Private Rome

Chapter 36

If neighborhoods were bands, Ostia, where I was staying, was an energetic grunge group. Esquilino, on the other hand, was a dangerous death metal band that had been around since the beginning of time.

The streets exuded menace: from the dark cross-hatching of graffiti on every surface to the gangs of angry-looking men gathered outside bars, discount liquor stores and pool halls, glasses in hand, their skin emblazoned with images of skulls and devils. There were bars on any windows within reach from the ground; modified cars and souped-up motorcycles, engines wailing, endlessly prowled the narrow streets of buildings with flaking stucco. Esquilino was not a safe place.

The Inferno, Milan Verde’s bar, was the worst of all the lowdown drinking joints we passed. Although it was only early afternoon, we arrived on Via Mamiani, a particularly rundown side street, to find the place already clouded by a fog of degeneracy. Groups of heavily inked men in biker vests and T-shirts jostled for space on the sidewalk outside the bar, bingeing heavily as they traded jokes and stories. It was a weekday, so these were men without regular jobs. And it was mostly men. I could see two women among the crowd of about fifty, and they were dressed similarly and tattooed in the same way.

The cab driver stopped further up the street. Once I had paid her, I walked back, passing a convenience store and boarded-up café before I reached the corner opposite the Inferno, which, in addition to the dull roar made by its rowdy customers, was filling the neighborhood with fast-paced thrash metal.

I crossed the road and pushed through the crowd gathered on the sidewalk, earning myself hostile looks, muttered curses and one threat I couldn’t understand.

Inside, the bar lived up to its name. The walls were decorated with heavy metal-style images of hell: devils in biker jackets riding flaming motorcycles among tormented masses. The place was packed and the bar heaving with drinkers. I recognized Milan Verde from an intelligence photograph contained in the dossier Mo-bot had sent via secure email. He looked a couple years older than the photo, his dark close-cropped hair now flecked with gray. His piercing eyes were just as soulless, and his scowling face appeared to have picked up a few new scars, including one on the bridge of his nose where it had clearly been broken.

He was sitting with a group of four guys and two women, who looked like roadies for the devil’s favorite band. I saw a flash of recognition when he caught sight of me and felt a pang of anxiety as he nudged the big man sitting next to him.

I thought he was coming for me, but it was even worse than that. The big man pushed his way through the crowd to the entrance and locked the front door. He folded his arms and became a sentinel guarding the only obvious way out.

The noise made by the patrons dropped slightly as they eyed me and made comments to their companions. They clearly knew who I was and had trapped me in the bar, so now I really had nothing to lose. I approached Verde’s booth, and the crowd parted to allow me access to the man who’d likely tried to kill me.

He nodded to his companions and they eased out of their seats, leaving him alone and the bench opposite him unoccupied.

I slid onto it and held his gaze as I settled.

“You know who I am?” I said.

“You’re brave and stupid coming here, Mr. Morgan,” Milan replied.

“Why did one of your men try to kill me?”

“I don’t have men.” He smiled. “I own a bar. You have me confused with someone else.”

I scoffed. “Those guys cleared a place for me because you asked them nicely, I guess?”

“That’s what friends do,” he said.

“So why did your friend try to kill me?” I pressed.

“My friends aren’t criminals, Mr. Morgan.” He held up his hands, palms facing me. “We’re peaceful people here.”

As he lowered his hands, he turned his wrists toward me and I saw the same tattoo that the assassin had worn: the Jerusalem Cross with fleur-de-lys inside it.

“Nice ink,” I said, gesturing to the mysterious pattern. “What does it mean?”

“It means this meeting is over,” he replied, nodding to his companions waiting nearby. “Take Mr. Morgan into the back and teach him Italian manners.”

“For a guy who owns a bar, you sure behave like a gangster,” I remarked, and he smiled darkly.

“Goodbye, Mr. Morgan.”

Large hands grabbed my arm and I was hauled out of my seat.