The Man From Rome

by Dylan James Quarles

  Emergency lighting flickered from a fire escape near the walk-ins. Louisa dashed over, the pain in her throat making each breath a bittersweet ordeal. Descending an iron stairway, she came to an alley door and clambered out into the night. Slightly rancid from the overstuffed dumpsters, the air was dank but ash-free. Louisa heaved dryly and scanned the length of the alley for signs of the Man, or Cato, yet they were nowhere to be seen.

  Dashing to the corner, she peeked out at the street. Lying on the ground, a tourist map, bent and slightly torn, caught her eye. She picked it up and frowned at it. Police lights flashed across the cobblestones, forcing her back. Trapped once more, Louisa retreated into the darkness of the alleyway, and hid behind the dumpster.

  Fear began to set in, mixing with the mounting awareness of everything she’d just been through. With shaking hands, she dug inside her purse. Giorgio picked up on the third ring.

  “Little Rabbit?” he said. “How’s Spain? What’s all that noise in the background?”

  “Giorgio,” Louisa whispered. “I’m so sorry—I lied to you. I’m not in Spain.”

  “Uh,” Giorgio began. “Okay, but can this wait? I’m kind of busy right now. There’s been an accident—”

  “I need you,” said Louisa awkwardly. “I’m—I’m at La Spada Spezzata.”

  “You’re where?” Giorgio shouted into the receiver.

  “I was here when it happened. I saw it all.”

  “Don’t move,” Giorgio instructed. “I’m coming straight to you.”

  “I’m in the alley behind the restaurant,” Louisa told him. “Please hurry, Giorgio—please.”

  XX

  Electrified by the destruction of La Spada Spezzata, the warm fall night pulsed with activity. From her hiding place in the alleyway, Louisa listened to the chaos mount. She could hear the shrill howl of ambulances, and the shouts of Carabinieri, or military police, as they set up roadblocks. Somewhere overhead, a helicopter circled like some carrion bird, hungry for the dead.

  It had been ten long minutes since her call to Giorgio, and with each passing second, her chances of being caught intensified. If she were discovered at the scene, Sesto Savino would be alerted. Given what Cato had said earlier, the police were not to be trusted. Wondering if this extended to Niccolò, or even Giorgio, Louisa chewed her thumbnail. The decision to call for help had been a gut move—second nature. She hoped it wouldn’t blow up in her face like her last plan.

  Absently running a finger over the bruised skin of her neck, Louisa traced the outlines of the Man’s grasp. She shivered and felt a bloom of contradicting butterflies in her stomach.

  “I’ll check the alley,” called a voice.

  Louisa stiffened and held her breath. Footsteps drew near, then stopped.

  “Little Rabbit, where are you?”

  Peering out, Louisa saw Giorgio, framed by a shaft of light.

  “I’m here,” she said.

  Giorgio dashed over and clasped her to him in a relieved hug.

  “Thank God,” he said. “I saw some of the bodies on the street and thought maybe you were—”

  “I’m fine,” Louisa assured him. “Really, I’m okay, but I need to get out of here. It’s not safe.”

  “Get out?” Frowned Giorgio. “And go where? You just survived an explosion, you probably need a doctor!”

  “I don’t need a doctor,” said Louisa. “I just—I just need to get home.”

  Giorgio shook his head.

  “But you’re a witness, someone has to take a statement.”

  “I can’t talk to the police, Giorgio,” Louisa stated, echoing Cato’s line. “It’s…complicated.”

  Giorgio stepped back and studied her in the low light.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve stumbled onto something—odd,” she replied carefully. “And it’s the kind of thing you can’t talk about until all the pieces are together—do you know what I’m saying?”

  Casting a glance over his shoulder, Giorgio drew a deep breath then turned back to her.

  “It’s that girl from the river isn’t it?” He said. “I heard her body was given to the Americans this morning—struck me as unusual. There’s something funny going on isn’t there?”

  Louisa averted her eyes, not wanting to ensnare Giorgio in the web that now had her.

  “If you can just take me a few blocks—past the police line—I’ll catch the subway home and be out of your hair.”

  Giorgio sighed and peered down at her.

  “I’m taking you home myself, Louisa,” he said. “That’s what friends do. Whatever’s going on with you, whatever you’re hiding from me—I am your friend. Never forget that.”

  …

  Hunched low in the passenger’s seat, Louisa gazed out the window of Giorgio’s cruiser at the bloody scene beyond. As if viewing something from another world, another reality, she eyed the devastation absently. When they passed through a police roadblock, she spotted Comandante Savino among the crowds. Leaning against the side of his Maserati, he stared up at the brutalized restaurant with a look of pure horror on his face.

  A frown creased Louisa’s lips, and she turned to Giorgio.

  “Do you know anyone named Cosimo Bruno?” She asked.

  Free of the roadblock, Giorgio pulled onto the Via del Corso, and picked up speed.

  “Bruno huh? Yes, I know of him. He’s a crook from what I hear. My boy Paulo over in Ostia—he tried to nail Bruno for smuggling, but couldn’t make the charges stick. I hear he’s pretty friendly with Comandante Savino.”

  Louisa processed this slowly, thinking of the look on Savino’s face.

  “What about Artemis?” She asked after a moment. “Is there any connection between Cosimo Bruno, and a woman named Artemis?”

  Casting her a sidelong glance, Giorgio furrowed his brow.

  “The only Artemis I know is in the Vatican Museum.”

  Louisa returned her gaze to the window, and studied her bruised throat in the reflection.

  “Yeah,” she whispered. “That’s right.”

  …

  The apartment was dark. Not bothering to turn on any lights, Louisa drifted into the bedroom and kicked off her flats. Hearing Giorgio close the font door behind her, she sat on the corner of the bed, and held her head in her hands. Pilling up heavily, the surreal magnitude of the day’s events began to compound in her mind.

  “Are you all right?” Asked Giorgio, gazing at her from the doorway. “Maybe you’d like something to drink?”

  With some difficulty, Louisa shook her head.

  “I think I’ll take a shower,” she said. “I’ve got bits of—well, there’s blood in my hair.”

  “Right,” Giorgio muttered, eyeing her with concern. “I—I’m going to pour us some wine anyway. God knows I need it.”

  In the bathroom, Louisa undressed and stood naked before the mirror. Other than a few smudges of grime, and the dark bruises on her neck, she was totally unmarked. With so many dead or wounded from the blast, it seemed impossible to her that she could have escaped intact. And yet, seeing was believing.

  Warm water ran down her body to swirl, sooty, at her feet. Spreading a sheen of translucent soap bubbles, Louisa touched the tender bruises at her throat, and shuddered unexpectedly. An image of the Man flashed behind her eyelids, and the shadow of a kiss brushed her lips. She gave a start and glanced around, yet the room was empty. Rinsing off, she told herself that shock and exhaustion were playing tricks with her senses.

  Seated on the windowsill, Giorgio held a glass of wine in one hand. Peering at Louisa’s crumpled police uniform, thrown across the back of a chair, he didn’t immediately look up when she came in.

  “You wouldn’t believe the call I had earlier,” he announced. “Apparently, a police officer—a very pretty, quick-footed little sbirro, chased some fat oaf all over the centro storico today. When she finally caught up with him, she proceeded to beat him senseless—as a witness put it—with a chair. Can you believe
that? The best part was when she threatened to blow off his kneecaps. I really liked that part.”

  Cheeks reddening, Louisa did not respond. She’d entirely forgotten about her run-in with Greek that morning, and the small crowd of on-lookers who had watched her question him.

  “I thought those blurry cell phone pictures looked kind of familiar,” chuckled Giorgio. “Good thing I’m the only one who saw them, no?”

  Exhaling, Louisa relaxed.

  “Giorgio,” she said. “I—”

  “Ah forget it,” Giorgio smiled, moving away from the window. “I’m sure you had a good reason for almost shooting a guy in broad day light, right? You’d have to be crazy otherwise.”

  Louisa laughed despite herself and tucked her damp hair behind her ears.

  “Yeah,” she said. “Crazy…”

  Giorgio came near and his smile vanished.

  “Madonna!” He swore. “What happened to your neck? I thought you said you weren’t hurt!”

  Too late, Louisa gathered the collar of her robe around her bruises. Giorgio reached out, and caught her by the wrist.

  “Let me see!”

  “It’s nothing—really.”

  “Let me see, damn it.”

  Hesitantly, Louisa loosened her robe.

  “My God,” Giorgio murmured, his fingertips grazing her flesh. “These look like—like hand marks—”

  Shuddering at his touch, Louisa felt suddenly uncomfortable—feverish.

  “What happened to you?” He asked. “You’re burning up.”

  “I’m fine,” she muttered. “Don’t worry about it—please.”

  Giorgio touched the bruises again, and Louisa thought back to the shower—the invisible kiss upon her lips. She caught her breath, and smelled a hint of ozone crackle the aether.

  “Look at me, Louisa Anastasi,” came a voice inside her head. “I’m right here in front of you. I have been all along.”

  Louisa blinked and looked up. Donning her friend like a mask, a new presence entered the room. Gone were Giorgio’s puppy-dog-brown eyes, replaced by twin pools of gold. Gently, his hands closed around her neck, and his lips pressed to hers. As if pulled from one dream into another, Louisa felt a rush of power and consciousness. Blooming in the pit of her stomach, warm currents of electricity undulated out to every peak and hollow. Both aware of her actions and not—both awake and asleep, she untied her rob and let it pool at her feet.

  XXI

  Mr. Hannity awoke in the dead of night and sat up with a start. Scanning the darkness, he frowned. He rarely dreamed, and never suffered nightmares, yet something had broken his sleep. What?

  A sharp synthetic chirp echoed in the hallway. Slipping out of bed, Hannity went to the door. Dimly lit, the corridor beyond was a featureless void. He stood and listened to the nocturnal stillness of the old mansion. The chirping sound came once more.

  Hannity left his room and padded barefoot down the hallway. At the top of the stairs, he stopped and gazed into the murky foyer below. Guarded by life-like statues and hollow suits of armor, the space was as still as a tomb. Set back in a stone archway, the front door was locked with a crossbar and four dead bolts. On the wall beside it, an electronic panel glowed. The chirping played again, and the panel’s screen flashed to life.

  Hannity descended the stairs and strode across the tiled floor. Inspecting the screen, he saw a grainy feed from the front-entrance security camera. Silhouetted by the headlights of a sports car, a tall, hawkish man strained against the gates. Heaving as if he hoped to force his way in, he shook the bars angrily. The panel chirped an alarm.

  Squinting at the feed, Hannity wondered if this was Bruno’s Vecchio, come to launch a midnight attack. However, when the man shook the gates again, his face turned toward the camera and Hannity recognized him at once. Casting a glance over his shoulder, he saw a light on in the library.

  Backed by towering bookshelves, Cosimo Bruno and his four sons sat reading. Hannity entered the room and the brothers lowered their books to reveal faces that had aged since the last time Hannity had seen them. No longer boys, they were now somber, statuesque young-men.

  “Mr. Hannity,” smiled Bruno, setting down his copy of Quo Vadis. “You’re up later than normal. Come in, come in.”

  Hannity took a step forwards and tipped his head toward the foyer.

  “You friend is at the gate,” he said. “The Comandante.”

  Making a sour face, Bruno looked annoyed.

  “I thought I heard that damn buzzer,” he sighed. “Is he huffing and puffing out there—blowing down my gate?”

  “Hardly,” Hannity grinned.

  “What a surprise. My phone, if you will—it’s in the box by the door. ”

  Hannity opened an ivory box and removed Bruno’s cell phone.

  “Seventeen texts and eleven missed calls,” he announced. “Same number. Something big must have happened.”

  Reclining in surprise, Bruno furrowed his brow.

  “Cazzo di Numa! I asked only for a little distraction—a little more time. I wonder how much this is going to cost me.”

  He sighed and peered around at the brothers.

  “No matter. No cost is too high. Not for you boys—not for our undertaking.”

  Hannity thought of Bruno’s garden, and the little talking bird. A shiver of anticipation ran down his arm, making his trigger-finger twitch.

  “Should I get the guns?” He asked hopefully.

  Standing, Bruno strolled over and took his phone.

  “No my friend. No guns.”

  He glanced at the long list of angry texts and amended his statement.

  “Well…maybe just one.”

  …

  Bruno closed the front door and pulled on a thin black hunting jacket. Slipping a fat envelope into his pocket, he came down the steps. Waiting for him at the bottom, Hannity lit a cigarette and tucked his sweatshirt over the 1911 in his waistband.

  “Ready?” Said Bruno.

  Hannity nodded and blew out smoke. Walking past sculpted hedges and towering cypress tress, they made their way across the grounds. Parked just outside the iron gates, a car idled; it’s bright headlights throwing twisted shadows upon the gravel drive. When Hannity and Bruno neared, a man rushed the bars, his face streaked with panic. Giving Bruno space to operate, Hannity hung back and dropped a hand to the butt of his pistol.

  “Sesto,” smiled Bruno. “What are you doing here?”

  The man, Sesto Savino of Rome’s Municipal Polizia, bore his teeth and let-loose a torrent of Italian curses. Shaking his head, Bruno made a tisking sound.

  “Now, now my friend. There is no need for that kind of language. And besides, you’re being rude. You know Mr. Hannity doesn’t speak fluent Italian.”

  “Fuck you!” Spat Savino. “Have you lost your God-damned mind, Cosimo? Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

  He raged against the gate, his eyes wild.

  “I should arrest you right here and now! I should throw you both in chains and drag you through the streets like dogs! I should—”

  Reaching through the bars with uncharacteristic malice, Bruno grabbed Savino by the collar.

  “Stay calm, my friend,” he hissed. “You haven’t yet burned any bridges that can’t be mended.”

  “All those people,” Savino cried, breaking free of Bruno’s grip. “It’s like something out of fucking Pakistan, you animal! I agreed to help you kill one man—one! Not dozens!”

  Bruno maintained an air of calm, yet Hannity could see him tense.

  “Sesto. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Perhaps you could explain yourself.”

  Savino blanched and threw his hands in the air.

  “La Spada Spezzata, bastardo!” He said. “It’s a bombed-out shell—a God-damned warzone! I know it was you—I know it! Mora and Bifona followed your fucking Vecchio there three different times. It’s one of his spots—it’s on the damn list I gave you!”

  Bruno stood quietly for a mome
nt, processing Savino’s words.

  “Did you find him among the dead?” He asked at last. “He would be rather hard to miss, I’d imagine.”

  Banging his fists on the gate, Savino looked like a man about to implode.

  “I’ll take that as a no,” sighed Bruno. “No matter.”

  “Innocent people are dead!” Savino growled. “My superiors will want to know what happened! There will be questions—many questions!”

  “Then you must come up with some good answers,” replied Bruno. “That is what I pay you for after all.”

  Savino’s features twisted.

  “Bastardo!” He shouted again. “First you cost me the lives of two of my most trusted men, and now this? What are you playing at Cosimo? Who is this Vecchio, that you would ruin both of us just to kill him?”

  Bruno studied the face of the moon.

  “That is not your concern, Sesto,” he said. “Your job is to take my money and do as I ask.”

  He pulled out the envelope.

  “Or,” he countered. “You can forsake me now and explain to everyone your role in what has happened. I won’t try to stop you.”

  Wedging the money between the bars, he stepped back.

  “The choice is yours,” he said. “But, once you have tied your fate to another’s, it is never prudent to betray that same person. We rise and fall together, no?”

  Savino licked his lips and stared at the envelope.

  “Have—have you got a plan to make all of this better?” He asked.

  “I do.”

  “And what about tonight? There will be an investigation.”

  Smiling, Bruno turned away from the gate.

  “Something tells me the cause of the explosion, and its perpetrator will remain a mystery, my friend. Now, get the hell off my land.”

  …