by Karen Dodd
The other confidante who knew about Max was the one Ariana had entrusted to take her son out of the country just days ago. They’d both agreed it was best; just until this upcoming investigation was over. She needed to tell Nico who that person was and give him all the legal paperwork to obtain custody of their son if the powers that be made good on their threats to kill her. Ariana had named Francesca as guardian, but Francesca had always known who Max’s father was. In fact, she’d begged Ariana to tell Nico. Upon her return to Valletta, she would explain why she was making a change to Max’s guardianship; Francesca would understand.
Once her office made the announcement, the press would hound her mercilessly, and the barometer of risk to herself, Francesca and Max would skyrocket. No matter how Nico had lashed out when she’d told him, he would understand she’d had no choice but to do what she did. Their son would be safe and after the trial, together they’d figure out the rest.
She took one final look at her notes and mused over the government’s likely reaction to her office’s imminent announcement. Thou doth protest too much, Prime Minister. The citizens of Malta are coming for you. And when they do, they will blow your private fiefdom wide open. An image formed in her head: the prime minister, fear and guilt stamped on his face as the judge read out the guilty verdict. Those in the courtroom would heave a collective sigh of relief as they heard the clear message that their leader’s corrupt reign over them was about to end.
She closed her laptop and sat back in her chair, the sun warming her face as she stared out at the Tyrrhenian Sea. Her gaze rested on a small boat bobbing on the calm water offshore, perhaps half a mile away. What would life be like, she pondered, when the cause she’d devoted herself to for so many years came to fruition? Freedom. She’d never let herself think of that possibility before. She prayed Nico would forgive her and they could pick up where they’d left off before she’d frozen him out. Even if they couldn’t mend their relationship, she knew he’d love Max—after all, they were carbon copies of each other—and she would have to prepare herself for an equitable custody agreement.
But she was ready. She was tired of keeping secrets.
* * *
At precisely 10:50 a.m., Ariana pushed back her chair and was about to head to the downstairs toilet.
Simultaneously, the captain of the small boat that idled nearby received a phone call and sent a code to a second device.
With a deafening roar, the entire outer edge of the Cannone Square café plunged one hundred meters to the coastal road below. That sunny Calabrian morning, Ariana Delia Calleja became Malta’s second anticorruption prosecutor to be assassinated.
Sixty kilometers away, a text was received.
The errand has been completed.
Nico was standing at the urinal in the men’s room when he heard a muffled bang. What was that? It was as if the stone floor trembled beneath his feet. He zipped up his trousers and yanked open the heavy wooden door. Through the windows of the building’s upper rotunda, he could see thick smoke billowing from the café across the street.
Oh my God, Ariana!
Heart hammering, he flew down two flights of stairs and tore across the street.
The scene before him was the closest thing to hell he’d ever come across. Outside the restaurant, facing the street, a section of wrought-iron fencing hung at grotesque angles, twisted like ropes of black licorice. The sections had simply disappeared. People lay bloodied and injured, strewn across the floor like discarded dolls. Others sat or lay on the ground in stunned silence.
Nico glanced toward the waterside terrace, but there was nothing left but a jagged edge. It was as if a mammoth shark had taken a bite out of the concrete deck.
He moved farther into the café. His foot hit something, and he stumbled. In his path, a woman, not Ariana, lay facedown on a bed of rubble. Tiny bits of stone were wedged under her nails as if she’d scratched and clawed her way across the ground. It was eerily quiet, like the void before a tsunami. Someone moaned, low and guttural, but Nico couldn’t pinpoint the sound.
He blinked, trying to see through the dust and debris. More of the horrific scene came into focus. Tables and chairs lay upended as if tossed about by a tornado. Everywhere lay shards of china, glass, food, and things he didn’t dare give thought to.
He shook his head and stared, his eyes straining to penetrate the acrid smoke that hung in the air. Then his gaze fixed on a body lying prone and bloodied on the restaurant floor, eyes wide open. Acid worked its way up his throat. He swallowed, fighting the urge to vomit.
Out of the smoke, Sebastian emerged, his face smeared with soot. Sweat had carved rivulets from his temples and down his cheeks. He frantically waved Nico away from the edge, babbling incoherently. “She was here . . . and then, she was just gone! Everything is gone—”
Both men leaped as an enormous chunk of concrete crashed to the ground behind them.
With disbelief, Nico scanned the café again. No, it wasn’t possible. He’d been with Ariana last night when she’d told him she had a child. In the middle of the night, he’d received her text in which she’d begged him to meet her this morning. She couldn’t be gone. Any moment, he’d wake up to find he’d just had a nightmare, and he’d have a second chance to work things through with her—to meet his son.
But then he heard another moan and sirens in the distance. He closed his eyes, hoping somehow that when he opened them, Ariana would appear at their usual table. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes. He saw the same devastating scene before him. The same caustic smell assaulted his throat and made him cough. As the sound of the emergency vehicles got closer, something moving caught his eye. A figure on the street outside the restaurant. Tall, in a hurry. A car screeched to a halt, a door opened, and the person jumped into the back seat. The door slammed shut and the driver gunned the engine and sped off.
* * *
Valetta Malta
“You have nothing to worry about—it’s been taken care of. Now, make sure you follow through and do your part,” he said. He ended the call.
In matters such as these, it was best not to involve himself in unnecessary details, but this situation called for extreme measures, and he couldn’t afford a slipup. He’d be damned if he would cower to a female prosecutor whose personal mission was to reduce what he’d spent years building to rubble. Her brash persona and bald accusations were cutting significantly into his reputation with friends in high places. Friends who could turn into enemies in the blink of an eye.
And so, he had reached out to his contractor and had been adamant they strike while Ariana Calleja was off the island. They had been prepared for weeks, awaiting their moment. They had wiretaps on her phones and GPS on her car. Eventually, she would return to Calabria where she kept an apartment and visit her usual haunts. When she booked a ticket to Tropea, they were ready. Someone watched her from the moment she got off the plane at Lamezia Terme Airport until she arrived in Tropea. “I want it done cleanly,” he’d instructed. “There can be no ties to us here.”
The plan had been executed perfectly, and now, he would be kept abreast of the investigation into Calleja’s death. Not that he was particularly interested—the less he could think about that woman the better—but private surveillance showed she had been busy during her short stay in Italy. Despite her reported rigorous prosecutorial duties, the woman appeared to have found time for a personal life. She was seen at the market picking up supplies. It would have been easier to do it there, but there would have been too much collateral damage. After all, he did have a heart. He chuckled to himself. At least she’d had The Last Supper, so to speak.
Now, he no longer had to worry about what she was about to expose. He looked at his watch and smiled as his phone rang. This was the call he’d been waiting for. The one that would tell him whether he’d need to add another name to his list.
Chapter Four
May 8
Valletta, Malta
At the best of tim
es, Francesca Bruno was a light sleeper. But after the devastating news of Ariana’s assassination yesterday, she’d seen every hour on the clock. Each time she awakened, she prayed it had just been a horrible nightmare, but then the reality would hit her again. Her mind raced. It was as if she were watching a retrospective of her life in double time. Ariana’s death had stunned her friends and colleagues, but none of them were surprised. In the past year alone, forty-seven of her peers worldwide, including some high-profile journalists, had been killed. Silenced, but their work not forgotten.
As her closest friend and confidante, Francesca knew Ariana had been threatened dozens of times, publicly and privately. Her dogged determination to expose the corrupt vices of those who wielded power in Malta—known members of the Mafia, lawyers, bankers, even current government leaders—meant there were dozens of people who could have wanted her gone. Over the six months prior to her assassination, Ariana had come home to find an eviscerated rabbit at her door; a pipe bomb, which thankfully didn’t go off, had been delivered to her office; and her dog had been viciously slaughtered and left on the front seat of her car. Francesca knew her friend’s life had been a living hell. And still Ariana had persisted. Until she couldn’t. Until her bold attempts to change the country she so loved had killed her.
Someone had snuffed out the light of this lionhearted woman in the prime of her life. But ever the forward thinking woman, Ariana had ensured her relentless attacks on organized crime would not die with her. She couldn’t bear the thought that her exhaustive investigations and her life’s work would be in vain. When a female investigative reporter had been assassinated on the mainland, a group of those closely associated with their mission had formed a volunteer alliance called Journalists for Justice. Ariana had been distraught over the murder of the journalist she’d known and respected, and had made Francesca swear an oath that if anything happened to her, she would make sure that the group could continue her own work.
“I’ve sent copies of my investigative notes to three journalists I trust.” She’d given Francesca their names and personal mobile numbers. “As you’re my assistant, if anything should happen to me, I just need you to hold them accountable. Do this for me, Francesca, for all of us,” she had pleaded. “We’re so close to getting our beloved country back.”
“Ariana, when has our country ever been different?” Francesca had asked. “When has Malta been anything other than what it is now: secrets and lies? Our citizens read your tweets and articles about you in the newspaper and tsk-tsk to themselves over their morning coffee. But then they shut the paper and get on with their day. Everybody knows about the curse on our Malta, the rampant corruption. And the sad fact is, we benefit from it, we all do. It’s become our way of life.”
Francesca remembered so well the passion and intensity in the eyes that stared back at her. The beautiful face she had envied since they’d met in boarding school. She’d prayed the time would never come when Ariana wouldn’t be here and she’d have to make good on her solemn promise.
Then, just two days ago, Ariana had called to tell her she was going to Tropea to meet with Nico Moretti, and that she’d sent Max away for his safety.
“Are you going to tell him?” Francesca had asked.
“Yes, I must. My office is ready to move. Watch the news on Wednesday for the announcement. We’ve done it, Francesca! We know who these bastards are, and when I announce the charges, everyone in Malta will too.”
But Francesca couldn’t share in her friend’s elation. She knew what it would all mean. “Ariana, please be careful.”
“I will, but I have to tell Nico before it breaks. I’ll explain everything when I get back.”
But she never came. Nor would she ever return to her beloved country again.
And so, it was in the early hours before dawn, as Francesca let her body give way to the emotions that she’d buried during that last conversation. Her admiration and yet the fear she felt for her friend, how she was willing to risk everything for what she thought was—
A noise broke the early-morning darkness. It sounded like it came from downstairs. Francesca lay still, not moving a muscle, afraid to breathe. Then she thought of Ariana. She’d be damned if she’d die in her bed without putting up a fight. As quietly as she could, she pushed the bedcovers back and tiptoed to the edge of the half-mezzanine that was her bedroom. A sliver of moonlight illuminated the landing below. Nothing. She opened the door to the tiny adjoining bathroom and peered in. Only darkness.
With fear creeping through her veins, she reached out a trembling hand, and inch by inch slid out the bedside table drawer. She prayed it wouldn’t squeak. When the opening was big enough, she put her hand in and closed her fingers around the cold metal of the handgun Ariana had insisted she have for self-protection. Weapon in hand, she crept to the top of the staircase that led to the first floor. With the stealth of a cat, she descended a couple of stairs. Her heart skipped a beat when the old wood creaked beneath her feet. She stopped, one foot suspended above the next step, afraid to breathe.
From her frozen position, she had a clear sight line to the front door.
A folded piece of paper sat on the tile floor inside the door.
Spotting Journalists for Justice’s distinctive red-and-yellow sticker affixed to the note, Francesca exhaled and skittered down the last few steps. Depositing the gun on the foyer table, she bent down to retrieve the paper. She turned on the light and read the first line. In disbelief, she read it again.
Tell anyone what you know and you’ll be next.
Clutching the note, she snatched the gun off the table and ran to the hiding place that contained the piece of paper and burner phone Ariana had pushed into Francesca’s hand the last time they’d met. Her hands shook as she placed the call she’d prayed she’d never have to make.
Chapter Five
May 8
Tropea, Italy
Numb, Nico turned away from the window that overlooked the scene of the previous day’s horrific incident. He faced the AISE’s lead investigator. Reporting directly to the prime minister, Roberto Pezzente had phoned Nico’s office to ask if it was too early for him to stop by. Nico himself had been at the office all night, catching a couple of hours of troubled sleep on his lumpy leather couch. As he’d tossed and turned, all he could think about was the terrible fight he and Ariana had had two nights ago. His last words to her. And about his son.
He couldn’t believe she was gone. In a heartbeat, she and everything she stood for were literally blown off the face of the earth. Bargaining with God, he’d quizzed the police: Was there any chance she’d made it out alive? Was it possible she had changed her plans and hadn’t been there when it happened? But of course, he knew differently. He recalled the shell-shocked expression on Sebastian’s face as he’d told him he’d seen Ariana at the table seconds before it fell to the road below. Everyone had been kind, but they’d told him categorically Ariana had been there and could not have survived the blast.
He couldn’t stop thinking about what her last moments on earth might have been like. That, and the image of the man he’d seen getting into a car in the blast’s aftermath, haunted his brief attempts at sleep. He’d reported what he’d seen to the police, but his description was of little help.
Tall and authoritative-looking, Pezzente shook hands with Nico. “I’m so sorry for your loss. I understand you knew Ariana Calleja personally.”
Nico swallowed a lump in his throat, unable to go there.
“Do you have IDs on the other victims?” Nico asked. Was it possible someone other than Ariana had been the target? He wondered if the woman he’d encountered lying facedown on the café floor had survived her injuries.
His grip wavered as he poured two cups of strong coffee on the sideboard. He hoped Pezzente didn’t notice the tremor as he handed him a cup. But as Nico did so, it was impossible not to notice his Oyster Rolex watch. They must pay agents well these days, Nico thought. He drew his attention back t
o the room. “Do you have any leads as to who might have done this?”
Pezzente shook his head. “To your first question, the café owner gave us the names of the other customers who were seated at the waterside tables. Mostly, they were regulars, which at least makes identification somewhat easier. But we have no reason to believe they could have been targeted.
“To your second question, no one has claimed responsibility, however, it’s still early.” He shrugged. “We’re assuming it was domestic terrorism. And highly professional. They struck before the lunchtime rush, so only four besides Signora Calleja were killed.”
Only, Nico thought, but he knew Pezzente was simply stating a fact.
“The force of the explosion, and the hundred-meter drop, guaranteed there’d be no survivors. It would have taken weeks to plant a bomb that would do that much damage without attracting attention. Someone knew exactly what they were doing and who they were after.”
Nico’s antenna went up. For several weeks, Sebastian had complained that every day the structural repairs to the underside of Cannone Square were delayed, he was losing money. Much to everyone’s relief, the scaffolding had finally come down and the construction noise had ended. Nico and Ariana met there every morning for coffee when she was in town.