Page 17 of The Fixer

“Leo and Antonio Moretti are negotiating with Rocco Santiniright now.This is not the time to be cagey. If there’s something they need to know?—”

“There isn’t.” There’s no certainty in his tone. “He won’t. . . They don’t know. . .” He gets to his feetabruptly. “None of that matters now. It’s over. Everything will be okay once we leave for Venice.”

I stare after his departing back. Antonio and Leo are going to negotiate with the Mafia here, and my family’s problems should be over once they make a deal. But I have a very bad feeling they’re just beginning.

10

LEO

The restaurant where we meet Rocco Santini screams Mafia so badly that it’s almost a parody. The room is long and narrow. To the left is a bar where a handful of patrons sit, their eyes glued to the soccer match on the screen behind the counter. Lecce is playing, doing their best to avoid relegation. To the right, a couple of guys play billiards on a table that’s seen better days.

The padrino and I are in enemy territory. Every single person here is a foot soldier of Spina Sacra.

Antonio and I walk in together. A man tears himself from the football long enough to pat us down. “What are you doing, you idiot?” RoccoSantini chides from a table in the back. “What’s the point of searching them for weapons? They don’t need guns or knives; Cesari is the weapon.”

I see that my reputation precedes me.

The foot soldier waves us through to Santini’s table. The Mafia leader isn’t alone. A younger man, early thirties from the look of it, sits next to him, his hand curled casually over a glass of red wine. I don’t know him. It’s not Lorenzo Corio, Santini’s second-in-command, who is, like his boss, in his mid-sixties.

Rocco doesn’t stand up to greet us. “Sit,” he says shortly, indicating the chairs next to him. He performs perfunctory introductions. “Max Guerra, meet Antonio Moretti and Leonardo Cesari.”

We take our seats. A cocktail waitress wearing a very short skirt shows up to take our drink orders. “I’ll have whatever Signor Santini is having,” Antonio says.

“Just water for me, please,” I say. “Sparkling, if you have it.” I’ve done a lot of drinking today. Prosecco for breakfast, vodka for lunch, and a couple of glasses of wine with dinner as a way to get through the proposal. Though it hadn’t been as hard as I imagined to sell the lie to Rosa’s parents.

“Water?” Santini gives me an exaggerated look of shock. “No, no, that won’t do. Maria, bring us a bottleof wine. A good bottle, something from the cellar. We have to celebrate Cesari’s engagement.” His tone is jovial, but his eyes stay cold. “A very surprising engagement. Not to mention sudden.”

Antonio leans back in his chair and stretches his legs out. “Surprising?” he asks, his voice unconcerned. “Why would you think that?”

“Because of what happened the last time Leo Cesari got married.” Rocco surveys me thoughtfully. “It was my understanding that you swore to never repeat the experience.”

Don’t react. You knew they’d find out about Patrizia; this isn’t a surprise.

Guerra speaks up. “Also, there have been no signs that Cesari is dating Rosa Tran.” He sets his wine glass on the table. “No romantic evenings together. No candlelight dinners, no holding hands and strolling through la Piazza.”

Damn it. “You can’t stroll through la Piazza,” I say snidely. “It’s too crowded with tourists.”

Guerra continues as if I hadn’t spoken. “The happy couple doesn’t live together. At Signor Colonna’s wedding, they danced together but left separately.”

To gather this information in a matter of hours. . .I have no idea who Max Guerra is, but he makes a formidable opponent.

The waitress shows up with a bottle of Barolo. She shows the label to Rocco, who nods his approval. She must sense the tension in the air because her hand trembles as she pours the wine into our glasses. She scampers away as soon as she’s done.

“I don’t do my courting in public.” I take a sip of the full-bodied red. “Too many prying eyes.”

“That’s one explanation,” Santini says. The affable tone is gone; we’re done celebrating my engagement. “The other explanation is that you’re trying to save Tran’s life by entering into this marriage, thereby forcing the obligation of a blood claim upon me.”

I open my mouth to respond. Antonio gives me a discreet hand signal and sets his glass down. “It sounds like you’re calling me a liar, Rocco,” he says, his voice frosty. “That’s an unfortunate accusation.”

Santini backs down. “I’m just listing the possibilities.” He knows as well as we do that if the South went to war with the North, the only people who would win are the Russians. Plus, there’s enough infighting in Spina Sacra that an ambitious clan member would stab him in the back. It’s notworth it, not for the life of one upstart financial adviser.

“Let’s lay our cards on the table,” he continues. “Ten million euros have gone missing. I can’t wave away that loss. Before I can commit to anything, I need to be made whole.”

Ten million euros have gone missing. That’s an interesting way to phrase it. According to Rosa’s hasty explanation, her brother lost the money in an investment gone wrong. But that’s not what Santini is implying. Surely the boy wasn’t stupid enough to steal from them?

The Mafia boss suspects something, but he doesn’t have proof. If he did, not even the blood claim would keep him from exacting vengeance. Losing Spina Sacra’s money might be forgiven under the right set of circumstances, but stealing? Never.

Hugh Tran is young and stupid, and Santini is a lying snake. I don’t trust either of them.

---