Private Rome

Chapter 93

Amr Badawi had rustled up a Kawasaki KX250 dirt bike painted lime green. I rode in jeans, a leather jacket and an opaque helmet so I wouldn’t be recognized on the streets of Rome. I kept to the speed limit throughout the city but pushed the bike once I was in the tinder-dry hills. As I roared round the broad sweeping bends that took me toward Casape, I reflected on Antonelli and wondered whether I’d misjudged the man. A mob boss had to be a consummate liar and cheat, he had to mask his intentions and dispose of people without hesitation. Why had I been taken in by the guy?

I turned off the winding lane, onto the track that led to Antonelli’s old family farm. When I reached the low stone wall that demarcated the boundary, I saw a new squad of guards who waved me down. Brandishing their weapons like a platoon of twitchy mercenaries, they made me remove my helmet and confiscated my bike, wallet, keys and phone.

My heart thundered but I didn’t think they would harm me, not without Antonelli’s explicit approval. My instincts proved to be right. Soon an old Land Rover Defender roared up and I was pushed onto the back seat and driven up to the farmhouse.

I was taken round the back of the old building to the grand terrace, where Luna and Antonelli sat drinking coffee. The view of rows of olive trees rolling across the valley was simply beautiful. If I’d had his resources, I’d have retired to spend the rest of my days in this very spot. But like a shark, I suspected that if Antonelli didn’t keep hunting, he’d die.

“Mr. Morgan,” he said, without standing. “Perhaps we should get you a room in the house?”

He smiled.

“I’m joking of course. You’re very welcome. Please sit.”

He gestured to the chair opposite Luna’s, and it was hard not to be taken in by his genial host act. I found myself warming to the man again, despite everything I knew about him.

“What brings you out here this fine day?” he asked.

I opened my mouth to answer, but at that very moment my phone rang, vibrating in the hands of one of the men who’d brought me here.

“May I?” I asked Antonelli, and he nodded.

I took my phone and saw it was Justine calling.

“Hey,” I said when I answered.

“Jack, where have you been?”

“I was on the bike,” I replied. “Then I lost my phone for a while.”

“Stefano Trotta is dead,” she revealed. “Murder staged as suicide.”

I looked at Antonelli and wondered if he’d ordered the hit.

“I understand,” I said. “I’ll be in touch.”

I hung up. As I slid the phone onto the table, Antonelli said, “Problem?”

I thought about playing dumb, but there was nothing to be gained.

“Stefano Trotta is dead,” I replied. “Murdered.”

Antonelli’s smile fell. Even the beige linen suit he wore seemed to darken as his face clouded over.

“You must be mistaken,” he said.

I shook my head. “My people don’t make mistakes about this kind of thing.”

He and Luna exchanged fearful glances.

“We should leave,” she said, and he nodded.

“Why? What do you have to be afraid of?” I asked.

Antonelli glared at me. “Is that why you’re here? Even after all you’ve seen and heard, you still think I’m behind this?”

He got to his feet and issued commands to his men.

We hurried around the house to the Land Rover. The tallest of the trio of bodyguards got behind the wheel and gunned the engine.

“Switch it off,” I said, as Antonelli and Luna climbed in the back.

The driver looked at Antonelli for confirmation. When his boss nodded, he killed the powerful engine.

I stood half in, half out of the car and strained to hear in the sudden silence. Then came the sound I hoped I’d imagined beneath the noise of the engine: the crack and pop of distant gunfire, likely silenced weapons. Someone was on their way to finish the old gangster, and I saw from their fearful expressions that Antonelli and Luna had heard the shooting too.

“Let’s go,” I said, jumping into the cab. “Now!”

The driver started the engine, stepped on the accelerator, and the powerful old SUV rolled out of the courtyard.