Nicola Rocca - Death Brings Gold

NICOLA ROCCA

DEATH

BRINGS GOLD

Translated from Italian by M.N. Dee

Facebook Page:

- Nicola Rocca ‘Author Page’

- Nicola Rocca

enneerreautore@outlook.it

Cover Illustration Copyright: © Alessandro Gardenti (Thorny Editing).

Cover design by: © Nicola Rocca and Alessandro Gardenti

Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Literary and artistic rights reserved.

All rights reserved.

2015

For Daniel,

to give him courage

and to tell him that I am here

whenever he needs me!

… And that tomorrow will always be a better day!

Mankind invented the atomic bomb,

but no mouse would ever construct

a mousetrap.

Albert Einstein

(1879-1955)

Serendipity is looking in a

haystack for a needle

and discovering a farmer’s

daughter.

Julius H. Cooe

(1911-1984)

PROLOGUE

A deep breath. The man wakes up.

Something is not right. He feels week, numb. His head is spinning, as if waking from a massive hangover.

Actually, it hurts. At the back, right above his neck.

By instinct he tries to lift one hand to reach the tender spot, in an effort to massage it. But he can’t, his hand is locked. A metallic sound reaches his ears. He pulls harder.

What on earth…?

His eyes widen in fear. Sweat begins covering his forehead.

He is sitting on the floor of his living room. He recognizes his home, his furniture, and his curtains. He looks around, trying to forget that his hands are handcuffed to the heater.

He gives another tug, but all he gets is the clinking of a chain and a sharp pain in his wrists.

His sweat now leads to anguish.

Before his mouth lets out a cry, a voice materializes.

“Welcome back, Alberto.”

These words are followed by the sound of muffled footsteps.

“What the fuck…”

His curse dies on his lips as he sees a man standing before him. He has never seen this thickly bearded face before.

“Finally you’re with us,” the man says.

His voice is kind and polite - almost caring - and this is what churns Alberto’s gut with terror.

A choked sound emanates from the prisoner’s mouth. He gives another tug with his arms trying to set himself free, ignoring the sharp twinges of pain.

“It’s no use,” the man calmly points out, caressing his beard. “Those chains can’t be broken.”

Alberto tries to shout, but his voice comes out like a hoarse whisper.

“Who are you?” he asks.

The man narrows his eyes, as if boring into the soul of the one before him.

“It doesn’t matter who I am. But what I am doing here.”

Alberto knows that he can’t dictate the rules of this encounter, but he tries to hide his desperation.

“Listen, friend… I don’t know what you want from me. You’ve got the wrong person.”

The man answers with an amused grin.

“Quite the contrary” the man with the beard says. His tone of voice is now cold as ice. “You are exactly who I was looking for. You really don’t remember me? Don’t worry, you’ll get your memory back. Soon.”

“I don’t give a fuck who you are. Or what you’re doing here,” the prisoner gasps, still straining against the chains. Another dizzy spell forces him to close his eyes. Exhausted, he leans back against his prison.

Ignoring the words, the other man moves one step closer and stares right into the eyes of his prey.

“I’ll give you a little clue …” he says.

And finally – the words that had waited silently for decades in his heart –were spoken.

“Morning brings gold…”

The phrase remained there, hanging in the air. Then, like a sharp blade, it plunges into the captive man’s mind, telling him that in this game he is the victim; the other man executioner.

He pretends not to understand. With difficulty he opens his eyes and his voice, now accompanied by tears, has become a wheeze…

“I don’t know what the stupid phrase means.”

The killer unfastens, one by one, the buttons of his raincoat, takes it off and places it neatly on the back of a chair.

The victim recognizes the suit the man is wearing. And he feels the fear growing inside him.

“There must be some mistake,” he says, whimpering. “You really have the wrong person …”

The killer doesn’t pay any attention to the pathetic plea.

He strokes his beard and takes a step towards the victim.

“They say that revenge is a dish best served cold,” he declares. “Well, I’ve never believed it …” he pauses, hesitant, “… but I had no other choice than to wait. And with each passing year, my anger, instead of disappearing, increased. It is now time to unleash it.”

The victim feels his heart tightening up.

“I have nothing to do with it,” he moans, his cheeks damp with terror and desperation.

The killer takes another step towards the broken man. He stands there observing him, like a scientist would do with a laboratory animal.

The victim recognizes in those eyes a look he has seen before –older now, but identical to the one he had seen many years before. He would like to ask for mercy and forgiveness, but the words stick in his throat with fear.

The killer speaks again.

“You’re a dead man.” He smiles, his face lined with fine wrinkles. The kind that pain carves into your face while you’re still young and vulnerable. “Just a stupid dead man.”

The words seem to float around the room indefinitely.

The killer moves closer still, ignoring the prisoner’s groans. Barely breathing, he reaches into his pocket and slowly slips out the weapon that will kill him.

CHAPTER 1

Umberto Visconti stood there and stared at the casket being lowered into the ground. His face was wracked with grief. The only loved one he’d had left was leaving like this.

David Walker was watching him cry. He stood still and stared at the line of people queuing to show their affection to their tearful friend. Then, when the man was alone, Walker approached him.

“My condolences, Umberto,” he said, taking and squeezing his cold hands.

Visconti forced himself to smile. He blinked his eyes a couple of times in an attempt to clear the tears that were clouding his vision. Losing a parent, even if they have reached the farthest edge of old age, always breaks your heart. Umberto knew that pain; he had already experienced it.

“Thank you very much, David,” he said, hugging him.

David never liked these moments of sadness, but he didn’t want to be the first to separate from the embrace. He was hoping Umberto would do it. While waiting for that gesture that never seemed to come, he stood still and felt sorry for the other man’s sobs. Because Umberto Visconti, as well as being the medical examiner that worked with him, in time had also become a valuable friend. And for David, a friend’s pain was also his pain.

Finally, David felt Umberto detach from their embrace -his lips moving close to his ear. His breath was warm and his skin smelled like aftershave.

“Thanks again for coming, my friend.”

In the last weeks they hadn’t met or called each other much. Visconti was often unreachable because he had to look after his mother during the last stage of her life; Walker, on the other hand, was busy hunting down a guy who liked to rape, rob and kill high-class prostitutes. In the end he managed to catch him and close the case, even though a bullet cost him a couple of days in hospital. At least, he had arrived on time at the funeral. His shoulder was hurting like fuck, but he was there.