch, and I assume I’ll be joining them in the kitchen from now.
In some essential way, this unspoken arrangement pleases me.
I’m no longer a stranger in my house but a part of something.
After I dry off and change, I enter the kitchen to find Lorenzo seated there.
He stares at my body intently before catching himself and nodding a welcome.
During another simple meal affair, I sit and listen as Lorenzo and Bellacci converse in Italian.
From the occasional mention of produce, I presume she is planning to go shopping later in the day.
At the end of the meal, she stands and addresses me.
“Lorenzo has agreed to help you in the library. Let me finish up here, and I will also come and do what I can. But I will need to leave early because I must drive to the village to buy provisions. I am sure we can make good progress before then.”
True to their word, once lunch is out of the way, Bellacci and Lorenzo assist me.
Rather than have them search through books for me—I know this seems ungrateful, but I want to be the one to find whatever Albert left me—I ask them only to pass me books to check.
Bellacci helps for about an hour before excusing herself to prepare for her trip into town.
“Do you only team up with Mrs Bellacci?” I ask Lorenzo as he hands me a pile of books.
“I work for il dottor Romano. But Teresa and I have worked together for over five years. Romano thinks we make a good pairing. As you can tell, she is calm but strict. I am told I can be—uh, how do you say—quick of temper?”
I snort, and Lorenzo produces one of his half-smiles.
He brushes past me repeatedly as he helps, sometimes touching but always coming very close.
A few of those times, he breathes warm air into my ear.
I know he also catches me staring at his backside as he turns from the top of the stepladder to hand me a pile of books, but he says nothing.
I wonder if he is testing my resolve, and the truth is, my body is awakening to his proximity.
“What about family?” I ask, trying to diffuse the sexual tension. I place another dusty book onto a pile on the floor. “You said Mrs Bellacci is not your mother.”
Lorenzo doesn’t answer at first, and I wonder whether I have overstepped the bounds of our familiarity. He stares at a book in his hand for a long moment before turning my way and responding.
“My family are gone. I was born in a suburb of Roma. One night—one I can never forget—my mother and father sat outside our regular osteria having dinner. We would eat there two, maybe three nights a week. My father knew the owner. They had just ordered coffee. I was playing with the owner’s kids out back.
I remember hearing the roar of a motorbike, loud machine gun fire, followed by people screaming and shouting.
By the time we’d run to find out what had happened, the motorbike had gone.
Even at nine, I understood death. My father did on-and-off work for bad people—my mother constantly argued with him about it.
My childhood ended that day. I ran away and hiked to Napoli.
I was afraid they might find me if I visited any of my relatives.
I learnt to survive on the streets by doing odd jobs for people, but mainly by stealing.
That all changed when a retired military man caught me.
Instead of handing me over to the police, he took me in and trained me.
Hard. Very hard. Until I was old enough to join the army.
From day one, I mastered combat training and, within the year, they assigned me to a special forces division. ”