April Smith - White Shotgun

“That’s a lie. I had nothing to do with it.”

“Let’s just take it easy, Mr. Nicosa,” Dennis advises.

“My late partner, Sofri, is the one who created that gene. He was the first to crack the genome of the coffee plant. He deserves the credit.”

“He can have all the credit in the world,” Dennis says.

“Are you here, like Il Commissario, to accuse me of murdering my wife? If so, I can assure you, because I heard her voice on the phone, you will not find her in a barrel full of lye.”

“Glad to hear it,” says Dennis. “But the lab in Rome hasn’t gotten started on that yet. They’re not even in possession of the evidence.”

“Why not? The provincial police secured the site.”

“Between Siena and Rome there are a million footsteps. My name is Dennis Rizzio, FBI legal attaché,” he goes on, crisply offering Nicosa the papers. “Sir, on behalf of the U.S. government, I have a warrant for your arrest. As a federal officer, I have jurisdiction when it comes to crimes committed in the United States, and in this case the charge is smuggling cocaine into the cities of Pittsburgh, Columbus, and Chicago.”

Nicosa glances at the papers. “Come in from the sun,” he suggests.

Dennis needs to pat Nicosa down, and I advise my brother-in-law to accede. This accomplished, we follow him into the kitchen. In synch with Dennis now, I place myself between the suspect and any potential weapons of heavy pots or knives. Glancing at the clock, I see that I am now seventeen minutes behind schedule.

Nicosa offers a cold drink.

Dennis isn’t playing. “Thank you, no. Best you should call your lawyer and get your affairs together here, in case things are delayed while you’re in custody in Rome, as they surely will be.”

Giovanni comes into the kitchen, free of the crutch, walking just on the soft cast.

“Why are you going to Rome, Papa?”

“This man is from the FBI. He needs to talk to me.”

“About what? Why did he say you are in custody?”

I warn him, “Giovanni, this is not for you.”

“He’s innocent,” cries the boy.

“Go upstairs. Go see your friends,” Nicosa says tiredly.

“He doesn’t do anything bad!”

Dennis says, “You’re a good kid, standing up for your dad. But this is out of your arena. Partirlo solo e lasciarlo va. ”

“I know he doesn’t. I saw.”

“You saw what?”

My cell phone is vibrating. “That’s Sterling. He’s waiting in Siena. Nicoli, please, just go with Agent Rizzio now.”

“When the man they call the Puppet came into my room,” Giovanni says.

Nicosa gives a cry of pain. “Basta! Chiudere tu ora! ”

“In the hospital,” Giovanni insists. “I heard everything.”

“How is that possible? You were in a coma.”

“I was coming out of it. I could see and hear. I saw what happened, Papa.”

Looking back, I realize he is talking about the twenty minutes or so when Cecilia and I were in the basement, eating potato chips and garlic mayonnaise. The nurse saw the first signs of returning consciousness and tried to call, but there was no cell reception in the basement.

“Tell them what kind of man you are,” Giovanni says to his father in English.

Nicosa begs, “Please!” and gropes for a jacket lying across a chair. “I am ready to go.”

“No! Don’t arrest him! Listen. This freak came into my room. I could see him. I could smell him. My father was there. He told my father that if he did not cooperate, even worse things would happen. My father said, Non lo farò! Non mai di nuovo! ”

“Why did he say that? What did he promise never to do again, Giovanni?” Dennis asks.

“Because they beat me up and he didn’t want it to happen again. Because of drugs I fall down in the shower … I am almost killed in the street … I almost die from drugs, and so he refused.” He looks at his father, tears streaming freely down reddened cheeks. “He refused! I never told anyone what I heard,” he whispers. “I swear.”

“That’s enough,” Nicosa says quietly.

“No, Papa. Tell them what happened.”

“Right in my own kitchen, I am crucified. My blood is on the walls!”

“Tell them.”

“It is revolting.”

Dennis says, “There’s nothing you can say we haven’t heard before.”

“I apologize to this man,” Nicosa admits through gritted teeth. “I show respect. But still I say that I want nothing more to do with this business of cocaine because I see what it has done to my son. For his sake, I have to stop the whole thing. All of it. Cosimo Umberto accepts this. He understands a father protects his son. And then he asks that I show proper repentance. To ’Ndrangheta, you see. For this, he urinates into a plastic cup and tells me to get on my knees and drink.”

Giovanni clenches his fists. “But he refuses! My father refuses!”

“If I drank, it would mean nothing. If I didn’t drink, it would be the same result. There was no way out. They were never going to let me or my family go. Things were good for them, using my coffee shipments. I had agreed to that under force of threat. And on top of it, I paid pizzo for the privilege! They wanted everything to stay the same. When I refused, Cosimo Umberto left the hospital room. I thought I had prevailed. But then they took Cecilia. Still, I was arrogant. I believed we could get her back by the usual means … until they murdered Sofri. Then I saw that I had lost everything. Things will go on as they are. I am sorry, Giovanni. Sorry you have me as your father.”

Nicosa takes the boy into his arms. Giovanni sobs against his shoulder.

“I thought you didn’t love me.”

Nicosa’s fingers grip his son’s hair. “What insanity is that?”

Ruthless and lawless as the mafias are, in a weird way, they are the only ones to depend on in a world of betrayals. I am sorry — sorrier and sadder than I can express at that moment in the abbey kitchen — that Cecilia, her husband, and their son became so isolated and distrustful, they turned to the enemy instead of to each other. That’s the insanity.

“I thought they took Mama for a hostage because if they took me, you would not pay the ransom.”

“I love you.” Nicosa rocks him. “Ti voglio bène, ti voglio bène, non era mai qualunque domanda.” He looks over the boy’s head at Dennis. “Now you see my humiliation.”

“Dennis?” I say. “Can we talk?”

We walk outside to the courtyard.

“We need time. We’re on the verge of getting Cecilia back. Can you keep Nicosa under house arrest? Thirty-six hours is all I ask.”

Rizzio scans the open gate and unprotected boundaries of the abbey.

“Security will be a bitch.”

“Put him in the tower.”

Dennis smiles at the thought. “You know this whole thing started because of an egg fight?”

“You lost me.”

“The massacre in London. Your photo popping up on the bad guys’ network. Even your sister’s abduction. I’m serious, there was an egg fight in Calabria between two clans of ’Ndrangheta — the Ippolitos and the Barbettis — that has resulted in over a dozen murders that we know of.”

“How does it tie in to London?”

“It was a birthday party for the Ippolito family. That’s why they targeted the restaurant. We traced the cell phone calls to the shooters from Calabria. The calls originated from leaders of the Barbetti clan in a town called San Luca, where family feuds go on for decades. This one started out at one of these little carnivals, with kids throwing eggs. The enemy comes back throwing fireworks. Now two young men are dead, and the revenge killings commence — over twenty years and three countries, including a shoot-out in Germany where four people are killed. The Ippolitos left to escape the warfare, but it followed them to London.”