Private Rome

Chapter 97

I was tumbling through time and space, haunted by the dead from Afghanistan to London, Los Angeles to Moscow, time out of joint as it only is in dreams.

“Lo incastreremo per la morte di Antonelli,” a voice said from somewhere.

“Attento che potrebbero sentirti,” another responded.

“I don’t care if they hear me or he understands me,” the original speaker said. “In fact, I will say it in English to be sure he can. We will frame him for Antonelli’s death.”

I realized these speakers weren’t among the many specters in my mind. The words had come from another place, the real world that I’d momentarily left behind.

I opened my eyes to blinding flashes of pain and dazzling light.

“We just need the go-ahead,” the same voice said.

As my eyes adjusted, I realized the light wasn’t dazzling. It was in fact quite low. I just happened to have been facing a wall-mounted spotlight when I opened my eyes. I was in a room made of stone. There were no windows, only uplighters lining the walls, and between each pair of lights was an alcove containing a stone seat. The air had a cool, still quality that made me think I was in a cellar.

I was seated on a chair in the middle of a space about the size of a tennis court. I tried to move and found that both arms and legs were bound to the chair. There were five guys in front of me. I recognized them from the Inferno Bar. Leading the pack of devils was Milan Verde, who prowled closer when he saw I was awake.

“I’m going to enjoy this,” he said, slapping me. “Wake up properly, Mr. Morgan.”

The sting of his palm against my face revived me further and got my heart pumping. We’re predictable creatures, and pain coupled with the prospect of violence sent adrenalin coursing through my body.

My fingers searched out my bonds, and I was relieved to feel cord rather than steel. I couldn’t see the knot but tracked the familiar path of a bowline with my fingertips. It wouldn’t be difficult to slip. I got to work on it immediately.

“Should we kill them now?” one of Milan’s associates asked.

He was looking beyond me. I glanced over my shoulder and saw Elia Antonelli and Luna Colombo, bound and gagged, fear in their eyes.

“Not yet,” Milan said, pulling out his phone and making a call. He had a simple message for whoever was at the other end of the line. “He’s awake.”