Private Rome

Chapter 29

“Did you know him?” I asked.

Antonelli tilted his head and studied me. “Is that what you really mean to find out?”

He was sharp, but I guess one didn’t rise to the height of power in Rome without an ability to read people.

“Was he corrupt?” I asked.

“I didn’t know the man, but from what I understand, he was the opposite of corrupt,” Antonelli replied, ignoring his plateful of mozzarella and soft ripe tomatoes, which he’d spread on estate bread. “Perhaps that was his problem. The stick that won’t bend is sometimes broken.”

“We found nothing,” Luna nodded. “In the time we were looking into Lombardi, we didn’t turn up anything to suggest he was dishonest. And I asked around. People said he was a decent man.”

“A jewel,” Antonelli remarked. “An honest prosecutor is a diamond to be cherished.”

I gave him a surprised look.

“Not by people like me, of course,” he added. “But by the public. How would the world be if everyone was dishonest? My daughter might be surprised to hear me talk like this. We don’t often discuss our work.”

“Because you know what I think of what you call work,” she responded.

“Our lives are kept separate, for her protection and mine,” Antonelli said. “If Lombardi was an honest prosecutor that might have been enough to get him killed.”

“So, someone had him driven off the road because of what he knew?” I suggested.

Antonelli shrugged. “Perhaps.”

“And now they’re worried your daughter and I might know it too?”

He shrugged again.

“And Brambilla?” I pressed. “What about him? How is Matteo Ricci involved?”

“Who knows?” Antonelli said. “Your job is to find out answers, Mr. Morgan. Mine is to grow olives. But if the priest knew a secret, that might explain his death. And my daughter’s former partner could be discredited so that no one would believe anything he said. Or perhaps made into an easier target. People die in jail all the time.”

I shuddered, and the sweet tomato and mozzarella in my mouth turned sour at the thought Matteo might be in imminent danger. I’d assumed incarceration was the worst he’d face, but Elia Antonelli had opened my eyes to a new dimension of danger.

Luna said something in Italian.

“You can protect him, surely?” she added for my benefit.

“I will do what I can for you, my dear Luna, but even my protection is not infallible,” Antonelli replied. “Perfection is the sole preserve of God.”

“Or artisan olive growers,” I quipped, and Antonelli smiled.

I wondered how a mobster could talk of perfection in such an imperfect world. How could he, an instrument of evil, still hold faith in a religion rooted in the concepts of virtue and sin?

Sitting in the man’s company, eating the fruits of his land, seeing the way he looked lovingly at his daughter, it was clear he did not consider himself a bad guy.

“I trade in power,” Antonelli said. “The things I do to retain or grow that power are as necessary as war waged by government or state-sanctioned execution for capital crimes. Power does not concern itself with right or wrong. Morality is not the issue here — only the individual’s standing in the sphere of influence.”

So Antonelli’s world view was amoral at best. My business was justice, and without some appreciation of the difference between right and wrong, I could not function. At least, not happily.

“What else can you tell me about Lombardi?” I asked.

Antonelli shook his head. “You now know as much as I do.”

“And Father Brambilla?”

“I don’t know anything about the priest. I’ve given you all I can. My advice would be to stay out of the game. Leave Rome to the Romans and go home, Mr. Morgan.”

“I can’t do that,” I told him. “I don’t believe in the legitimacy of power for its own sake. I believe in good, in right and wrong, and I gave my word I’d learn the truth about what happened here.”

Antonelli looked thoughtful. “Maintaining a sense of personal honor involves the use of power, Mr. Morgan. I admire you. I wouldn’t want to be you, but I admire you.”

I stood. “Thank you for lunch, Signor Antonelli.”

“One of my men will drive you back to the city.”

“That’s okay,” I replied. “Hopefully, I still have a cab waiting.”

“We sent him on his way,” Antonelli advised. “Politely, of course, and with a generous tip.”

“I’ll walk you to the car,” Luna said, rising.

“Remember what I told you, Mr. Morgan,” Antonelli added. “Someone in this city is overdosing on power, throwing the balance of Rome into turmoil. Like all addicts, power-seekers are dangerous. They will stop at nothing to secure their fix. And they will let nothing stand against them. Not even an honorable man.”

“I’ll bear that in mind, Signor Antonelli,” I said, walking away.