Page 80 of The Crimson Lily
“I think they used you, Chiara,” I inform, but it’s more of aj’accusemoment.
She stays silent and guilty. I pick the front seat this time, letting her hide behind me. I slam the door shut. I’m getting ready to pierce through Giovanni with dragon eyes, but I know I have to make peace with at least one person. My posture relaxes, and I give him a quick and cautious glance. “I’m sorry I punched you.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
He’s now holding the gearstick. I lay a careful hand on his, and our eyes meet. “I mean it.”
I only let go of his hand after he gives me a forced smile. Giovanni starts the engine and gets the car rolling back on the road, toward the gates of Rome.
I have no space in my head or time to be tired. My eyelids are heavy, but my blood is still boiling. My heart is pumping, and my stomach is clenched in the tightest of knots.
The antique shop is closed, but I have a justified feeling someone’s in there. Because it isn’t just an antique shop. It also has a higher floor that could be an apartment, and there’s no visible door leading upstairs. The blinds don’t allow me to see inside, and the front door is locked.
Oh well, no time for pleasantries. My instincts take over. I ram the door open with a furious push kick that impresses even Giovanni.
We enter a dark, wooden space with endless shelves full of vases and miniature sculptures I might care about under normalcircumstances. The racks are meticulously aligned. The damp smell of old is fixed in the air. The floor reminds me of the oiled wood that makes up the deck of a pirate ship.
My march has significantly slowed down from the violence of but a second ago. I discreetly approach the counter at the end of the room, a large chunk of wood covered in pieces of colorful cloth and a heavy, old-school cash register. I’m almost within reach of it when a man appears out of the door behind the counter.
Behind me, Giovanni cocks his gun instantly and points it at the man.
The man, an old guy with a crooked nose, an olive-green pullover, and a beret, launches his arms in the air and opens his eyes wide. He trembles and squirms upon seeing Giovanni, the Mafia Capitale soldier, ready to shoot. He’s making puffy squeals, probably as an attempt to beg for our mercy.
I turn to Giovanni, my hand raised at him as a sign to lower his weapon. Chiara, behind him, looks almost as afraid as the old man.
“Is this him?” I check with her.
She gives me frail, little nods.
The man mumbles some Italian words. Giovanni, who’s lowered his gun, responds in a low voice.
I hear the wordSindacato.La lista del Sindicato. Something like that.
The old man keeps on squirming; it mildly irritates me.
“Tell us about the token you gave her,” I order and flick my head in Chiara’s direction.
Giovanni has to translate, and the man oozes out some words.
“He says he’s just a pick-up point,” Giovanni relays. “He gets a coin, a name, and a description, that’s all.”
“How does he get this information?” I ask Giovanni while still looking at the man.
Same exchange.
“A phone,” Giovanni blurts.
“He needs to give us that phone,” I say.
“Dacci il telefono,” he hisses at the old man.
I understood that.
The old man refuses at first, but he immediately retreats to fetch us the phone once Giovanni raises his gun again. He hands it to me, that black piece of flat technology with names of Syndicate members. How valuable is that?
I then hand it to Giovanni, who immediately takes a video with his own phone of all communiqués, all instructions the old man ever received, swiping through them fast. Better take precautions before the Syndicate erases that phone. Smart.
“Does he have more tokens?” I wonder, and Giovanni translates for me while he’s still busy collecting all evidence.
