Chapter 49 Fon
Fon
He was quiet as they drove out of the port, leaving the celebrations behind them.
After a broken night spent waiting for the news to come that they had the diary, and then sitting through a cathedral Mass that seemed never-ending, he was relieved to be turning his back on the chaos of Ferragosto and heading for the farmhouse.
Retrieving the diary had been easy for Father Caputo once he’d been given his orders.
It turned out Franchetti had visited the seminary the night of the dinner, and Cosimo, straight afterwards, had handed over a small box to be stored with his personal belongings in the vaults.
After those long weeks of detaining Fede, the ransom was in their hands within a matter of hours.
Their hidden treasure, their holy grail, had been on a shelf metres away from Dante’s own front door the entire time.
But Fon’s nerves were still up. Even though the ransom demand had been met by the hostage himself, he knew Fede wouldn’t be safe until he was out of range of a bullet.
He knew better than to underestimate his brother; Dante was nervous of the personal history they shared with their captive, and he would need to reassure himself that their anonymity had been preserved before a single step to freedom was granted.
Fede just had to hold his nerve and feign ignorance, but Fon felt as if there was a gun to his head too.
Francesco was in the car ahead of them, ready to drive Fede back up to Rome and dump him there in the place from which he’d been taken.
Fon didn’t want to think about Fede being so far away – would Fede leave him behind without a backward glance?
Would he hate him as soon as he was a free man?
But he couldn’t object without raising Dante’s suspicions.
They turned off the highway after a few miles and onto the local road before splitting onto the dirt track.
They passed barren fields and crumbling stone walls, a few crows soaring overhead in the pulsing sky, Dante dodging potholes with a careless air until the farmhouse came into view and, with it, the trullo.
Francesco was already parked and crossing the yard, unlocking the padlock to the stone hut. Dante cut the ignition and they got out too.
‘You! Up!’ Francesco said, disappearing inside the trullo.
The roughness of his tone turned Fon’s stomach. Fede’s voice was subdued from within.
Moments later, Francesco reappeared, half dragging Fede beside him. He had been released from the wall chain but his hands were still bound with ties. Crucially, the hood was still over his head, and Fon felt a wave of relief that the masquerade was holding up.
Nobody spoke. Fon felt the drubbing of his heart against his ribs as they all awaited Dante’s judgement.
‘… He looks well enough,’ Dante said to him in a low voice, taking in Fede’s bowed figure. ‘Not too thin.’
‘No,’ Fon agreed. ‘We’ve tried to keep him in good health. The shorter the recovery time, the quicker he’ll return to normal life and put this behind him.’
‘Very considerate,’ Dante said, giving him a sideways look.
‘Just pragmatic. We always said this was a risky job with their profile.’ Fon’s mouth barely moved as he spoke, his eyes slitted against the bright sunlight.
‘It’s as well for us Franchetti suppressed most of the press speculation.
We’ve got what we wanted; it’s in everyone’s interests to let this fade away.
’ He drew his cigarettes from his jacket pocket and lit one, restlessly turning in a circle as he pulled hard on the first drag.
‘And you’d be able to do that, brother? Let this just … fade away?’ Dante asked, just as Fon’s gaze fell on the farmhouse.
The front door was ajar … Only fractionally, as if the latch had slipped. But it had never been open on any of his trips out here before. It had been locked, and …
He remembered the blackbird in the farmhouse yesterday. It could only have got in if the door had been opened.
Had someone been here yesterday? Someone else besides him?
He willed himself to remain still, calm, as he turned back to find Dante watching him.
In a heartbeat, he saw that his brother knew – he knew everything. The cigarette fell from Fon’s fingers as shrill fear pierced his heart.
Francesco.
Francesco had come out here yesterday, on Dante’s orders.
Fon’s mind raced. What had betrayed him?
His plea for the chance to interrogate Fede first?
His eagerness to get a result without violence?
Or – as he had long feared – had Dante always known?
Had his long-held suspicion about his little brother finally been confirmed when Fon had shaved his prisoner with tender care, thinking they were alone?
He felt the pieces that had made up the jigsaw of his life slot into alignment at last, the full picture revealed: Dante’s hawk-eyed scrutiny, pushing him into marriage with a girl who loved a man she could never have.
His brother’s insistence on getting her pregnant and stopping the gossips from talking. Protecting their name. Protecting him.
Slowly, Fon looked back over at Fede with despair, knowing he was a dead man standing.
There was no changing this course. Dante wasn’t here to confirm that their identity was safe.
Francesco wasn’t here to drive Fede back to Rome.
Diary or no diary, Fede simply couldn’t be allowed to live now he was the single biggest threat to the Giannellis’ reputation.
Fon himself had killed him, simply by being who he was.
A tear rolled down his face at what he was about to lose. He knew it was yet another sign of the weakness his brother despised, and he looked back at him expecting to see contempt, disgust. But it was worse than that. He saw pity.
Dante clutched him suddenly, hugging him so hard Fon could scarcely breathe. Only because they were brothers, he knew, was he still alive too.
‘… Let me say goodbye at least,’ Fon pleaded under his breath, his brother’s arm like a vice around his head.
Dante released him. Merciful.
Slowly, Fon walked over to where Fede stood, a clever man playing the dumb hostage as asked, oblivious to his fate.
His boots felt made of lead, his blood like tar in his veins as he crossed the courtyard and slowly pulled off the hood.
Fede blinked back at him and Fon saw in his eyes confusion at this sudden break from the plan, then dawning understanding as he tracked Fon’s tears …
‘No,’ he whispered.
Fon’s eyes flickered towards Francesco, standing beside them. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he gasped, feeling as if his heart was exploding. ‘It’s all my fault.’
Fede paled. ‘But the diary … You said …’
Fon couldn’t reply. He’d lived through much horror, but he’d never known pain like this.
Fede looked over to where Dante was standing by the car, impassive and imperious. ‘Dante! Come on!’ he cried desperately. ‘We’re friends! … You can’t do this! You don’t need to do this! … I’ll never say—’
A sudden whine came to their ears, drawing closer fast, and they turned to see a faint red cloud of dust billowing above the hill.
Company.
‘What the hell …?’ Francesco muttered, flicking open the switchblade in his free hand which, until now, had gone unnoticed.
He grabbed Fede again by the arm just as a blue Piaggio appeared over the crest, skidding to a dramatic stop as the two riders were confronted with the scene of four men standing here in the courtyard.
Fede – hands tied, a knife pointed at him – made a particularly arresting sight.
Dante, still standing by the car, began to laugh, shaking his head as if he was amused. ‘Well, well, well,’ he called, staring at the intruders.
Fon felt the electric shock of seeing Rafaella’s hair caught by the wind, her pale, horrified face peering over Cosimo’s shoulder. What was she doing here?
What was he …?
‘Cosi!’ Fede cried, instinctively moving forward as his brother jumped off the scooter. Francesco reflexively lunged at him with the knife, but he wasn’t fast enough—
‘Fede!’ Cosi yelled.
Fon felt the blade slip between his ribs as he threw himself in front of the only happiness he’d ever known. He gasped. The pain was sharp but clean.
Cleansing.
An exquisite catharsis, as if his sins were finally being purged in the face of sacrifice.
He heard screams – Dante’s, Rafa’s, Fede’s – but they almost immediately faded into ringing silence as his knees buckled and he fell. Fede fell with him, cradling him in bent arms, his bound hands awkwardly angled as he held Fon’s head in the dirt.
He was saying something, but Fon couldn’t hear what; he could only look into Fede’s eyes as the world began narrowing down to the black pinpoints of his pupils.
Fede had been the only person to ever truly see him, and as he saw his sorrow swelling in heavy tears, Fon felt what he’d been searching for his entire life.
It was only his for a moment.
But it was enough.