“How did he lose his hands?”
“When he was a young picciotto, out to prove himself, he had the bright idea of blowing up Parliament. Unfortunately, all he’s got is some half-assed ordnance from World War Two, so needless to say, the thing goes off while the schmuck is holding it. But they like his courage, so they make him a bag man for ’Ndrangheta.”
“A bag man with no hands?”
“He scares the devil out of people. You own a falafel joint, and the Puppet shows up, wanting a protection bribe. You gonna argue? The guy is a success story; we should all be so blessed. What was he doing at the hospital? My guess? Putting the squeeze on Nicosa. They’re telling him, ‘We know where your son is at’—the implication being that anytime they want, they can pull the plug on his kid. Here’s the thing. Cosimo Umberto is out of his territory. He should be working extortion for ’Ndrangheta, on his usual beat down south in Calabria. But suddenly we find one of their top coglioni pressuring Nicoli Nicosa, a major industrialist in Siena. Whatever was said in that room could change the picture of mob penetration of the north. You’re in a unique position to know.”
“Meaning what?”
“Talk to your sister. She knows exactly what’s going down, or she wouldn’t have freaked when she saw that guy.”
“Now isn’t the time. Her kid is still critical. Palio starts tomorrow and she’s hyped about that—”
“Stop making excuses. You’re in, and we want you to stay in.”
I am talking to Rizzio from the far side of the pool, out of sight of the family. The underwater lights are on, heat still rises off the pine duff like a woodland sauna, while I pace the deck and consider betrayal. It’s one hell of a postcard.
“You know what, Dennis? I shouldn’t do this.”
“You’re the only one who can. You’re in with the family; that’s a tremendous plus.”
“Let’s do it right and bring the heat. Infiltrate with an undercover from the Bureau, someone fresh. I’ll help them establish a cover, and then I’m gone. It doesn’t feel right, and you know when that happens, it’s time to go home.”
There is a space of silence.
“ ‘Home’ is a relative concept,” Dennis finally replies. “From what I understand, the door is not exactly open.”
“Where? Los Angeles?”
“Like I told you, Bob Galloway and I are buddies from the old days. He filled me in on your situation, fingering Peter Abbott, deputy director of the FBI, for obstruction of justice.”
“You have a problem with that?”
“Me? Not at all. Peter Abbott is a private-school prick like we used to beat up on the subway. But there’s no way he’s going to plead guilty and go away.”
“You never know.”
“You think Peter Abbott’s just gonna roll over?” Rizzio asks skeptically. “That’s what family money and connections are for—obstruction of justice!”
He laughs.
“The Bureau is in for a tough battle in the courts. God forbid the trial goes south, and after a huge investment of time and money, it turns out the evidence you provided isn’t all that solid. All I’m saying, Ana, is that it’s easy enough to stay in their good graces.”
I shake my head.
“I know how this investigation of Nicosa will proceed,” I insist. “You’ll want intel. Hard evidence. Pretty soon there are surveillance cameras planted inside the abbey, and I’m wearing a wire. Now we’re involving family members. It’s just too complicated for me.”
“Are they really your family?”
“Kind of.”
He hears my real hesitation. “Because I would never ask you to do something like that.”
“I know.”
“It seemed like since you never met these people, maybe it would fly,” he goes on. “But say the word, and I’ll send a new u.c. in tomorrow. If you have an emotional conflict, that’s a nonstarter.”
Dennis knows that admitting to an “emotional conflict” is a ticket to the community outreach squad, and that I’ve already gotten my teeth into this case. But part of his question is sincere. I can’t call Cecilia my sister in the real sense. It hasn’t been instant chemistry. Our lives are completely different. We’ve known each other for just a few tumultuous days. I entered her home with a role to play. She reached out precisely because I am an agent. I want to help, but we are more bound by circumstance than blood.
“There’s no conflict,” I say at last. “But I need you to take extra precautions.”
“Fine. How long is your nephew in the hospital?”
“He’s out of the coma, so hopefully not too much longer.”
“I hear what you’re saying. The safety of the family won’t be compromised. I will personally make sure Giovanni has protection 24/7. I’ll have Inspector Martini post a cop outside his room. No more creeps in the hall.”
There’s still something that feels out of joint. I slip off my shoes and swipe the water in the pool with a bare foot, kicking up a splash of frustration.
“Any news on the attack in London?”
“We had some progress,” Dennis says. “The number for the guy who bought the Ford used in the assault turned out to be a disposable phone, so the Brits kicked the investigation up to the Counter Terrorism Command. They have the resources to trace calls received by that number. Four calls were placed from Calabria — the last one a few minutes before they assaulted the restaurant. It was a mafia-ordered hit, which explains why the car was dumped in Aberdeen.”
“Funny, I thought Aberdeen was in Scotland.”
“Don’t be fresh,” Dennis advises. “Aberdeen has become a landing point for the penetration of the mafias into the U.K. Go down to Sicily any day, and you’ll see kids waiting at the docks, hoping to get on a boat with direct service to Scotland. For the up-and-comers, it’s a promotion. The shooters dumped the car in Aberdeen because that’s where they have protection. What I’m telling you is, these folks you came up against in London are well organized and connected to the Italian mafia syndicates. So be alert.”
“I get it, but none of this has anything to do with me. The fact that I was there at that restaurant is totally random.”
“Maybe,” Dennis says. “Enjoy the Palio.”
The surface of the pool has stilled. I’m looking at my reflection, not recognizable, just a play of darkness and light.
IL PALIO
THIRTEEN
Palio, Day 1—FRIDAY, JUNE 29, 5:45 A.M. The reflection of the empty ironwork bed slides around me as I open the doors of the mirrored armoire and pull out a linen skirt Cecilia has loaned me, wrapping it around my waist and slipping on a white T-shirt and leather sandals. I tie an Oca scarf around my neck, letting the point of the triangle hang down the back. Day by day, I seem to be losing my L.A. edge and looking more like Cecilia.
She and Nicosa were leaving at dawn for the tratta, or “choosing of the horses,” that begins the festival, when I cornered her in the second-floor arcade. She was dressed with conservative elegance in an Oca-green suit with an opalescent sheen. I was still wearing pajamas with rockets on them.
“Cecilia, look. I know who he is.” “Who?”
“The man with no hands we saw outside Giovanni’s room. He’s mafia,” I said quietly. “It’s obvious.” She squinted at the soft light filling the archways.
“What are you trying to do?” she said at last.