“I’ll collect it tonight,” he says with a smile. “I’ll come to your house with the money. Then you should go. Ambrogio wanted to take you to safety; now you must go alone.”
“Of course,” I say.
There’s no chance I’m leaving. Leave that villa? Leave that view? Has he seen that pool? Leave Taormina? He must think I’m mad.
◆
“Who’s this?” asks the priest, pointing at Nino.
The weather’s disgusting; the sky’s split open and raindrops fall like silver bullets. It’s my coldest night so far in Sicily. I’ve had to find a pair of Beth’s socks. I’ve even put on a jumper. We’re in the living room with the curtains drawn against the thunder and lightning. I’m thinking of lighting a fire. Nino’s draped across the sofa, his bare feet resting on the coffee table, a glass of Sangue di Sicilia in his hand.
“This is Nino,” I say, closing the door behind the priest. He wipes his feet on the doormat, brushes the raindrops from the front of his jacket. He turns toward me and frowns.
“Don Franco,” says Nino with a slight nod of the head. Is that his name? I thought Nino didn’t know him. I guess Taormina’s a small place.
“Nino,” growls the priest.
He turns to me, his voice a whisper. “I told your husband, I only deal with him and you.” His eyes flash; he suddenly looks cross.
“My husband is dead. Nino’s a friend,” I say.
“I know his kind,” says the priest in my ear. I smell alcohol on his breath: holy wine?
I look down at the old-fashioned suitcase he’s clutching: golden buckles of interlocking G’s. The leather is mottled with dark-brown rain spots. It looks pretty heavy. It’s bursting at the seams.
“I’ll go and wait in the kitchen,” Nino says, standing up. He stretches his arms up over his head, then downs his drink. He slams the glass back down on the coffee table and does a half bow. “Buonasera.”
Nino gives me a strange look as he turns to leave. He widens his eyes as if trying to say something; I have no idea what. It’s probably not important. He turns his back and walks out of the room. It’s just me and the priest. I hug my arms close to my body. A chill runs down my spine. I really wish I’d lit that fire.
“Where is it?” asks the priest.
No small talk, then. No How are you, Elizabeth? How was your afternoon? Coming down in sheets, isn’t it? Straight down to business. Fine.
He looks even older in everyday clothes standing here beside me. He’s swapped his priest’s robes for a pale gray suit, camel cashmere sweater, and burgundy cravat. He could be my granddad. He looks as weak as a child. I reckon I could take him down with my bare hands, and I fight like a girl.
“Show me the money,” I say with a smile.
He sets his suitcase down on the carpet and bends down to open it, one arm on the back of the sofa, the other at the small of his back. It hurts him to bend. Arthritis? His fingers fumble with the buckles.
“I’ll do it,” I say.
He moves aside and I lower the suitcase flat on the floor. The buckles click and I lift the lid. Stacks of freshly pressed €500 notes. It’s a hell of a lot of money, more than I’ve ever seen in my life. Why does a priest have all this cash? And why is he buying a stolen painting? I’m sure there was something about “Thou shalt not steal” in the Ten Commandments.
“Two million?” I ask.
“Two million,” he says.
I pick up a wad of €500s and weigh it in my hand. It feels like sex. I consider tipping it all out on the floor and counting it, but it would take forever. I think I believe him. He’s a priest, after all, albeit a corrupt one. Nino and I can count it later. And I’m definitely counting it. Not like in movies when they just take their word. What if it’s Monopoly money on the inside? I gesture for the priest to follow me across the room. We walk through an arch framed by marble columns into an adjoining dining room. We’ve moved the furniture out of the way and spread out the painting over a large Persian rug. The priest stops and stares. I stand by a column and watch him.
“Dio santo! Che bellissima!” he says under his breath. He claps his hands together and touches his lips with his fingers. I watch as he lowers himself to his knees, as if in prayer, at the foot of the painting, a few inches from the edge. He’s afraid to touch it. He moves carefully, on hands and knees, around the picture, studying it, taking in the detail.
“I was worried that the thieves and the centuries might have destroyed it, that it might have been damaged, but—it’s perfect,” he says at last, standing up. He comes over to me, his eyes brimming with tears. “Grazie, Betta.”
He holds my hands, again, but I pull them away. If he likes it that much he could have paid me three million.
“Shall we roll it up, so that you can take it home?” I ask. I just want the money. The priest and the picture can go.
He hesitates. He doesn’t want to move it. If we roll it up, he won’t be able to see it. It’s like he’s waited so long, he’s reluctant to let it out of his sight.
“Of course,” he says with a smile. Are those dentures or his real teeth? They look too shiny and new.
We stand side by side at the foot of the painting, the priest on the right and me on the left. He bends over slowly to take hold of the edge. He lifts the painting a little, but then stops. There’s a small, black stamp in the corner of the canvas. He looks up at me with a funny look on his wrinkled face and then bends down lower, kneeling, studying the stamp close up.
“What’s wrong?” I say.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Non capito,” says the priest.
Oh God, what now? “Come again?”
“This painting . . . it’s forged.”
Someone drops a cannon ball in my stomach. The priest scratches his balding head.
“I don’t understand.”
He leaps to his feet with a younger man’s vigor. The painting rolls back down flat on the floor. He points.
“Sì, sì, I see it now. The technique . . . come si dice? It’s not Caravaggio’s.”
“What are you talking about? Of course it’s Caravaggio’s.”
There’s a tremor in my voice. I’m shaking. Unsteady. I feel my jaw begin to clench. I take a step backward. I’m standing behind him, still facing the painting.
“This pigment, the red in the Madonna’s dress; it’s modern. It’s not Caravaggio’s palette; he used iron oxide. And the oscuro; it’s far too light. No . . . no . . .” He shakes his head. “And her hands . . . they’re clumsy, manly. They don’t look right. Caravaggio’s hands are graceful. Elegant.”
“No, no! If Ambrogio were here, Ambrogio would tell you. Ambrogio knew!”
“And here, look, il bambino, the Christ. The foreshortening of the body is wrong; his form . . .”
My shoulders are tight. My neck is tense. This is all bullshit. I’m going to blow.
“Oh, Elisabetta, it is so disappointing. After all this time! A forgery! A fake! A pale imitation of the original. Of course, it is completely worthless. A copy is never, ever as good. It loses the magic of the original, the intangible beauty, the je ne sais quoi. It has no soul, no integrity, no . . .”
Oh my God, is he talking about me?
I take Ambrogio’s gun from the top of my trousers and shoot the priest in the back of the head. He falls backward onto the Persian rug, crashes down like a lemon tree. THUD! Dead. That’ll show him. I am just as good as Beth. His feet rest on the edge of the painting, so I lift up his ankles and swing them around. A little circle spreads from his head, getting wider and wider: a two-pence piece, a Sicilian blood orange, a saucer, a football. I don’t want the blood to go on the painting. The priest is lying at an awkward angle, bent like a boomerang. I grab him around the waist and haul him back around so that he’s parallel with the edge of the canvas. He’s heavy, like he’
s filled with wet concrete, but I just about manage. I get a head rush when I stand back up. I forgot to eat dinner. That’s not like me.
I study the growing circle of blood spreading out from his head. It’s as shiny and red as Ambrogio’s Lambo. It looks pretty cool. I grab Beth’s phone and take a selfie, smile with my face right next to the priest’s. The flash goes off like a lightning bolt. I check the picture, but I’m a mess. I run my fingers through my hair and try again. Pout. Click. The photo’s great. Now, that would be perfect for Instagram. It’s a shame I can’t share it.
Nino bursts into the room. He must have heard the gunshot . . . but even if he missed it, when the priest fell down, the whole house shook.
“What happened? You OK?”
I look up and smile, licking my lips. “Yes, I’m very well, thank you,” I say. I’ve never felt better. I feel powerful. Invincible. My whole body tingles. That rush: I’m alive.
“Where’d the priest go?”
I step aside so he can get a good view. “There!” I nod toward the body lying flat on the floor.
Nino freezes. “You fucking shot him?”
“I did.” I smile. “I did.”
I’m magic. I’m special. Who wants to be good when you can be great? This is fucking fantastic! That tingle up and down my spine. That rush through my brain. I love that feeling! I know what I’m doing. This is what I was born to do! This! This is it! I fucking love it. It’s like riding too fast on a scooter. I’m high!
The priest lies facedown on the carpet; something oozes from the hole in his head. The gun is lying on the carpet by the priest. We both look at it. Then Nino looks at me: a mixture of horror and admiration.
“Are you fucking crazy? Are you fucking out of your fucking mind?” he says. I shrug. “What happened? Why’d you do it?”
I stand with my legs spread out and my hands on my hips. I don’t like the way Nino’s shouting at me. “I had no choice. He said the painting was forged. That it wasn’t a real Caravaggio. He would have left with the money.” That’s not strictly true. I didn’t have to kill him. I killed him for the rush. The money was secondary. The fact that he was a stingy bastard, third.
Nino’s mouth hangs open. He doesn’t speak. The baby starts crying. Oh God, not again. I run out the door and up the stairs.
“Mamma’s coming, baby, don’t cry.”
I run into the nursery and pick up the baby out of his cot. He is soft and warm. He smells sweet like rice pudding. I think of ambrosia. I think of Ambrogio. I give him a cuddle and kiss his head. His nappy feels full, so I pick up a fresh one and some wet wipes from his nursery, then run back downstairs. The baby wriggles and hollers in my arms.
“The money’s over there in the suitcase. I think we should count it,” I say to Nino as I enter the room; he’s standing with his hands in his pockets, leaning his forehead against the wall. Weird. He doesn’t reply. A Thank you, Elizabeth would be nice. “It’s better this way. I didn’t trust that priest.”
I lay the baby down on the sofa, bend over, and grab the gun from the carpet. I blow imaginary dust off the barrel and wipe it with my shirt. I tuck it back into my waistband. “He was really old anyway.”
I look over at Nino. He isn’t moving. He’s still standing with his back to me, his face turned to the wall.
“Madonna mia,” he says at last. Then he turns to face me. His voice is raised. “Do you know who this guy is?”
“This guy?” I poke the priest with my toe. “He was a priest.”
“A priest. A priest. Yes, he was a priest, but he was also a guy: Franco Russo, the right-hand man of Don Motisi, a consigliere from Palermo. A rival clan. I recognized him when he came in.”
“Rival what? Franco who?” I take off Ernie’s dirty nappy. Ernie kicks me in the face. The poor thing’s still crying. I really wish Emilia were here. . . . I’m not good at multitasking. Eating Pringles and watching Netflix, maybe, but not this shit. This is fifty shades of gross.
“He’s Cosa Nostra. A big fucking deal.” Nino head-butts the wall. Again. I think he’s pissed off.
“He’s Cosa Nostra? I don’t understand.” I sit back on the sofa, suddenly light-headed. My blood sugar’s too low. I need to eat some carbs.
“He wasn’t buying the painting to hang on his bedroom wall. He was the fucking middleman. You do not mess with his boss.”
“I do not what? Who is his boss?”
“We have to leave Sicily. Right now. It’s over.” He kicks over the coffee table; its leg breaks off. The logo on the wood reads “Chippendale.” Priceless.
“We have to leave?” I wipe Ernie’s bottom with one of the wet wipes. A little jet of pee just misses my eye. I slam on a nappy and do it up tight. Oh God, where is Emilia? No one told me motherhood would be so damn hard. I can’t take much more of this! Help!
“You think he came here unprotected? Go look outside. His guys will be waiting in the van with their guns.”
“What?” I say. “No.” I’m filling with panic. “He came here alone. He trusted me. He . . .”
“Betta, I recognized him. I’m telling you. You think I’m dreaming?”
The baby’s about to roll off the sofa. I grab Ernie and hold him against my chest, his little face leans on my shoulder. He looks at me and yawns, then finally stops crying. Closes his eyes. Yes, please fall asleep.
“Shh, shh.” I rub his back.
I run over to the window and open up a crack in the curtains. Rain streams down. It’s dark and wet. There are three cars parked outside on the driveway: Ambrogio’s Lambo, Nino’s people carrier, and the priest’s white van. The lights are off inside the van, but I can still see the outlines of what looks like two men standing in front of it. Two men with guns. Oh, shit.
I turn and see Nino sitting on the sofa, his head in his hands. He looks up toward me, his face is pale. Is Nino scared? I don’t believe it. Nino pulls his gun from the band of his trousers. I take Ambrogio’s gun and weigh it in my hands. I’m not sure what to do with it, but I’ll give it a go. I fiddle around with the different bits and a chamber opens. I look inside; there’s only one bullet. It’s not ideal. Nino stands and makes his way to the door. I begin to follow.
“No,” he says. “You stay here; you’ve caused enough trouble. . . .”
“No fucking way. I’m coming too.”
He looks into my eyes and shakes his head. “Lose the kid.”
The baby’s fallen asleep now on my shoulder. His eyes are closed, but his eyeballs flicker around under his eyelids; I wonder what he’s dreaming about? Me or Beth? His face looks peaceful. If I put him down now, I might wake him up. I don’t want him to start crying again. But Nino’s right, it’s no place for a baby, even if I was enjoying my cuddle. My mother never hugged me: I didn’t know I missed it. I creep back upstairs, tiptoeing quietly, and lay him gently in his cot.
“Go to sleep, little Ernie. I’ll come back and see you. . . . Mummy loves you.”
I blow him a kiss. There’s a musical mobile hanging over his bed, I wind it up and it plays him a song: “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.” I lean in and kiss him on his forehead. It’s a miracle that he hasn’t woken up. Perhaps I’m getting the hang of this parent thing? I am a good mother after all. I run back downstairs to see Nino.
“We shoot to kill,” Nino says, cocking his gun. “They see this dead guy here, we’re fucked. They see this painting and we’re fucked. So no fucking around.”
“All right. OK.”
“This way, follow me.”
Nino runs along the corridor, into the kitchen and through the French doors at the back of the villa. He runs around the edge of the house and I follow after him through howling wind and stinging rain. It’s torrential, black, a fucking monsoon; I can barely see a meter ahead. We creep out onto the driveway and tiptoe toward the rear of the van. They’ve left the music on,
techno is blaring. Oh, is that Underworld? “Born Slippy?” I fucking love that song. . . . The two men are standing outside the front door, guns at the ready. I take one side and Nino takes the other. Nino’s gun goes off, so I shoot too. KA POW! KA POW! This is ace!
Someone screams; who was that? My guy has flopped down on the ground, but Nino’s guy is still alive. His legs are twitching. He’s getting up! Nino shot him in the side of the neck, but he’s far from dead. He has a sawed-off shotgun in his hand and, before I know it, he’s shot Nino back! Nino yells, then shoots again.
KA POW! KA POW! KA POW!
This is such a thrill. I’m having the time of my life!
Nino’s guy collapses, dead. This time Nino shot him in the head.
“Are you OK?” I run over to Nino, my heartbeat thumping in time to the music. I really want to turn it up. I feel like dancing with Nino.
“Stronzo shot me in the arm,” Nino says.
He’s leaning up against the van, his forehead pressed against the metal. He’s clutching the top of his arm with his hand, blood seeping through his fingers. His gun’s dropped to the floor.
“Aaargh!” he says.
Ouch. That looks nasty. A tourniquet. That’s what he needs. I remember that from Girl Guides: First Aid badge. Comes in handy. Something tight to stop the bleeding. I pull off my shirt, wet from the rain, and stand here, shivering, in my bra: it’s one of the Louis Vuitton lover’s: delicate black lace with a little white bow. I twist the shirt into a bandage.
“Come here,” I say, taking Nino’s shoulders.
“Non mi rompere la minchia,” says Nino.
I pull off Nino’s leather jacket and throw it onto the bonnet of the van. There’s a hole in his arm and it’s gushing with blood. I rip off his shirt. He’s shaking. It’s pouring, water streaking down his chest, his skin glistening in the rain.
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