Cristian now stood just to Bruno’s left. Bruno gathered the last shreds of will, ready to strike what would be his final blow. His body tensed, and for the first time since his capture, he felt strong. The rest of Il Serbo’s gang stood in between the cars strewn in the piazza. Now was Bruno’s final chance. But just in front of them Il Serbo stopped. Bruno watched him stiffen. Then Il Serbo whirled back, like a soldier performing an about-face, and marched right up to Cristian, with a curly-haired thug two steps behind, just to Il Serbo’s left.
Il Serbo stared at Cristian, almost nose-to-nose. The rest of Il Serbo’s crew looked around, scratching their asses, muttering among themselves, waiting for their master to do something. Finally Cristian spoke.
“What?”
“How did he know?” murmured Il Serbo.
Cristian looked puzzled. “What?”
Bruno noticed Cristian slip one hand into his front jacket pocket.
Out of nowhere Il Serbo roared, pointing at Bruno.
“How did he know? How the fuck did he know your name! When they punched him, he said your name!” Spit flew out of his mouth, and his voice echoed off the stone and asphalt.
Cristian and Bruno both took a step back. Cristian chuckled a little, but Bruno could hear something in his voice he hadn’t heard before.
“What? I don’t know . . . someone must have said it. Who the fuck knows?”
With his free hand, Il Serbo yanked his pistol and pointed it at Cristian’s head.
“Take your hand out of your pocket and answer me! Or I’ll blow your fucking skull open!”
Cristian held his hand out at his waist, palms up. He inhaled, opened his mouth to speak, but before a sound came out of his mouth, a sharp crack reverberated across the square and brains splattered everywhere.
Chapter 25
For an eternal instant, the scene froze in Bruno’s mind. But what his eyes saw made no sense. The curly-haired man, a gaping hole in his head, seemed suspended for a long moment before toppling into Il Serbo, now stained with the dead man’s blood and brains. Il Serbo flinched to one side, taking DeLuca with him. Before anyone else could react, Cristian dove, hauling Bruno with him behind a car. Bruno’s damaged hand hit something as they fell and he shouted in pain.
More shots ripped through the air, and Bruno heard the screams of Il Serbo’s men. Bruno and Cristian scrambled back, weaving their way between cars as bullets flew. They hunkered behind a car while screams and chaos erupted around them. Cristian yanked his pistol out, peeked out to the left of the car’s front bumper, and fired in rapid succession. Bruno heard a man scream not five meters away as bullets ripped the air from above. Crouching behind the car, Cristian pulled a knife from the inside of his jacket and cut Bruno’s gag and bonds. With no time for words, Cristian dropped the knife and sheath into Bruno’s hands and, producing a pistol from the small of his back, handed it to Bruno. Cristian continued to trade fire with his own gang. A few of them tried to take shelter in the buildings bordering the piazza, but the doors were locked or blocked from the inside, and they perished, shot from above, while scrabbling on unyielding wood and stone.
Bruno’s new freedom stunned him more than the gunshots and screams echoing around him. He saw that it was his own knife. The knife that his father had given him and that had taken part of his fingers. He stowed the knife and checked the pistol. Full magazine.
Bullets shattered one of the car’s windows, showering Bruno with glass. “Porca troia!” Cristian swore as he dropped next to Bruno. Cristian pulled the radio out of his jacket pocket, shouting, “Keep shooting—we’re pinned down!”
Forcing down the pain in his still-throbbing fingers, Bruno peeked over the hood of the car and found a clear shot at one of Il Serbo’s gang. With a single shot, Bruno dropped him, then followed up with another to make sure he wouldn’t get up. Bruno scanned the scene, looking for DeLuca and Il Serbo. Near the entrance to the church, Bruno saw movement, but a bullet zinged past his arm and he dropped down. Before he could get a good look, Bruno heard another shot and a scream. There was more gunfire from above and answering gunfire from in front of him. But with every shot from above, the responding fire grew less, until silence fell over the scene. Bruno smelled the stinging gunpowder lingering in the air.
“How many left?” Cristian hissed into the radio.
“Not sure, six I think, they’re in the church now! And he’s got DeLuca!” a voice crackled on the radio. The voice was Stefano’s.
“Why didn’t you shoot him, for Christ’s sake?” Bruno knew who Cristian meant.
Stefano’s voice buzzed. “Because he had DeLuca in front of him! We couldn’t get a clear shot, even from up here!”
Bruno peeked over the hood of the car. He saw bodies strewn around cars and on the steps of the church. The red stains on the white marble flowed slowly like ink blots seeping onto paper. No more bullets flew. The silence made Bruno even more nervous than the gunshots; he knew better than to think he was safe, so he stayed well concealed behind the car.
Cristian put his mouth almost onto the radio as he spoke. “Leave the radio with Mauro, get down here, and be careful!”
“On our way,” responded Stefano.
Bruno looked at Cristian as he slumped against side of the car. He put the radio back in the inside pocket of his windbreaker and looked at Bruno.
“Didn’t go exactly as I’d planned. We’re on Plan B now. You should have trusted me,” said Cristian.
“What was I supposed to think, after what you did to me on Capri?”
“You should have trusted me! Your bloody outburst nearly got us both killed!”
“Trust you after this?” said Bruno, holding up his hand. “And what the bloody hell did you plan, exactly?”
“Blame that fucking psychopath, not me! Did it look like I had a choice? We don’t have time for this!”
Cristian leaned toward Bruno. “After I found DeLuca at your rally point, we got rid of Vetrano. Then we contacted your friends with DeLuca’s radio. They managed to scavenge a working truck in Sorrento and came to the cache here in the Duomo. There wasn’t much here.” Cristian smiled. “We found the blood. There were only two automatic rifles and some ammo, but we found enough C-4 to blow the roof off the church and then some. Your friends and I spent the last three days wiring it up and blocking off the piazza as best we could.” Cristian reached into his jacket and pulled out a metal box the size of a deck of cards.
“A remote detonator?”
Cristian nodded. Then, he shifted positions to a nearby car as Bruno saw familiar faces approach.
Stefano and Saverio appeared from behind a corner of a building, followed quickly by Paola. Jogging low, they took cover behind two cars just to the right of Bruno and Cristian. Bruno saw that Stefano and Saverio each had an AR-70/90, the predecessor of the ARX, slung around their chest. Paola had a pistol in her hand. Aldo, with his rifle and its sniper scope, and Mauro, his spotter, must still be looking down on them from one of the nearby buildings.
Bruno wanted to ask many things, but now was not the time. “What if they get out a back way?”
“We blocked off the exits. Would take them God knows how long to get out,” said Stefano.
“Don’t underestimate them, they could find a way,” said Bruno. “How are we going to get DeLuca?”
Cristian shook his head.
Bruno insisted. “What’s the plan?”
“Bruno, I’ve still got the blood.” He patted the bulge in his jacket. “And we can end it with this.” Cristian held up the detonator.
“What the hell?” said Bruno. His eyes narrowed. He looked at Paola. “We have to help DeLuca!”
“Bruno, listen,” Paola said, her voice quavering. “He said that no matter what, the blood must be saved, and that he was willing to die to stop them.”
“But you can’t—”
“Enough talk! Take cover!” Cristian said. He flipped the switch on the detonator. “It’s over!”
&n
bsp; Nothing happened. No explosion rocked the square. Only the wind made a sound.
“The bloody battery must be dead!” He threw it to the ground. “There was no way to test it!”
“Bastard!” said Bruno.
Cristian grabbed Bruno’s shirt. “I made a choice! Just like your friend did! He’s willing to sacrifice himself for us—for you!”
Cristian let Bruno go with a push and leaned with his back against the car’s fender. “There’s still a way to end this. We’ve got to hurry.”
Paola answered this time. “Manual detonation?”
Cristian nodded. “The detonator is Velcro’d under the lip of the right corner of the altar. We ran a wire to it, hidden in the seams of the stonework. In case the remote didn’t work.”
“We’d bloody well better hurry,” said Paola. “They could spot the wire any time.”
“Someone’s got to go in and set it off,” said Stefano. He looked up at Bruno. “Someone’s got to die.”
“I’ll trade myself for DeLuca,” said Bruno. “He wants me, not you. That’s how I’ll get in.”
Cristian shook his head. “Do you know what he’ll do to you? He will—”
“I’m out of ideas, and you don’t have any better ones,” interrupted Bruno. “We’ve got to move now!”
Bruno sprang forward, running in a crouch over to the last car before the steps up to the church. Cristian followed Bruno to the car. He looked at him with a hint of a half-smile.
“You know, your plan’s not such a smart idea, is it?”
Bruno clapped him on the shoulder with his good hand. Bruno met his eyes. “It’s the only way I can try to save him.”
Bruno poked part of his head over the top of the car and shouted. “It’s me—Bruno! I’ll come to you, if you give us DeLuca!” His voice echoed over the square, but no one answered.
Bruno shouted again. This time, he heard a dull thud and saw the door to the Duomo swing open.
“Remember,” said Cristian, “it’s under the far right corner of the altar, as you’re looking at it when you walk up to it.”
Bruno nodded. “Understood.” He handed Cristian his knife in its sheath. “I won’t need this anymore. You keep it.”
Cristian accepted the knife. “I’m sorry, Bruno. For everything.” Despite all Cristian had done, Bruno admired Cristian’s decisiveness. Bruno knew Cristian could survive in this world.
“Help them—Paola and the others. Free the women outside of the city.”
“We will.”
Shadowed in the Duomo’s door, Bruno could make out three figures: DeLuca, flanked by two of Il Serbo’s gang. Bruno had his hand on his pistol to hand over to Cristian when he heard a voice echo out of that dark doorway. “The boss says he wants the blood and you, then we’ll give you DeLuca!”
Cristian pulled Bruno back behind the car. “You can’t give it to him! It’s what we came for—DeLuca would rather die!”
Bruno pulled out his pistol and pointed it at Cristian’s head.
“The blood is a lie—give it to me!”
Cristian stared at him in silence.
Bruno insisted. “It’s a fucking lie—if he wants it he can have it! Give it to me or you’re dead, and I’ll take it anyway!”
Bruno risked a glance toward Paola and the others. Cristian slowly put his hand in his jacket and produced the phial of the saint’s blood.
“Put it down and turn the other direction. Then put your hands on your head,” Bruno commanded.
Cristian did so without a word. Bruno picked up the vial, shuffled towards the back end of the car, and put his weapon to the ground. They could always use another pistol, Bruno reasoned. He knew that where he was going, he would never need a pistol again.
He dashed to another car parallel to Cristian and shouted, “I’ve got it! I’m coming out!”
Bruno watched as Cristian scooped up Bruno’s pistol, and their eyes met. He could see the pain in Cristian’s eyes as he put Bruno’s pistol at the small of his back.
Now Bruno pulled his gaze away from Cristian to the figures who had moved onto the cathedral door’s threshold and stepped into the daylight. The massive stonework dwarfed the three of them. Two of Il Serbo’s gang stood on each side of DeLuca, clenching his arms in a vice grip. They stood just behind DeLuca, preventing a clear shot at them.
Bruno stood up from behind his cover and walked forward. Wind whipped through the square as he took plodding steps toward the wide stairs leading to the cathedral doors. Exposed to the wind, he shivered with cold fear. As he came closer to the men, he could see sweat running down DeLuca’s pallid face. His hands were bound in front. Bruno could see pain in DeLuca’s eyes too, but his face looked no worse than before. DeLuca tried to speak, but the gag made his words unintelligible. Now Bruno glanced over his shoulder and saw his own group peeping out here and there, sheltering behind cars in the square. His eyes fell on the only partially visible Cristian, crouching with his pistol ready. Bruno could sense Cristian just waiting for some trigger to send him into action.
One of the men growled as Bruno approached. “Put the blood down at DeLuca’s feet and turn around!”
Bruno knelt down at DeLuca’s feet. He lingered for a moment as he placed the phial on the steps. Something caught his eye. A red drop marred the white marble of the cathedral’s steps. Bruno jumped to his feet. But one of the men pushed DeLuca down the stairs, while the other pounced on Bruno. DeLuca tumbled forward, falling down the stairs face first, with a knife jutting out of his lower back. Bruno yelled, but he knew he couldn’t run or fight. He needed to get inside.
Cristian and Stefano emerged from behind cover, pistols pointed in toward the cathedral, but the two men hustled Bruno over the threshold, threw him on the flagstones, and shut the door with a thud.
Bruno was yanked to his feet and pulled down the middle of the church. The basilica had lost none of its beauty since its abandonment. The stained glass colored the incoming sunlight, just as it had for countless mornings. The pews stood as they had always done, in neat rows, just waiting for a priest to give his homily. But the men who awaited Bruno in front of the altar were no priests.
The group parted as Bruno approached. The two men tossed Bruno onto the altar, knocking the wind out of him. He groaned, rolling from his back to his stomach. One of the men handed Il Serbo the phial. Il Serbo, his shirt stained with congealing blood and brains, regarded the phial with narrow eyes.
“You thought this would save the world? This?”
He smashed the phial next to Bruno’s head. Bruno flinched as the thick fluid and glass shards splashed his face. Bruno could smell the musty scent of the blood as he inched his way backward on the altar. He wondered now if he might have been wrong, if the blood really was their salvation. But it was too late for that. Bruno’s last hope lay in a small box somewhere just out of reach. His good hand moved, seeking the far corner of the altar.
“What do we do now?” asked one of the men.
“I should kill you now,” Il Serbo said, ignoring the question. “I should kill you now,” he repeated, “but we need to know some things: are there still weapons here? The exits are blocked. How do we get out?”
Bruno lay still. Too many eyes were on him now. His right hand lay just over the corner of the altar. Still too far.
Il Serbo shrugged, staring at Bruno while he spoke. “He won’t want to tell us anything. We’ve got time. There aren’t enough of them to try and get us in here, even if they have better weapons now. Maybe he doesn’t know about the weapons. Maybe he doesn’t know the way out. Doesn’t matter. We’ll make him pay all the same!”
They turned Bruno over on his stomach. He yelled as they slammed him on the cold stone. His mangled left hand hung over the right side of the altar now.
“You like movies, Bruno? Remember that old American movie where they gutted that Scottish guy, right at the end. Remember that? That’s what I’m going to do to you. I’ll start with your balls and work my way up
!”
“Go to hell,” Bruno answered.
Il Serbo laughed. “You’ll beg for death before your friends can help you!”
Bruno smiled. Death hovered over them both, but only Bruno could sense it. Bruno tasted its cold bitterness as he spoke. It was close now. “Go to hell!”
“I don’t believe in hell, Bruno.”
“You will,” said Bruno, the remaining fingers on his mangled hand finding the switch. “You will.” He smiled to himself one last time.
The blast wave broke over Bruno as he rolled off the altar, and a wave of debris cascaded down in a dark mass. The last thing he saw was Il Serbo’s face, contorted with rage, falling towards him. But the debris caught up before Il Serbo could reach him and all went silent and dark. Bruno’s mind faded into shadows. His last thoughts were of Carla, his mother, his brother, and his father.
Epilogue
The man awoke parched, with the taste of blood and ash on his tongue. He didn’t know where he was or even who he was. But in an instant, memories came flooding back to him, memories of explosions and darkness. He lay in a fetal position, forced to one side by a heavy weight, squeezing him against hard, cold rock. He turned his head. A ray of light not much thicker than a hair shone down to his left. Rubble and rock surrounded him, entombed him, and he couldn’t stand up. The cold, white stone of the altar bore the brunt of force from the collapse; the altar had cracked, but still held true against the strain. He realized he was pressed up against the altar. The man’s head throbbed, and with the fingers of his right hand, he felt the gash and congealed blood where stone had struck him. He had no doubt the altar had saved his life.
His eyes adjusted to the dim light. Looking towards his feet, he saw a bloody arm. The rest of the body lay squashed under tons of rubble. He reveled in his own survival and in the other’s death, and thought that now, now it would be so easy to sleep, to surrender to darkness and rest.
Yet something stirred in him. The urge to escape, to be free of this place, overwhelmed him. He tried to move, but his right arm was pinned. Pain stabbed into his shoulder, making him shout as he freed his arm from the rubble. The pain focused him, bringing him out of his daze and sharpening his mind. He couldn’t see much, but he knew which way was up. With the remnants of a once-great cathedral threatening to crush him into nonexistence, he dug, using pieces of rubble as leverage, one rock at a time.
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