by Karen Moore
“Crikey, that’s some name. Who’s Paolo Giaccone?” asked Rhys.
“He was a professor and forensic pathologist, killed by the Mafia in the early eighties for finding forensic evidence that linked a particular Mafia family to the massacre of three rival Mafia bosses,” said Ignazio, peering out of the window for the Pronto Soccorso entrance. “The hospital was renamed in his honour.”
A look of horror passed over Rhys’ face. “But that was a long time ago. Surely that’s all over and done with?”
Ignazio gave Rhys a long, hard look in the rear-view mirror.
“You, of all people should know better than that, after what happened to Hanna and Eva,” he said evenly.
“Nearly thirty years ago now, more than three hundred mafiosi were jailed and nineteen Mafia bosses given life sentences,” Vincenzo said. “But organised crime still exists. It’s just regrouped. Now its main activities are drugs, prostitution and people-trafficking.”
“And the odd EU agricultural scam,” added Ignazio, pulling into a space near the Pronto Soccorso entrance.
And now this latest shooting, Hanna thought grimly. Her best friend shot on her wedding day. Had Ceri been the intended victim, or had they been trying to kill Sergio? Either way, it was clear: a deadly message, a warning aimed at shutting down the police investigation and media coverage.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
They found Sergio sitting hunched over on a plastic chair, his head in his hands, a lone figure in the waiting area of the red zone where they treated the most urgent patients.
Hanna slipped an arm around his shoulders and asked gently, “Any news?”
Sergio raised his head slightly, his face streaked with tears, his eyes swollen and red-rimmed. “Nothing as yet. They’re working on her. It might be a while before we hear anything. You know what hospitals are like.”
“I’m sure they’re doing everything they can,” said Hanna, trying in vain to reassure him, although her words rang hollow, even to her own ears.
Tears sprang to his eyes and Hanna hugged him tightly to her. She could feel him trembling and cold in her arms. Rhys watched helplessly. He seemed at a loss to know what to do or say, until he signalled that he’d go off in search of coffee with Ignazio. Hanna nodded. A warm drink would do them all good.
Sergio detached himself from Hanna’s embrace and wiped the tears from his face with the back of his hands. His clothes were spattered with crimson stains.
An uneasy silence hung over the waiting area. No one had the heart to make conversation. From time to time, a doctor or nurse hurried past. The minutes ticked by.
Then suddenly the quiet was shattered by the harsh ring of Vincenzo’s mobile. He snatched it up and answered, moving nearer the entrance to take the call, ignoring a scowl from the receptionist behind the desk. His words faded as he stepped further away.
A few minutes later, he returned, grim-faced. “The gunmen managed to give my boys the slip. The lower terrace area is being treated as a crime scene and is being scoured for evidence. We’ve started to interview the staff, and the few guests that didn’t scarper when it happened. I’m not hopeful we’ll find anything useful, but you never know.”
He collapsed onto a chair next to Sergio and laid a hand on his son’s arm. “Mi dispiace tanto, figlio mio. È tutta colpa mia. I’m so sorry, son. It’s all my fault.”
Sergio placed his hand on top of his father’s and said in a shaky voice. “’Course it’s not. It’s our damn home-grown cancer. We try to stamp it out and look what happens…”
“Like so many times before,” said Ignazio bleakly, appearing with Rhys, each carrying a paper tray with their cups of coffee.
Hanna shot him a warning look not to elaborate further. Ignazio fell silent and handed round the coffee. They sat huddled together in silence, clasping their plastic cups, each deep in thought, worrying about Ceri, and how badly injured she might be.
And whether she’d pull through.
***
Nearly an hour had passed when Elena emerged from a side room, looking exhausted, her hair dishevelled, a plastic apron covering her blood-spattered wedding outfit.
Sergio sprang to his feet. “How’s Ceri? What can you tell us?”
Elena gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head. “Not much, I’m afraid. She’s been whisked off to Theatre for emergency surgery.”
“Should we go and wait there instead?” Rhys asked.
“No, you’re better waiting here for now,” Elena responded. “Doctor Di Mauro is leading the team looking after her. I’ll make him aware that you’re here and to let you know as soon as there’s any news.”
“We really appreciate everything you’ve done, Elena,” said Hanna, clasping the nurse’s hands. “We can’t thank you enough.”
Elena shrugged and gave a faint smile. “It was nothing. Only glad I could help out.”
Vincenzo’s mobile rang again. He listened, then said, “Sorry, but I’m needed back at the Questura. There’s been an important development. A car’s coming to pick me up. Let me know as soon as you hear anything.” He embraced Sergio briefly, then turned abruptly on his heel and left.
Sergio sank back onto his chair, looking drained.
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to get Elena home so she can get some sleep,” said Ignazio, a tad sheepishly. “She’s got a shift tomorrow afternoon.”
“Of course. You go ahead,” said Hanna. “We’ll be in touch once we know what’s happening.”
“That’ll leave you without any transport, though,” said Ignazio. “Will that be a problem?”
“Believe me, that’s the least of our problems,” said Hanna grimly. “We’re not going anywhere.”
***
The minor treatment area of Pronto Soccorso was busy now, with relatives milling around while staff treated their loved ones, but the red zone, the major area, remained quiet. The noise from the minor area filtered through, but in a strange, muted, other-worldly way that didn’t touch the three friends waiting and desperately hoping that their loved one would live. They shifted uncomfortably on the plastic chairs below the glare of the fluorescent lights, the air heavy and humid, the air-conditioning struggling to make much of an impact.
Sergio seemed to be in a trance, moving little and speaking even less. Hanna tried to talk to him, but it was if he’d closed down and couldn’t hear her. In the end, she gave up and took it in turns with Rhys to get more coffee and bring back bottles of water. She’d drunk so much coffee that she felt wired but exhausted at the same time. The endless waiting was unbearable.
Eventually Rhys whispered in Hanna’s ear, “We should have heard something by now. D’you think Doctor Di Mauro’s forgotten about us? Should we try and contact him?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. He’ll have enough to do without us bothering him. Let’s give him a bit more time.”
Rhys clamped his mouth shut as if to stop himself saying anything further. The waiting continued.
Shortly after 1.30am, a slim middle-aged man in blue surgical scrubs came down the corridor towards them, his face sombre.
“Good morning, I’m Doctor Di Mauro, the clinical lead in Ceri’s care. Which one of you is her husband, Signor Graziano?”
Sergio sat up, immediately alert. “I am.”
“Would you like to follow me, please?” the doctor asked, indicating the same side room that Elena had been in.
Sergio followed him mechanically. Hanna and Rhys exchanged glances, tight-lipped. After about fifteen minutes he returned, looking dazed and bewildered, his face ashen.
“What is it, Sergio? Is she going to be okay?” Hanna asked, her impatience getting the better of her.
He slumped into the chair he’d recently vacated. “Fortunately, the bullet seems to have missed any of her vital organs and lodged itself in muscle. They’ve had to operate to remove it. That seems to have gone well, and they reckon she should make a full recovery.
&nb
sp; “But the one thing they couldn’t do was save the baby.”
Chapter Forty
Hanna’s jaw dropped in surprise. “The baby? What baby? I didn’t even know she was pregnant!”
Sergio shook his head sadly. “Nor did we. Apparently, she was in the very early stages. Neither of us knew, or even guessed…”
Sobs racked his body and tears began to flood down his cheeks. Hanna took him in her arms and tried to calm him down while Rhys looked on helplessly. After a few minutes she reached into her handbag, pulled out a packet of paper hankies and handed them to Sergio. He wiped his eyes and face and blew his nose loudly, clearly embarrassed at his outburst.
When the sobs and tears had finally subsided, she asked, “Is she still in Theatre?”
“N…no. They’ve t…transferred her to Intensive Care.” Sergio paused and took a long gulp from a bottle of water. “As a precaution, they said. Standard practice. She’s lost a lot of blood and is very weak. She needs time to recover.”
Hanna’s head was swimming with this news. On the one hand she was relieved that Ceri would recover, but on the other she was devastated that her friend’s unborn child hadn’t survived the ordeal. Regardless of whether Ceri or Sergio had been the intended victim of the shooting, they were both suffering now.
“Is there anything we can do? Can we see her?” she asked, struggling to keep her emotions in check.
Sergio shook his head again. “Doctor Di Mauro says she needs to rest now. Give her body a chance to recuperate. But he did say there could be long-term effects. There’s always a risk of PTSD, and not just in the immediate aftermath. Apparently, it can develop weeks, even months, afterwards.”
Hanna made no comment. What could she possibly say that would be of any comfort?
“We can ring tomorrow to see how she is and if she’s up to visitors,” Sergio continued, more composed now.
“I guess we should go and try to get some sleep ourselves,” said Rhys. “We can take stock in the morning. Shall we call a cab to take us back to the hotel?”
“No need,” said Sergio. “The newspaper’s got a crash pad a few blocks away. We can stay there tonight, rather than go back to the hotel,” said Sergio. “It’s pretty basic but should do the trick.”
Rhys nodded in agreement. “Sounds like a good idea. Can we walk there, or do we need to get a taxi?”
“I’d prefer to walk, get some air, if that’s alright with you,” said Sergio, getting awkwardly to his feet.
“Fine with me,” said Hanna, offering him a steadying hand.
“I’ll let Dad know the news.” Sergio’s fingers trembled as he tried to compose a quick text on his mobile phone. “Not about the baby, just that she’s out of Theatre,” he added in a low murmur.
He waited for a response and listened for a minute or two before turning back to them. “Dad’s arranged for an armed police guard to sit outside the entrance to Intensive Care in case the gunmen come back.”
The mere thought made Hanna’s skin crawl.
“Only a precaution,” he added. “It’s unlikely but you never know. C’mon, let’s go.”
He slipped the phone back in his pocket and they weaved their way through the people gathered in the adjacent waiting area, flinching at their noisy conversations. Outside, the road seemed quiet in comparison, with few people around and little traffic at that hour.
Which was just as well, for they would have presented a sorry sight as they made their way along the pavement with shaky steps, their wedding clothes caked in blood. Hanna recalled a Spanish horror film she’d once seen, where the guests at a wedding reception turn into zombies and the bride and groom have to fight their way out to survive. Things aren’t quite that bad, thought Hanna grimly.
But almost.
***
“How come your newspaper keeps a flat here?” asked Rhys, as they reached the crumbling apartment building in a rather run-down part of the city.
Sergio shrugged. “It belongs to the editor. Some family inheritance or other that he never got round to selling. Some of my colleagues have used it as a safe house when they’ve been working on high-profile stories.”
For high-profile, read dangerous, thought Hanna, as they wearily climbed the stairs up to the second floor. Sergio produced a bunch of keys from his pocket, selected one and slotted it into the lock. The door opened with a reassuring click.
“All the journalists have keys,” he explained, switching on the lights. “You never know when you might need the place.”
The apartment was clean and tidy, a faint floral scent in the welcome cool air. They went into the lounge and flopped onto the sofa while Sergio went into the kitchen and rummaged through the cupboards, returning with a bottle of brandy and three glasses. He poured a generous measure into each glass. They knocked them back in silence. Hanna felt empty, as if she didn’t even have the energy to talk. Sergio and Rhys probably felt the same.
“The beds are kept made up, ready for occupants. You two take the double, and I’ll have one of the singles. See you in the morning.” Sergio stood up, swayed slightly, then shuffled off towards the bedrooms. They followed, quickly found the double, shrugged out of their clothes, and collapsed exhausted on the bed, pulling the covers over them.
The last thing Hanna remembered thinking as she closed her eyes was wondering what they’d wear the next morning.
***
A shaft of sunlight shone through a chink in the heavy wooden shutters. Hanna looked around, puzzled. Slowly, the memories came floating back. There was no sign of Rhys, but she could hear the faint sound of voices. Tossing back the covers, she got up, treading over her bloodstained wedding outfit lying in a crumpled heap at the side of the bed. She threw back the shutters. The morning light dazzled her eyes. Shielding them, she looked out of the window at the street below: a side street, the only noise coming from an occasional passing car or scooter, or the odd jovial exchange of greetings between neighbours.
Turning around, she caught her reflection in the mirror of a heavy old-fashioned wardrobe standing opposite. She grimaced at the traces of dried blood still on her body in several places. She moved towards the wardrobe. The door opened with a creaky protest. Inside was a treasure trove of clean bedding and towels, plus a selection of t-shirts and jeans, and even trainers. She rummaged through and found a faded lemon t-shirt and a pair of black jeans, plus a pair of pale blue pumps half a size too big.
Wrapping herself in a bath sheet, she dived out of the room and padded along the corridor until she found the bathroom. Stepping into the shower, she let the pulsating jets of warm water gradually revive her. She dried herself quickly, pulled on the borrowed clothes, combed her still-damp hair and applied a little mascara and lipstick, all the make-up she had with her. Voices and the smell of coffee drew her to the kitchen. Sergio and Rhys were sitting at the little table deep in conversation, a bag of fresh croissants in front of them.
Pulling out a chair she noticed how haggard Sergio looked, and pale, save for the dark circles under his eyes and the stubble across his face. Rhys looked only marginally better.
“Either of you manage to get any sleep?” Hanna asked.
Rhys nodded. “A little.”
Sergio shook his head. “Not much. I kept reliving the dance… those last few moments before....” He shuddered, and Hanna touched his arm in a comforting gesture. “I’ve already phoned the hospital, but the staff were changing shifts and couldn’t tell me anything. They asked me to ring later.”
Rhys got up and retrieved the coffee pot and a pan of hot milk from the stove, mixing the contents in a large cup which he handed to Hanna. “Help yourself,” he said, pointing to the bag of pastries. “Afterwards we can maybe head up to the hospital in person.”
“Seems like a plan.” Hanna reached out for a croissant, feeling strangely hungry. “Hope it’s okay to borrow some clothes.”
“We’ve all done the same,” said Rhys, between munches. It was only then Hanna notice
d he was wearing a worn grey t-shirt that barely stretched across his broad shoulders.
She took a sip of caffélatte and glanced at the kitchen clock. Not yet eight. Sergio hunched over the table, drinking his coffee, leaving the croissants untouched. He seemed to have retreated within himself. Hanna shot Rhys a worried glance. A mobile rang, shattering the silence. Sergio snatched his phone off the table and listened attentively to the voice on the other end.
“Okay,” he said in conclusion. “Send it over. We’ll see if any of us can identify it.” He ended the call but continued to stare at the screen without speaking.
“What’s going on, Sergio? What’s happened?” Hanna shook his arm gently to get his attention.
He turned and looked at her with wild eyes. “It was my dad. The police found something on the track next to the hotel terrace. A cufflink with a distinctive marking. He’s sending a photo over to see if we recognise it.”
An incoming message alert pinged on his mobile. Sergio opened the image and glanced at it briefly before handing the phone to Hanna and Rhys.
Hanna stared at the screen, a knot forming in the pit of her stomach.
“What is it, Hanna? Do you recognise it?” Rhys prompted.
She opened her mouth to speak but the words stuck in her throat.
The cufflink bore an engraved crest. One she had seen many times before. On every bottle of wine produced by the Cortazzo estate.
Luciano’s family crest.
Chapter Forty-One
Hanna ran into the bathroom and retched over the basin.
Rhys appeared in the doorway, looking concerned. “Are you okay?”
Hanna nodded. “Just give me a sec.” She was far from okay; she felt faint and about to throw up again any minute, but she didn’t want any spectators.
“Fine.” He turned on his heel and disappeared.
Hanna staggered across the bathroom and kicked the door shut. She turned on the taps and splashed tepid water on her face. The nausea was passing. Grabbing a towel, she dabbed her face and perched on the loo seat, resting her head against the cool tiles as she tried to gather her thoughts and emotions.