Page 57 of Doubts of the Egoist
Leaving the smartphone transcripting the video, he scooped up the box with the remaining files from the desk, grabbed some stationery on his way out of the bedroom, and entered the white room for the first time in years.
His heart didn’t stutter when he kicked the mattress aside, pinned the first photo to the center of the wall, and scrawled the name “Flavio Santelli” underneath with the black marker.
CHAPTER 16
Just like that,his former prison became the place of his voluntary exile. Mumbling and the slapping of bare feet on the hard floor filled the white room. Burning with excitement, Kuon’s mind refused to register time. The days behind the window blended into a colorless haze, but it didn’t matter because the sense of familiarity kept him grounded.
Kuon couldn’t recall the last time he’d left this room for more than a bathroom break, except for the one time Greg forced him to go for an eye check-up. Immersed in the study of Yugo’s family affairs, he barely ate the food Greg brought him but obediently took his meds before collapsing onto the dusty mattress when he could no longer keep his eyes open. Nightmares haunted him, providing no rest. After a few sweaty nights, drenched in a pungent stench of fear, he substituted sleep with coffee. He hadn’t changed clothes in days and couldn’t remember the last time he’d showered, but that barely bothered him.
The evidence boards on the walls grew larger as he received freshly translated files. What he couldn’t get from Greg, he partially translated on his cell phone, and even the torture videos no longer puzzled him. In them, Yugo repeated questions until Kuon had memorized them.
Lacking information, he often hit a brick wall. Still, like a bulldog with a bone, he refused to let go, knowing that most cases went cold because of an investigator’s laziness, tiny mistakes, or overlooked details. He wasn’t presumptuous enough to think he could solve the case, but he wanted to knoweverything he could about Yugo and his family because it looked like a starting point for the birth of the Black Duke. Perhaps, by investigating the mystery of the Santelli murders, he could unearth the reasons behind Yugo’s actions.
On a subconscious level, it also helped him wait. Doing something, however meaningless, was easier than sitting by the window, pining like a dog for its missing master.
He no longer climbed into Yugo’s bed and now entered the bedroom only to identify the people Yugo had murdered, to translate the video transcriptions, and to re-examine the contents of the external hard drive and several pictures showing Tobias, Mio, and Milana together. Questions swarmed in his head, itching for answers, but Greg got busier by the day and now rarely had time to chat.
Many times, he considered retrieving the SIM card from the bathroom to call Tobias but changed his mind every time. He suspected he didn’t have enough information to ask the right questions; asking the wrong ones could be crucial. Still, he wished he had someone to confirm the accuracy of the connections he’d sketched on the walls.
When another night erased the forest behind the window and awakened the nocturnal birds, Kuon stepped away from the Palermo map on the wall to his right. Red pins symbolized the assassins, yellow ones the Scarci, and blue the Santelli. Next to it were the forensic report and floor plans of the Cappella Palatina in the Palazzo Reale and the Chiesa del Gesù di Casa Professa, showing the positions of the bodies and marking the bomb site. The photos surrounding these showed ruins and gore, spent shells, and detailed analyses of the bomb blast and the fire that followed immediately after the explosion.
Most of the people in the church died, unable to escapethe fire because the door was locked. The priest, who was supposed to administer the sacrament, was apparently not too holy, as his body wasn’t among the dead. He had escaped through a secret passage leading from the church to the adjoined library only to end up on one of Yugo’s recordings, tied to a chair. At first, he mumbled something about having nothing to do with it, then he confessed his sins. All Yugo’s victims did, eventually.
As Greg said, it wasn’t hard to figure out who assassinated the Santelli family. Kuon turned on his heel to face the opposite wall and the greater mystery.
The cobweb of the Santellis’ intricate business and personal affairs filled the entire room, leaving little plaster to peek through. Kuon had no hope of understanding it all. Still, he’d mulishly pinned one photo card after another, unraveling the family ties and affairs of the once-prosperous Mafia clan.
His gaze drifted to Yugo, then down to Milana and her complicated love ties, before settling on her lover’s cold, colorless eyes.
After a moment’s consideration, he took a marker and drew a giant question mark on a sticky note, which he then attached to the corner of Tobias’ photo card. For some reason, he couldn’t find much information about this man in Yugo’s files. Beyond being Milana’s lover, it was difficult to determine his relationship to the family, who he was, and what he did. Something had certainly driven him from Sicily, and Kuon doubted it was his loyalty to Yugo.
Chewing on his lip, he picked up Mio’s photo and compared it to Francesco Scarci’s. The broad, angular man with tanned skin, dark red hair, and brown eyes bore no resemblance to Mio’s cold, pale Nordic complexion.
Kuon pinned the picture next to Tobias’ photo, then stepped back.
Even if they didn’t look alike, they both had light eyes, blond hair, albeit of different shades, fair skin, and a rather slender build. Judging by their physical appearance, Mio had a better chance of carrying Tobias’ DNA than Scarci’s. Given Francesco’s more dominant eye and hair color, the chances of Mio inheriting all the recessive genetic traits from his mother were slim, unless it was the result of a rare mutation. That made him wonder whether Milana was Flavio’s biological daughter or if Yugo’s grandmother was also blonde, and her genes had miraculously skipped a generation. He didn’t know, but that was hardly important.
Based on what he knew about Milana and Tobias, it was easier to believe that Mio was the fruit of their love. Even though Kuon’d had very few encounters with the hypothetical father and son, he could outline some similarities in their behavior. They were intelligent, outgoing, creative, and resorted to the same foul, underhanded tactics.
“Kinship would explain why you live together. But if so, why don’t you get along?” Kuon asked the pictures but received no answer. “What did you do to make Mio hate you? More importantly, why do you dislike Mio?”
The rumble of an engine ripped through the air, causing him to drop a paper pin he’d been twirling between his fingers. Heart in his mouth, he rushed to the door and slapped the switch. The lights went out, and he darted to the window. Palms against the glass, he leaned in, trying to see anything in the dark. Over the past few days, the fog clouding his eyes had lifted, letting him see more than a few dozen feet ahead. Still, a distortion lingered, warping his surroundings like a funhousemirror.
Beneath the barred windows, in the driveway before the porch, where very few cars were permitted to stay for more than a few minutes, a dark SUV shone its high beams on the sleeping mansion. Blinded by the white light, Kuon couldn’t make out the driver’s face or even tell how many people were inside. It could have been anyone, really, considering the number of employees living in the estate. Still, his chest tightened with a lack of breath as the driver’s door flung open.
A male hand reached out, grasped the upper edge of the door and lingered there. Though the fine details were lost in shadow, something in the mannerisms let Kuon unmistakably recognize Yugo. The headlights dimmed, and the low rumble of the engine faded into the night.
A polished shoe glinted in the yellow garden lanterns as the rest of Yugo appeared, but instead of heading for the mansion, he circled the car. His white shirt was undone halfway down his chest, the tie hanging out of the front pocket of his jacket. From Kuon’s vantage point, it was hard to say what was wrong with Yugo, but his suit didn’t fit him as flawlessly as it usually did.
Is he drunk?
A premonition weighed on his chest as he watched Yugo open the front passenger door. Brushing his disheveled hair from his face, Yugo rested his palm on the roof and peered inside. Two white, slender arms wrapped around Yugo’s neck, pulling him in.
Kuon’s heart shrank to the size of a pinhead because Yugo didn’t pull away. Instead, he let go of the roof and ducked inside. When he straightened up again, he was carrying a slender youngman with flaxen hair in his arms.
Kuon’s head snapped back at the sight of what looked like betrayal. A searing heat scalded him before his blood chilled in his veins. He gulped for air, unable to look away from Mio’s pale limbs coiling around Yugo’s body, and his fingers clutching at the folds of the black suit. Between one heartbeat and the next, Yugo melted into the night as if he belonged to the darkness. By contrast, Mio’s sharp elbows glowed white in the bright electric light for a few painfully long moments before they too disappeared from view.
“Why is he here?” Kuon whispered into the silence.
