Page 52 of Doubts of the Egoist
“Absolutely.”
“Let me show you something.” The bulky man levered himself off the desk and strolled across the room to pull a box from under the rack. Dust swirled in the air as he slammed it onto the desk by Kuon’s elbow.
A cloud of dust hit his nose. Kuon flinched back and shut his eyes. Only after the dust settled did he pry one eye open. The box, made of leather and bound with metal braces, was filled with folders, discs, and photographs. Greg rummaged through the contents, pulled out a thick, brown folder, wiped it with a sleeve, and carefully placed it before Kuon.
“Open it,” Greg urged, resuming his place on the edge of the desk.
The rough, thick paper folder lacked a label and bore a few coffee stains on the front. With its curled, battered corners, it looked cheap, old, and probably had been stolen from some government facility.
“Didn’t you want to know all about Yugo?” When Kuon didn’t reply, Greg urged, “Come on, this might be your only chance; don’t chicken out.”
Kuon didn’t want to look inside. Something told him he’d already learned enough to spend the rest of his rapidly shortening life looking over his shoulder. On the other hand, what would he lose? One more secret wouldn’t change anything. “Don’t play chicken with me.”
“Why not? Isn’t it working?” The corner of Greg’s mouth twitched.
“It’s working,” Kuon admitted reluctantly and opened the folder. The faint smell of dust tickled his nose, making it itch. He rubbed its tip with the back of his hand, then focused.
An official form glared at him from the first yellowed page, accompanied by a dingy photograph of a young woman. A maroon bullet hole between her light brows looked like an Indian Bindi. Her complexion was so pale and translucent that he could count the veins under her eyes, on her neck, and at her temples. Pale, flaxen hair cloaked her bare shoulders, while a white sheet covered her chest. Her face was painfully familiar. He didn’t need to see her name to guess she was related to Mio.
“An autopsy report on Milana Scarci, Mio’s mother, Yugo’s sister,” Greg explained.
“Sister?” Kuon’s gaze darted to Greg before returning to the form. “They don’t look alike at all…”
Kuon leafed through the documents. Everything was in Italian. That was frustrating.
“They were half-siblings. Different mothers.”
“Different mothers…” Kuon echoed as a new dossier revealed another photo. A honey-blonde woman in her late thirties with fair skin, plush rosy lips, and a Slavic oval face wore a calm expression. She would have looked alive if not for an uglywound on her neck and a glassy expression in her gunmetal eyes—the same as Yugo’s.
“Vlasta Santelli,” Kuon read aloud.
“Yugo’s mother.”
“She wasn’t Italian?”
“No. Flavio always liked blondes. She was from Latvia, came to Milan to become a model, but met Flavio during her first fashion week. They got married pretty quickly.”
The name Santelli caught his eye. Without much hope of understanding more than occasional words in Italian, Kuon scanned the form until his gaze stumbled upon the “data della morte” field. The date of death was the same as that of Yugo’s sister. To make sure his memory wasn’t playing tricks, he flipped to the first page of the report and back again.
“What happened?”
“Bloodshed. Not uncommon among crime families.”
“How many casualties?” Kuon asked, eyeing the folder with renewed interest. It was at least an inch thick. Even accounting for the old, tattered paper, there were far too many pages.
“Forty-six from the Santelli family and fifteen from the Scarci, since they weren’t the target,” Greg said.
Unable to comprehend the magnitude of the tragedy, Kuon flipped through the pages.
Yugo’s father was among the dead. His face was sharp and chiseled, jaw line strong, and gaze heavy and piercing. Except for the eye color, Yugo took after him. The same features, the same air of unyielding power.
He scanned the remaining documents.
Men, women, and children whose bodies weren’t riddled with bullets were burned in a great fire that engulfed the church. Photographs of the once-glorious Baroque church interior—now ravaged and charred—rested at the back of the binder. Soot-covered marble sculptures of angels stared silently from the images.
“The people you saw on the videos weren’t innocent.” Greg’s quiet comment made the skin on the back of Kuon’s neck prickle with discomfort. He looked up, wanting to ask Greg to stop but knowing he would be told the rest of the story regardless of his consent. A gnarled finger jabbed at the folder as Greg filled his lungs and began to speak.
“Flavio, Yugo’s father, was the head of the Santelli family—one of the most influential crime families in Sicily. Not everyone liked that, but very few had the power to stand up to him. He was a tough man but fair and honest. He was well respected until rumors spread that he was leaking information to Interpol to eliminate competitors.
