‘In me?’ Scamarcio pushed back his chair. ‘I think we’re done. If I were you, I’d call your lawyer.’
Scamarcio felt very little sympathy for Amato. Sure, they’d killed his son, but he’d covered up a dreadful crime for far too long for his own selfish ends. Now that would all have to come out. He wondered whether the cardinal’s testimony would lead to the Cherubini case being reopened or brought back to life, given that it had never been closed in the first place. He wondered if Chief Inspector Cafaro might finally feel compelled to come forward with his evidence.
As he was taking the steps to the hospital, a bunch of red roses in one hand and a box of Fiammetta’s favourite chocolates in the other, a hand grabbed him from behind and pulled him back.
‘Congratulations, Scamarcio.’ Greco was holding his own bouquet: white chrysanthemums, the flowers traditionally left at funerals.
Scamarcio slammed Greco’s hand away, smashed it into the wall. The box of chocolates fell to the ground. ‘Leave me the fuck alone.’
‘Wish I could.’ It actually sounded like Greco meant it. ‘Why don’t we take a stroll?’
Scamarcio looked deep into Greco’s lizard eyes and watched the pupils flare then shrink under the street lamps. ‘Dante, you are the head of the ’Ndrangheta. I will not be seen walking with you.’
Greco shrugged, as if Scamarcio was being oversensitive. ‘I’m just trying to help you.’
‘You’ve threatened me twice.’
Greco sighed. ‘I want you to see sense. You can’t win this one.’ He made a claw of his hand and weighed the air. ‘The machinery turning here, the power behind it — you have no idea of its scope.’ He un-clawed the hand and brought it to his temple. ‘It makes no sense to me that you’d risk everything — and right now you have a lot — to fight a war you can’t ever win.’
He paused and glanced behind him quickly, as if to check no one was listening. ‘You might not believe me, but it pains me to watch this play out. I’ve been around the block, Scamarcio. I know how it works. Even I know when to call it quits.’ He shook his head, seemingly perplexed. ‘This crusading thing you have — honestly, it’s suicide. And, at the end of the day, it’s not just you who’s going down. You’ll be taking others with you: you’re putting them both at risk. Just call it a day. I’m not up here in Rome for the weather. I’m here because I’m worried about you. Deeply worried.’
‘Greco, you don’t give a shit about me.’
‘Actually, that’s where you’re wrong. You’re one of the few people I’ve met who have truly impressed me. I don’t know what it is. I never had kids of my own, so maybe it’s that. But, somehow, I want you to be OK, Scamarcio — I don’t want to see you fail. Just listen to me on this, please.’
‘You tried to kill my girlfriend and unborn child.’
‘I didn’t. It was a warning.’
‘You followed her.’
‘A warning.’
Scamarcio stared at him in disbelief. Why was he bothering with the song and dance? Direct in-your-face threats followed by execution were the norm as far as men like Greco were concerned.
Scamarcio felt lightheaded. ‘Let me go and see my family.’ He brought a hand to his temple and closed his eyes. ‘Just let me think about it. I’m very tired.’
Greco gripped his shoulder. ‘That’s good. Think. Think hard.’
With that, he turned and made his way back down the steps. Scamarcio had expected to see the usual Bentley loitering, but Greco just walked all the way down the street and continued walking: the head of the ’Ndrangheta had come by foot, it seemed. It was almost as if he was scared of being spotted.
By whom? Scamarcio wondered.
Fiammetta was sitting up in bed with the baby at her breast when he walked in. Her face was contorted in agony. The baby was screaming at the top of its lungs. Scamarcio put the flowers quietly down on the bedside table, for later.
‘I’m trying to get her to feed. It’s not going well.’ Fiammetta bit her bottom lip, which Scamarcio noticed was red and cracked. ‘Fuck it.’
‘These things take time, I believe.’
‘You believe,’ Fiammetta muttered, her forehead wrinkled with pain.
He kissed her, then his daughter. ‘I read it somewhere.’
‘Good for you.’ She looked away to the window, her eyes desperate. To Scamarcio, it almost looked like she wanted to jump out. ‘Tell me you’ve nailed it,’ she said, through gritted teeth.
‘Case is almost closed. It was the cardinal.’
The baby screamed louder. Scamarcio leaned over. ‘Can I take her?’
‘I don’t hold out much hope.’
But as soon as she nestled in his arms, his daughter stopped crying. He wished there’d been more people around to witness it.
Fiammetta just rolled her eyes. ‘How could Amato kill his own son?’ she said, sinking her head into the pillow.
‘That’s slightly more complicated, although it seems he believed that Andrea was both a punishment from God and a message from the devil.’
‘That’s fucked up.’
‘Indeed.’
Scamarcio brushed his finger against his daughter’s soft cheek. He had never in his whole life seen a face so beautiful. He was also extremely proud of the fact that she already had a good head of blonde hair.
‘Would you mind if I took a nap?’ Fiammetta’s eyes were already closed.
‘Go ahead, we’ll be fine.’
‘Thank you for the roses …’ she murmured.
He eased back into an armchair and studied his child, carefully taking in every feature, every sound, every smell. Again, he vowed to be the best father he possibly could. He thought of his own dad — in many ways he had also tried his best. But what did it really mean, in the end, to be a good father? Did it mean trying to shield your family from the worst? Trying to swing a corruption inquiry so you could all sleep soundly in your beds?
Or did it mean standing firm in the face of threats from men like Greco? Scamarcio looked out at the rain-swept vista. What kind of future would he be leaving his daughter if he ditched his principles and allowed Greco and his ilk to run the country? What would have been the point of Scamarcio’s work in the police? He might as well have stayed put in Calabria and raked in millions. But as his baby slept softly in his arms, Scamarcio felt these churning worries gradually fade to be replaced by something new and unexpected: a kind of fizzing energy, a sudden swell of confidence that, in the end, if he tried hard enough, he would be able to protect his child, so that she and her peers might one day make Italy a better place.
His thoughts were broken by the ringing of his phone, but the baby didn’t seem to notice. Maybe she’d be a solid sleeper.
‘Sorry to bother you when you’ve only just left,’ said Garramone, sounding more chipper than sorry.
‘No worries.’
‘I just wanted to let you know that District Attorney Ercolani thinks we have the makings of a solid case for corruption against the director-general. Ercolani’s optimistic, which, as you know, is not his usual state of mind.’
Scamarcio felt his stomach flip. ‘Good,’ he said quietly.
‘All Zenox drugs are being withdrawn from the market and an urgent review is being ordered into those medicines whose licenses were granted in the last five years — there will be a call-out for possible side-effects, medical claims, etc.’
‘OK,’ Scamarcio said softly.
‘You don’t sound pleased.’
‘Oh, I am.’
‘Sometimes, in my lighter moments, I think the tide’s turning, Scamarcio. It’s starting to feel like we’re making headway. Or maybe that’s just me going soft in my old age.’
‘No,’ said Scamarcio, louder than he’d intended. His daughter let out a small cry. ‘I think you could be right.’
‘Any thoughts on names?’ asked Garramone.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Names for your daughter, Scamarcio,’ said the boss slowly, as if he was worried that Scamarcio might have forgotten that he’d just become a father.
Scamarcio looked at her tiny fist bunched against her flushed cheek, her fine expressive brows, strong forehead, and rosebud pout. He wondered how much of his character she’d inherit — how much of his determination and general bloody-mindedness.
‘You know,’ he said quietly, as an idea took shape, ‘I think we’ll call her Hope.’
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank the excellent team at Scribe and my ever-supportive agent, Norah Perkins at Curtis Brown.
The Devil Page 30