Private Rome

Chapter 83

“If they recognize you—” Sci began, but Faduma cut him off.

“I’ll run. I just need to get one of those drones inside, don’t I?”

Sci nodded. “I can put it in Milan Verde’s office. Provided it doesn’t fly too much, we’ll get two days out of the batteries.”

“Then it’s worth doing,” Faduma said, taking a deep breath.

The Dark Fates were dangerous, but she had faced danger before. She’d crossed the Mediterranean in a tiny boat, seeing people in her flotilla die; she’d been up close to catastrophic loss, and it had forever changed her perspective on life, making her simultaneously more appreciative and less cautious. She cherished life, but she also knew there were times one had to risk sacrifice because it was the right thing to do.

Sci handed her another drone from the holdall and checked it was connected to the remote.

He nodded. “You’re good to go.”

Faduma smiled wanly and stepped out of the car.

The warm afternoon air combined with her nervousness to make her feel a little queasy, but she fought the rising nausea and forced her feet to move one step at a time toward the Inferno Bar. She could hear the sound of the television build up to the Roma — Inter Milan football match coming through the windows of nearby apartments. As she got closer to the bar, the sound of football was lost beneath thunderous music. She saw far-right insignia among the tattoos on the arms of some of the smokers on the pavement. She’d met many racists in her life, but was conscious of her increased personal risk in this situation. She didn’t need to be recognized as a journalist. One of these angry men or women just had to take a dislike to the color of her skin. She heard them talking, discussing some show on Netflix.

They fell silent as she drew near and she was suddenly very aware of her smart white linen trousers and red blouse, which were at odds with the biker/rock band roadie vibe of the place. She couldn’t have stood out more if she’d tried.

“This is a private bar,” the man closest to her said, drawing on a cigarette. “Foreigners aren’t welcome.”

The men and women around him chuckled.

“I don’t see a sign,” Faduma replied in Italian. “And I’m not a foreigner.”

“Well, you don’t look Italian.”

“You don’t look intelligent, but we shouldn’t judge others on their appearance,” Faduma responded, finding the reserves of courage that had never yet failed her.

The reply played well with the man’s companions and drew a louder chuckle, but on finding himself the butt of the joke, the smoker scowled and lumbered closer to her. He sported a gray T-shirt bearing the image of a screaming white skull and wore his loose jeans hitched low.

“It’s a private bar,” he said, reaching out and putting an intimidating ham-sized hand on her shoulder.

She looked at his fat, scarred fingers as they squeezed.

“That’s assault,” Faduma said calmly. She produced a stun gun from her purse, drove it into the man’s ribs and pulled the trigger.

He fell to the ground, convulsing, and she stepped clear and addressed his companions.

“I just want a drink and to use the ladies’ room.”

Their chuckles and smiles had vanished. A couple of them hurried over to help their fallen companion, but no one did anything to stop Faduma entering the bar.

She felt the powerful air blanket on the top of her head and walked on, sensing the stir her arrival had caused. As she moved toward the counter, conversation stopped and soon the only sound was the angry screeching of death metal blaring through the bar’s sound system. A muted television hanging on the wall showed the kickoff of the Roma — Inter match.

“I’d like a beer,” Faduma said to the unfriendly barman. “And the ladies’ room.”

He stared at her for a moment before nodding toward a corridor to her right.

She put twenty euros on the counter and walked in the direction he’d indicated. When she reached the corridor, she slipped her hand into her purse and took out the drone, which flew away silently. She reached for the ladies’ room door handle, but it was opened from the inside and Faduma was confronted by a woman wearing too much eyeliner and mascara, and a vintage Led Zeppelin T-shirt. She looked taken aback for a moment.

“Who the hell are you? You’re not coming in here. This is a private bathroom. Move.”

The woman pushed Faduma, who this time didn’t react. She’d done what she needed to do and allowed herself to be marched through the bar by the angry, over-made-up rocker. A man held the door open, gave a mocking bow, and the whole bar erupted in cheers as Faduma was thrown out.

Even though she’d acquiesced in this treatment, she walked away full of anger and thoughts of vengeance against such narrow-minded, hateful people. She could hear their raucous laughter and chatter above the pounding music.

She glanced back at the group of smokers who’d now managed to revive the man she’d stunned. Faduma moved more quickly to avoid any attempt at retribution.

Adrenalin coursing, heart pounding, she sighed with relief when she rejoined Sci in the Maserati.

“You were brilliant,” he said. “So brave.”

She almost teared up at his kind words, but swallowed the lump forming in her throat.

“And look,” he said, gesturing at the screen on the remote control. “This is the view inside Milan Verde’s office.”

Faduma glanced over and saw Verde sitting on a couch. In the armchair next to him was a man she recognized: Stefano Trotta the finance minister she had briefly encountered at Elia Antonelli’s farm.

“What’s he saying?” Sci asked.

Faduma listened to Trotta’s words.

“He’s saying they have nearly achieved their goals,” she replied, translating. “That their friend and patron is close to reaching his objective.”

Faduma couldn’t help feeling they were talking about Antonelli, and that the seasoned gangster had once again played her and Jack Morgan for fools.

She settled in to see what else the drone would reveal about these evil men.