He stepped back before heading west along Via Sant’Anna, returning the way he’d come.
I thought about what he had said and wondered how one could find peace in a world full of injustice. I walked the other way toward the gate near the North Colonnade. As I passed by a small fountain set in a yard between two buildings draped in flags, a priest I didn’t recognize came hurrying toward me.
A lean man in his late twenties, he had short black hair and Southern Mediterranean features. He held up his cassock as he jogged to intercept me.
“My name is Carlos Diaz,” he whispered. “You are in grave danger. Meet me tonight — ten at the Basilica di Santa Maria in Montesanto. I will tell you everything.”
He hurried away, taking the same route as Father Vito, but glanced back at me intermittently until he disappeared from sight around the corner of Via della Posta.
I had no idea whether he was friend or foe, wise man or lunatic, and the only way I would find out was by going to meet him.
Chapter 35
My phone vibrated as I walked along the North Colonnade. I saw it was Justine calling.
“I have the background you wanted on Milan Verde,” she said when I answered.
“No hello?” I asked.
“For now I’m trying to keep it professional,” she replied. “Besides, we’re beyond the small-talk phase. You know I love you.”
“I know,” I said. “What time is it there?”
“Two in the morning. But this is important. I’m sending you a file of everything Mo-bot has been able to pull on Milan Verde. He’s bad news. Served with Col Moschin, the 9th Paratroopers Assault Regiment, Italian Special Forces. Saw action in Afghanistan and was rumored to be involved in hostage rescues in Iraq and Syria. Left under a cloud when his unit was accused of brutality toward residents of a Syrian village. He’s had a couple arrests since then for gun running, but the charges never stick. AISI, the Italian Internal Information and Security Agency, has a file on him and flags him as a potential leader of the Dark Fates. It’s a vicious outfit that’s been implicated in gangland murders, political assassinations and organized crime at the highest level. These are very bad dudes.”
“Luna told me they’re based out of a bar in Esquilino,” I replied.
“You’re not thinking of going there?”
“It’s a bar,” I replied. I wasn’t going to lie to Justine. “They won’t kill me for having a drink.”
“You have no idea what they’re going to do,” she countered, and I couldn’t deny the truth of her words.
I did not know what their agenda was or how much they knew about me. It was clear a member of the Dark Fates had targeted either me or Luna, so going to the bar might be the equivalent of stepping into a lion enclosure.
“I’ll be careful,” I said.
“I know there’s no point reminding you this is a police investigation and that you could just give the information you have to the detective in charge of the case,” Justine responded coldly. “Or you could ask for help and have us fly out to support you.”
“You could try if you like,” I replied. “But it would just be a waste of breath.”
“You’re a stubborn man, Jack Morgan, but you’re also a good man.” Her tone softened. “And I wouldn’t change that.”
“I’ll stay out of trouble,” I assured her. “Love you.”
“You too, even if you give me worry lines,” she replied before hanging up.
I wandered through the crowds milling around St Peter’s Square and left Vatican City, thinking about what lay ahead.
If the Dark Fates had targeted me, I would know the instant I set foot in their bar. If Luna had been the target, I might not be known to the other gang members and could possibly gather useful intelligence, maybe even confront Milan Verde himself.
I walked along Via dei Corridori, buzzing with traffic, and hailed a taxi. The driver was a cheerful lady who smiled and nodded happily when I asked her to take me to Esquilino.
Chapter 36
If neighborhoods were bands, Ostia, where I was staying, was an energetic grunge group. Esquilino, on the other hand, was a dangerous death metal band that had been around since the beginning of time.
The streets exuded menace: from the dark cross-hatching of graffiti on every surface to the gangs of angry-looking men gathered outside bars, discount liquor stores and pool halls, glasses in hand, their skin emblazoned with images of skulls and devils. There were bars on any windows within reach from the ground; modified cars and souped-up motorcycles, engines wailing, endlessly prowled the narrow streets of buildings with flaking stucco. Esquilino was not a safe place.
The Inferno, Milan Verde’s bar, was the worst of all the lowdown drinking joints we passed. Although it was only early afternoon, we arrived on Via Mamiani, a particularly rundown side street, to find the place already clouded by a fog of degeneracy. Groups of heavily inked men in biker vests and T-shirts jostled for space on the sidewalk outside the bar, bingeing heavily as they traded jokes and stories. It was a weekday, so these were men without regular jobs. And it was mostly men. I could see two women among the crowd of about fifty, and they were dressed similarly and tattooed in the same way.
The cab driver stopped further up the street. Once I had paid her, I walked back, passing a convenience store and boarded-up café before I reached the corner opposite the Inferno, which, in addition to the dull roar made by its rowdy customers, was filling the neighborhood with fast-paced thrash metal.
I crossed the road and pushed through the crowd gathered on the sidewalk, earning myself hostile looks, muttered curses and one threat I couldn’t understand.
Inside, the bar lived up to its name. The walls were decorated with heavy metal-style images of helclass="underline" devils in biker jackets riding flaming motorcycles among tormented masses. The place was packed and the bar heaving with drinkers. I recognized Milan Verde from an intelligence photograph contained in the dossier Mo-bot had sent via secure email. He looked a couple years older than the photo, his dark close-cropped hair now flecked with gray. His piercing eyes were just as soulless, and his scowling face appeared to have picked up a few new scars, including one on the bridge of his nose where it had clearly been broken.
He was sitting with a group of four guys and two women, who looked like roadies for the devil’s favorite band. I saw a flash of recognition when he caught sight of me and felt a pang of anxiety as he nudged the big man sitting next to him.
I thought he was coming for me, but it was even worse than that. The big man pushed his way through the crowd to the entrance and locked the front door. He folded his arms and became a sentinel guarding the only obvious way out.
The noise made by the patrons dropped slightly as they eyed me and made comments to their companions. They clearly knew who I was and had trapped me in the bar, so now I really had nothing to lose. I approached Verde’s booth, and the crowd parted to allow me access to the man who’d likely tried to kill me.
He nodded to his companions and they eased out of their seats, leaving him alone and the bench opposite him unoccupied.
I slid onto it and held his gaze as I settled.
“You know who I am?” I said.
“You’re brave and stupid coming here, Mr. Morgan,” Milan replied.
“Why did one of your men try to kill me?”
“I don’t have men.” He smiled. “I own a bar. You have me confused with someone else.”
I scoffed. “Those guys cleared a place for me because you asked them nicely, I guess?”
“That’s what friends do,” he said.
“So why did your friend try to kill me?” I pressed.