Cato suppressed a twitch.
“You know,” said the Man. “It occurs to me that this a rather apt metaphor.”
He set the skull back on the shelf.
“I am the silver coin, Cato. When the nasty ones come through the cracks, I keep them in check. Do you understand?”
Nodding his head, Cato did not understand.
“And you,” the Man said proudly. “You are my Orphanus. I initiated you at birth, and sent you to train with Corallina. You are a soldier—a weapon.”
“A weapon?” Cato wavered. “Wait a minute—Corallina didn’t train me, she raised me. She never wanted me to turn out like this.”
“Didn’t she?” The Man said, eyes glimmering.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Cato demanded. “Corallina is a good woman. I’ve put her through a lot.”
Parting his hands apologetically, the Man softened.
“Forgive me,” he said. “I can see that you’re very protective of your mother. I understand—really, I do. Corallina is a miracle. In her youth she was the finest Orphanus I had ever known.”
He put a hand on Cato’s shoulder.
“That is why I sent you to her, my son. She was the only one who could prepare you for what is coming.”
Cato blinked, trying to fathom what he had just heard.
“W—what are you talking about?” He sputtered. “What’s coming?”
The Man laughed, a deep unsettling sound. He reached into his jacket and produced a black leather booklet.
“Your destiny, Cato,” he said. “Meet it like a man.”
Fingers trembling, Cato accepted the booklet. Forcing himself to be brave, even if it was only pretend, he flipped it open. Inside was an ID badge, complete with his passport photo, and a gold-leafed crest.
US DEPT OF HOMELAND SECURITY
SEATTLE [WA] FIELD OFFICE-CT056
OFFICIAL FIELD COURIER: CATO FIN
Cato stared at the badge. In all of his time among Seattle’s criminal underbelly, he had never seen a fake this good before. Whatever the Benefactor was planning, it must be important. From the recesses of Cato’s mind, Corallina’s old warning echoed up.
‘You have to grow up fast, Cato,’ she’d said. ‘You have to get tough. Because someday, he’s going to need you, and you better be ready when he does.’
Grinning widely, the Man patted Cato on the shoulder and moved toward the stairs.
“Good man,” he said. “I’m hungry. Let’s eat.”
XIII
Bare feet dancing in the dewy grass, Mr. Hannity dodged a wild kick.
“Again!” He ordered. “Come on—hit me this time! Come on!”
His opponent, a pale skinned boy of about nineteen, stormed at him with admirable confidence. Pivoting backward, Hannity out-stepped the boy’s sweeping leg then weaved between two bursts of punches.
“Good,” he said, addressing the boy as well as the other three who stood gathered nearby. “But I told you to hit me—like this.”
Feinting a hook with his right hand, Hannity pistoned out his left and sent his opponent reeling to the ground. From the sidelines, Adalina gasped and put a hand to her mouth.
“Don’t be so rough,” she cautioned. “You’ll hurt him.”
“He’s fine,” said Hannity, helping the boy back onto his feet. “Good work. Now who’s next? How about you? Yeah you—get over here.”
Stepping forward, one of the other boys, also aged to his late teens, bowed his blond head and walked toward Hannity. Clad in the same loose-fitting cotton outfit as his brothers, he was almost identical to them in every way.
“His name isn’t, you,” Adalina huffed. “It’s Boreas.”
“Ah give it a rest will you?” Grinned Hannity. “Snow White over here doesn’t really care what I call him, do you Snow?”
He jabbed at Boreas with his right hand but the boy slapped it away.
“There you go,” Hannity encouraged. “See that? Never drop your guard—not until your enemy is down for good.”
Squaring his feet, Hannity assumed a combat stance.
“Same goes for all of you,” he said to the group. “That’s how you win fights.”
In the military, Mr. Hannity had acquired a taste for hand-to-hand combat. He loved to pummel and stomp. Conversely, each blow he received only served to temper him like a blade. At this point, he could take a punch to the nose without sniffing, and loose a tooth without batting an eye.
Blocking an ill-timed leg sweep, Hannity hooked his elbow around and glanced it across Boreas’s cheek. The boy went down silently, his eyes predatory and alive. Squeaking with dismay, Adalina glanced over her shoulder to the veranda where Bruno stood, head bent as he spoke heatedly into his cell phone.
“He’s not going to stop me,” Hannity said, taking Boreas by the arm and hoisting him up. “This was his idea. He wants them to know how to fight.”
“Such an ugly business,” Adalina muttered. “Brutish.”
Hannity chuckled and shook his head. The moment his eyes were averted, Boreas broke free of his grasp and unleashed a flurry of wild punches. Able to block most, Hannity let one slip through, and was struck on the mouth. He stumbled back, blood dripping from a split lip.
“See that boys?” He grinned. “Just what I was talking about, wait for me to make a mistake—wait for me to show you an opportunity. Well done, Boreas.”
The boy let his fists drop and bowed. Wiping blood from his chin, Hannity went to a stone bench. There, beside his 1911, was a black nylon attaché. Undoing the straps, he revealed a stunning variety of muted metal combat knives.
“Who wants to go first,” he asked, pulling out two drop-points.
“Oh no,” Adalina said faintly. “Not that Mr. Hannity, please.”
“Don’t worry,” he smiled. “They’re training blades, dull as hell.”
He held one up and poked the tip with his finger.
“See?”
On the veranda, Bruno suddenly erupted into an angry torrent of rapid-fire Italian. Yelling into his phone, he stabbed his finger violently into the air. Only able to understand about a third of what the boss was saying, Hannity glanced to Adalina.
“What was that all about?”
Inclining her head, Adalina listened for a moment then frowned.
“He’s angry at someone because they lost quello Vecchio, it means the Old One.”
“Vecchio?” Hannity repeated.
Adalina nodded.
“Yes, he says they let him get away. Do you think he’s talking about a piece for the collection?”
Hannity’s curiosity pricked up. He doubted very much that the boss was at all concerned with his relic collection right now. Perhaps this Vecchio character was part of the plan Bruno had alluded to. Or, perhaps he was the reason for it. With a name like the Old One, it was hard to imagine he wasn’t at least somehow involved.
Still listening to the boss’s flood of wrathful words, Adalina gasped and shot Hannity a look of deep concern.
“Polizia morti,” she whispered.
“Dead cops?” Hannity echoed.
Above, Bruno ended his call with a loud curse.
“Si,” Adalina hissed. “He said something about dead polizia! What’s happening, Mr. Hannity? You must know more than I. Why is Mr. Cosimo speaking of such things?”
“Don’t worry about it,” said Hannity, eyeing Bruno as he approached.
“But—” Adalina protested.
“I said don’t worry,” Hannity asserted.
Snapping his fingers at the brother named Zephrus, Hannity waved him over.
“Now pay attention to this, you lot. You’re going to want to hold your knife blade-down, like this.”
He grasped the handle so that the butt was up and the blade aimed at the ground.
“That way you can punch and slice. Best move is to aim for the gut, then, when your enemy doubles over, you can come down hard and stab him in the back of the neck. Quick kills, that�
��s what we’re looking for. Nothing fancy.”
“Wise words from a wise man,” said Bruno, coming to stand beside the brothers. “Do listen to everything he tells you, my boys. Mr. Hannity here is quite adept at walking away from deadly situations.”
Hannity smiled and inclined his head.
“Thanks boss.”
“You can thank me by doing your job correctly and to the best of your abilities.”
Gesturing to the phone in Bruno’s hand, Hannity arched an eyebrow.
“Is everything okay? We heard some of what you said up there? If you need me to take care of it, just let me know.”
“You heard that, did you?” Bruno sighed. “Oh well—non mi lamento I suppose. You were going to have to hear about it sooner or later. Adalina dear, please go get us some ice, a towel, and two cups of coffee.”
Adalina curtsied nervously and left up the lawn toward the veranda.
“How goes the training?” Bruno asked. “Making progress.”
“They learn about as fast as they grow,” said Hannity. “We’re already getting into knives.”
“Knives?” Bruno sneered. “It’s 2016 Mr. Hannity—but never mind that. Show me what they’ve learned so far. I’m curious to see how well you teach.”
“Alright,” Hannity shrugged, slipping the blades back into the attaché.
“So what exactly did you hear?” Inquired Bruno. “From my phone call, that is.”
“Only something about dead cops and the Vecchio.”
Bruno shook his head.
“Curse this loud mouth of mine. Thank God it was only you and Adalina who heard me. This is a sensitive time for us, Mr. Hannity. We are in a precarious situation. The Vecchio is a very dangerous individual. He is old, as the name suggests, and it was my responsibility to keep track of him. I failed.”
“Your responsibility?” Hannity frowned. “Says who?”
“Everyone answers to someone, my friend,” the boss replied.
“You want me to hunt him down for you?” Asked Hannity. “I bet I can find him no problem.”
Bruno chuckled and looked away.
“You are kind to offer, but no. I pay Savino and his polizia for that sort of work.”
“Apparently not enough, if they lost him,” said Hannity.
Sighing in agreement, Bruno took out his the little wooden box.
“Quello Vecchio will resurface again,” he murmured. “He can’t stay hidden for long—not now.”
“Who is he?”
Bruno stared at the box, then gave it a dry shake.
“The Vecchio? He is king around here, or at least he thinks he is. But things are about to change, Mr. Hannity.”
“Is that what they’re for?” Asked Hannity, gesturing to the brothers. “Are we starting ourselves a revolution?”
“Yes,” chuckled Bruno wryly. “It’s time for new royalty in Rome, wouldn’t you say?”
“I don’t know boss,” Hannity said. “You’re the man with the plan.”
Shaking the box again, Bruno put it back in his pocket.
“I am—which is why I can’t have any more mistakes on my end, do you understand?”
“I won’t let you down. You know that.”
Facing the brothers, Bruno smiled and held out his hands.
“They really are something aren’t they?”
“They are,” said Hannity. “You were right about them, I’m starting to come around.”
“I’m not surprised,” Bruno grinned. “I knew once you’d had a chance to get to know each other, you would see just how much you share in common. But, please—I really do want to see what they are capable of. I want to see them in action.”
“No problem,” said Hannity. “Which one do you want me to spar with first?”
Bruno gave him a somewhat dubious look.
“The Vecchio is not like other men, Mr. Hannity,” he spoke. “He won’t be beaten easily. His age isn’t a hindrance, you see—but rather, a substantial advantage.”
He glanced at Hannity, then away.
“I need to know that our young brothers can work together, capire? Like a pack of dogs taking down a bear.”
Realizing what Bruno meant by this, Hannity tensed.
“Wait—” he began, but Bruno was already pointing at him.
“Boys,” he called. “Subdue Mr. Hannity, if you will.”
On command, the brothers turned toward Hannity. Closing ranks, they formed a tight phalanx and charged. Timing his attack, Hannity stepped between them, and planted a heel in the back of the Eurus’ knee. As the boy went down, Hannity elbowed him in the face, then struck another with an open palm. The group picked themselves up and tried again.
They made a circle around Hannity, nipping at him from all sides. In the confusion, Boreas flashed a kick to the groin that brought Hannity low. Gasping, he raised an arm to block the coming knee, but his timing was off and the hit broke through. Knocked onto his back, he rolled to avoid the boy’s stamping foot. Catching his ankle, he twisted Boreas off balance and flipped him into the air.
Bruno clapped from the sideline, delighted. Struggling up, Hannity warded off an onslaught of blows with increasing difficulty. When the wave broke, he found the nearest brother and chopped him down. Someone grabbed him from behind, squeezing the breath from his lungs. Slamming his head back into the boy’s face, Hannity felt a spurt of hot blood on his neck.
He spun, ready to grapple, but more hands found him and pinned his arms. Like a blizzard, the brothers descended.
“Enough!” Yelled Bruno.
Instantly the assault stopped. Smeared with blood and dirt, the brothers became still, their faces resetting to a neutral gaze. Breathing heavily, and bleeding from several cuts, Hannity knelt on all fours.
“Very good!” Said Bruno. “I am impressed! You are quite the instructor, Mr. Hannity—the perfect mentor for our boys. Why, that took no time at all!”
Tenderly, Hannity got to his feet and spat.
“I said I wouldn’t let you down.”
“And so far you’ve been nothing if not a man of your word,” beamed Bruno. “Keep it up and we’ll drink the blood of a God, you and I. Speaking of drinks, here comes Adalina with our coffee and your ice.”
Unable to help himself, Hannity grinned with bloody teeth.
“You really are a man with a plan,” he said.
Bruno smiled back and nodded.
“You have no idea.”
XIV
Church bells tolled as Louisa Anastasi left her brother’s apartment. Dressed in the noble blue of her Armani police uniform, she had the look of a woman on a mission; and indeed she was. Last night’s news from Giorgio, about the murders of Mora and Bifona, had only served to bolster what her gut was already telling her. Something was happening in Rome, something sinister.
Just like the girl from the river, Mora and Bifona had lost their tongues. Too alike to be unrelated, the three killings must be connected. And yet, if Louisa wanted to explore this connection, and perhaps find a link to her brother, she would have to act fast. The Americans were coming—coming to take the dead girl’s body.
She stepped off the stairs and continued across the lobby. It seemed bizarre to her that the Questura would permit such a thing. Then again, less than a week after Ferro’s body had been pulled from the Tiber, the investigation had ended without explanation in much the same way.
Quickening her pace, Louisa pushed through the glass doors.
“Is that you, bella?” Called a voice. “Of course it is, I can feel your radiance from here.”
Looking up, Louisa halted. On the bench in the center of the courtyard, sat old blind Dino. And beside him, was Niccolò.
Louisa hadn’t talked to her uncle in days now—not since her suspension. Remembering the way Savino had invoked his name, used it like leverage, she felt a fresh pang of anger toward him.
“That charm of yours, Dino,” she said, locking eyes with Niccolò. “It’s a wonder you were
never able to find a wife.”
Dino laughed and ribbed Niccolò with a boney elbow.
“This kitten has claws no?”
“And teeth,” her uncle added.
Louisa walked toward the archway.
“Dino has invited us in for his famous espresso,” Niccolò announced. “What do you say?”
Maintaining a neutral tone, solely for the benefit of the blind man, Louisa kept walking.
“Sorry boys. Maybe some other time, I’m on my way to work.”
At this, Niccolò’s eyebrows climbed to the edge of his hairline.
“Such a shame,” coughed Dino, lighting a fresh cigarette. “Work is death.”
…
On the sidewalk, Niccolò jogged to catch up.
“Hey,” he said, taking Louisa by the arm. “Let me buy you breakfast. We need to talk.”
Wrenching free of his grip, Louisa strode on.
“Hey,” he barked. “What do you think you’re doing? Come here!”
Louisa spun around.
“I don’t take orders from you,” she shot back.
Niccolò blew out an exasperated breath and jogged to catch up again.
“What are you doing? You shouldn’t be in uniform—you’re suspended. If Savino finds out he’ll—”
“He’ll what?” Louisa interrupted. “He’ll fire me? I think he’d rather just give me a spanking, don’t you?”
A guilty shadow fell across Niccolò’s face and he glanced away.
“That’s what I thought,” said Louisa. “I can’t understand why you play for his side, zio—no one does. Savino isn’t interested in the law, he’s a gangster.”
“I know,” Niccolò admitted.
“Then why are you so close to him? Why do you let him treat me like this? He said you approve of his plan to make me his little office whore! Is that true?”
Halting in the middle of the sidewalk, Niccolò pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Listen,” he said. “Savino is bad, it’s true. But sometimes, it’s better to be close to the bad men you know, than the bad men you don’t know. Tesoro please—you have to believe me.”
The Man From Rome Page 9