Page 6 of The Enforcer

Once I’m out of his peripheral vision, I reach for him, grabbing him by the neck. I yank him into the air quickly and slam him face-first into the concrete. His nose and forehead bounce off the ground.

Giuseppe’s wife begins to pray. It’s a familiar prayer. My mother still says this one for me.

I don’t wait until I know if he’s dead or just unconscious; I sit on his back and make certain. There’s a puddle of blood spreading under his face. I sigh and pull my phone from my pocket. I don’t need to wake Salvo or Giulio for this part because it’s the kind of situation they would call me to handle.

I have a friend with a delivery truck who’ll dispose of this body, and he just happens to be nearby. I don’t ask why, and he doesn’t offer an explanation, which is exactly the kind of friendship I value.

“Andare all’interno,” I say to Giuseppe.

The old man opens his mouth as if he’s about to ask something he doesn’t need — or want — to know, but his wife stops him. I look at her, and she nods once in my direction before pulling her husband inside their bakery. Apparently, prayers aren’t the only thing Giuseppe’s wife has in common with my mother.

I only have to wait a quarter of an hour before my friend arrives, and he’s gone in less time than that. I knock on the bakery’s back door and ask for a bucket of water to douse the puddle of blood. In less than an hour after I arrived, Giuseppe’s problem is handled.

I emerge back onto the sidewalk from the alley to find Giuseppe’s wife sweeping the storefront as if this is a regular morning. She stops when she sees me, and I nod in her direction this time, keeping my distance as I do with my own mother.

She nods in return and holds up a hand, telling me to wait.

I shouldn’t. The sun is brightening the sky. The faster I’m on my way, the better. But I wait, thankfully not long. She returns with a bag, and I can smell the fresh bread and hot sugar inside.

“Hai un debole per i dolci,” she says.

“How’d you know?” I ask.

She shrugs, and that’s the end of our conversation.

I watch her for a few seconds I can’t spare, and she picks up her broom, resuming her work as if I’m no longer here. After a short while, I turn and head back home. I don’t go the way I came; that wouldn’t be wise. I never want to give someone more than one chance to see me.

I clutch my bag of pastries in one hand, shove the other into my pocket — to hide the red bruises on my knuckles — and walk toward Piazzi Garibaldi. I could rush home to put my clothes in the wash, I’m almost certainly covered in blood splatter, but rushing invites too much attention; rushing is how you get caught.

So, I walk leisurely to the square. I stop at a café on the way and buy a cappuccino. I use my uninjured hand to pay.

In the piazza, I find a seat, sip my coffee, eat a pastry or three, and I watch as Naples comes to life around me. It looks like the beginning of a beautiful day.

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